3/17/2011 - let's focus on the arms. . .

In high school, I managed to get my hands on a copy of Anne Rice's Exit to Eden, her ode to bondage, S&M, and various other kinky escapades (one of which involved carefully-applied butter and cinnamon, if I remember correctly).  It's been a long time since I've read it, so my memory may be hazy, but I do recall that a major plot point was the main character's getting-spanked-with-a-hairbrush fetish, developed by the spankings he received from his mother as a child.

(And now, you're probably wondering, "Hmmm, I wonder where today is going. . .")

(Not there, thankfully.)

I have long been fascinated with how people's fetishes develop, why some people find leather to be an incredible turn-on, or how feet could become a focal point for lust.  I'm convinced everyone has a few of these quirky attractions, from the commonplace to the exotic.  I know I do, and while describing most of them in any detail would likely be quite embarassing for everyone, I have one that is pretty benign.  Obviously, then, we are headed in that direction.

I have a serious weak spot for men with muscular arms (see, not embarassing at all).  Oh, and nice personalities, but for the sake of brevity, let's focus on the arms.  This "fetish" began in college with a lifeguard at the UC Davis recreational pool.  Let's just say that he was a lifeguard in every way that soft-core porn for women would portray one to be.  He had a certain way of climbing up to his lifeguard chair that called out to every single muscle in his arms: "Formation!  Formation!"  And they obeyed, bulging in classically sculpture-like ways and forming a V-shaped line of shadow to separate his shoulders from the rest of his arms.

And thus began my love affair with that part of a man's body.  And because being gay for me is stupidly synonymous with the struggle between wanting to sleep with men and wanting to look like the men I want to sleep with, I have always tried to make my arms look that way.

To no avail, of course, no matter how hard I (think I) work at the gym, how many protein shakes I inhale, how many magazines I read promising a harder, leaner, better body in 30 days or less.  I just don't think my body is genetically built to look like Lifeguard's (for lack of a name).

Until this morning. 

I was sleepily getting dressed when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye in the full-length mirror, the vaguest definition beneath my left shoulder.  I paused, looked out of the closet door to make sure that Sam was still settled on the couch downstairs.  After all, no guy wants to get caught looking at himself in the mirror.  Actually, correction: no pale, skinny guy wants to get caught looking at trying to find his muscles in the mirror.  If I had the body of the guy playing Thor in the upcoming movie of the same name, I would never be without a mirror, but unfortunately, I do not.  (And by the way, if you haven't seen the trailer for Thor, you owe it to yourself.  It contains about two seconds of absolute marketing genius.  You'll know it when you see it.  I'll even include a link to it.  Thank me in the comments.) 

Anyway, with some assurances of privacy, I took my shirt back off and searched.  Nothing.  Hmm. . .  I walked over to the bathroom with better lighting, turned to the side, looked at my shoulder, and still nothing.  Then back to the closet under the fluorescent light where I had stood previously, and still: nothing!  And as I started to put my shirt back on, there it was, a faint shadow right under where my shoulders ended and my arms began.  At last, I have found you. . .

So apparently, I have my ideal body (well, arms anyway) if I stay under direct overhead lighting after a night-long fast and I am constantly in the middle of putting on a button-down shirt. 

I'll take it.