As if the achingly beautiful men on the Spanish soap operas weren’t bad enough!

These guys come along!

Imagine the lush lips and dark brows of a Telenovela star. Combine that with the humpy athleticism of bodies molded by rough and tumble sports. Those are the real heartstoppers: the Spanish footballers.

Not that the English footballers or the Italian or the French are any less fuckalicious. We’ll bet the farm that they’re every inch as fucktastic. But right now we’re on a Telemundo kick, and these Spanish footballers have gotten under our skin — if only figuratively.

So we’re sending this mash note out to the Fernandos and Luises and Pepes and Joses, whose photos grace this page.

Guys whose fleet frames punt past our TV screens whenever our reckless channel surfing is brought to a sudden stand still, becalmed by so many passionate beauties scrambling around on top of each other.

At this point we need to make our standard disclaimer. Bla-bla-bla “sexual orientation.” Bla-bla-bla “we haven’t a clue.” Bla-bla-bla “frankly, my dear , we don’t give a damn.”

Bottom line: It’s not about what they want in bed. It’s what we want! Want, need — and deserve, dammit!

All that’s required is that they have a — any — sexual orientation. That’s enough to keep our Fantasyland lit up all night and running on love for months.

Now we know nothing about European football, except that it’s played in shorts and there’s a lot of hairy legs on display, as well as sudden expanses of young male torso when the players mop their faces with their jerseys.

Also, there must be a shortage of hard plastic, industrial-strength jock-cups in Europe, because it’s every man for himself whenever the ball is kicked or head-butted or whatever is done to get it hurtling down the field at 75 mph.

The sight of everybody grabbing their business and huddling together is quite delightful; the defensive crouch, the occasional de-pantsing of fellow players — we’re always touched.

Deeply.

To be honest, we don’t know all that much about American football either: We spent our boyhoods boning up on Lana Turner movies. We do try to catch the Super Bowl but only for the edgy new commercials and the half-time show.

And while we’re on the subject, we want to assert that we have not forgotten the debacle of 2004. Janet Jackson was innocent, much like her never-convicted brother. Quite, quite blameless. Anyone could have a totally unscripted, completely unrehearsed wardrobe malfunction. It happens. Sometimes in front of 95 million people. (The Spanish footballers do it all the time.) Besides, it was Justin’s fault anyway, that greedy tit-grabber! He was suppose to expose her snatch. Dummy!

When we do cast our attention on football — which we would never confuse with soccer or rugby like certain trans-Atlantic types — our gaze tends to focus on the outsized uniforms, particularly the cross-laced codpieces of our American boys. We like to imagine, in our dizzy students-of-Lana way, that the men are really big-bodied Herculeans — forgetting, for the moment, every trick we ever learned about padding.

Certainly, the different aesthetics of American vs. European football couldn’t be more striking. When our boys come on the field in their gargantuan shoulder pads they look so … well, American, so corporate and Superpower-ish.

The Europeans, on the other hand, appear human-scale, naked-faced, naked-legged — and as mentioned before, frequently just naked. As to what to make of this, we leave that discussion to our more enlightened readers who may actually give a flying fuck about the sport.

As for us, we’re nutty about Spanish footballers because we’re nutty about Telemundo, thanks to the Spanish soap serials, the Telenovelas — which, by the way, are loaded with Lana Turner-style acting. Except Lana on occasion would phone in a performance. These kids never let up. Emotions are always as big as life and twice as natural. Not that we understand a word of it. But the wounded looks, the heaving chests — our years of contemplating Madame X, Love Has Many Faces, and The Prodigal were not for naught.

And where there’s Lana, there’s boys — beach boys, cabana boys, Johnny Stompanado boys.

And, we’re sure, if she could still get her hands on them, the Spanish footballers of Telemundo.

Now for those Nightcharmers who may not know what salacious madness a Telenovela can be, here’s a little taste of Rubi.