I love men’s bodies.
I know, I know, that sounds as if I have betrayed all of womankind as a lesbian. But, I think it’s a secret many of my tribe has, and even if they don’t, so what?
We like what we like. We desire what we desire. To pretend something else for another person’s sensibilities — a faceless, conglomerate of an-other — is to betray my own self for that other. I don’t think I’ll get a reward for it. It won’t even be acknowledge.
Even if I did, I won’t lie. I love men’s bodies.
I love them for their lack of shame. I spend hours in the gym every week and as I lift my own weights, my eyes cannot help but slip to the left and to the right, to puffed biceps and flat, muscle-hardened triceps; wide pectorals and striated hamstrings… There is a beauty in watching a perfect Olympic lift executed. Or watching someone do a set of wide-stance piking pull-ups. My workout partner, all six feet and six inches of him, working his way through a set of 225 bench presses – wow, I am entranced. I cannot look away.
I would not want to.
Now, this is not to say that I despise women’s bodies. Furthest thing from it. They are not in competition, these loves of mine.
But, it is different and it feels like a dirty secret.
(It isn’t dirty, no, not to admire the results of hard work. In fact, most of the men I know would enjoy knowing this, but it is neither for their ears nor their hearts. It is for mine.)