"Man, you are the best."

I am a man with ghosts. Ghosts of my past. Skeletons in my closet. Corpses stacked to the roof of my libido, putrefying the bedroom every night. That may be a mite bit heavy-handed. I like to think of them less as piles of pungent corpses and more as an entire banquet hall filled with countless clones of my 86-year old Uncle Ted. The one with staph-infected cracks in his hands. The one who asked me if I was familiarizing myself with the female gender as I was changing my 2-month old niece's diaper. The one who I always denied being related to in any way growing up. It's been this way forever. I don't quite remember where I was when I realized that muscular, agile men in peril hatch out entire broods of butterflies in my stomach every time. Whether its their arms turning to lead (again) and their inability to conceal their suddenly visible penises or their need to pull off some Mega Man-caliber maneuvering, inexplicably jumping from one ledge in a large metal room to another, my manhole just gets so... achy. I need them to encourage me in near-robotic voices, the more nondescript the better. I need them to part their lips for my baby bottle full of strange seminal fluids and then reward me with a hearty thumbs-up.
Yep... it can be awfully lonesome sometimes trying to fulfill these obscure-as-shit desires. Wait. Oh fuck. I almost forgot about THE INTERNET! Oops. Internet: The gumbo of fucking.