I cherish my interest in beautiful young men. I adore them. I would love to become a photographer so that I could spend my life taking beautiful photographs of them like the one above. I wish I had the skill and talent of a Dutch master so that I could spend my life painting them. I find poetry in every curve of their bodies, in the color of their skin, eyes and hair, and in the timbre of their voices, in the way they laugh and smile, in the way they walk and run, and in the way they stand, sit and lay. I love them. And it doesn’t matter to me if I never find a single one who returns that love, I still love them. And that love fills my life with tenderness, warmth, passion, lust, meaning and purpose. Life would be very dull indeed without that love. I like what I like. I don’t question it. It is a gift to experience those feelings, even if the feelings aren’t returned. I’m sure those I’m not attracted to are worthy, whether they be men I don’t find particularly appealing or women. My lack of sexual and romantic interest in them is not a conscious rejection. Of course it might be easier for me if I found hairy, middle aged chubby guys to be sexy. It would be even easier if I found women sexy. But I like what I like. And if I go to my grave without ever having one of my beauties love me back, I will still appreciate on a deep and profound level my adoration for them.
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