As a sexually neurotic sort, I’m usually deeply conflicted about my attraction to other men.

I think I’ll feel something, but then a man will say “You know, I think Donald Trump’s on to something,” or “I work in real estate,” and I immediately chill as I think “Get away!”

I develop crushes on TV actors more so than I do movie stars — I think it must be the regularity and intimacy of the medium — and lately I’ve been smitten with comedian Rob Huebel. Still, he drives me mad because I suspect he’s one of those guys who either doesn’t know how to maximize his sex appeal or is intentionally fighting the hot because handsome comedians don’t get as much work.

Rob is super-tall (I rarely get the chance to look up into a man’s eyes) and doesn’t tan, both pluses. The trouble is that when I see him dressed like a stoner or wearing a baseball cap, it just kills it for me. I also can’t get into him when he sports a too-dark Just For Men shade of brunet. I feel nothing.

This photo at right? Perfect. He looks like a gay ’50s movie star, at his apex with very coiffed blond or gray hair, and in more subdued colors. In my head, we both headline The Swinger, he in the Anthony Franciosa part and me in the Ann-Margret one. He doesn’t think I’m oversexed enough to work for his high-gloss smut rag, and baits me like the virgin/whore I secretly am. Then, to prove him wrong, I stage a decadent orgy in which I’m body-painted by men in Fellini Satyricon garb, and he’s positively appalled by what a depraved hoyden I am. Soon, he’s ensconced me in his Malibu bachelor pad to get me off the booze and sluttony, all of which culminates with me crooning a sultry ditty before a wind machine.

I like a man who inspires manic extremes in me.

In high school, history classes were usually painfully boring lectures about how we lost the War of Northern Aggression, which was typically met with me daydreaming about my hot gym teacher. This usually meant me failing the test and running out of class hiding a massive erection behind my Lisa Frank trapper keeper.

Thankfully, someone made Bangable Dudes in History, a blog that can catch you up on the best side of history (i.e. who’s hot and most interesting). BDiH gives you everything a good history lesson needs, a hot man (or woman), a little known fact, and a laugh. Not to mention that each subject’s bangability is analyzed via a color-coded pie chart constructed using fun facts about each dreamboat.

My high school teachers could have taken some notes from this blog. Perhaps then I could have put my raging hormones to a more constructive use. For example, had I known that Ernest Hemingway (above left) was a hot Active Duty-looking, booze-slamming, running-with-the-bulls-crazy asshole; I might have read the damned Old Man and the Sea!

Alas, all I can do is fill in some of the blanks left by my shitty southern public school education with Bangable Dudes in History.

No, Dr. Kylie — it’s his dick’s reaction to the rest of him.

You, well, … you’re just incidental proximal stimulus.

You see, when the super-humanly studly male specimen is put on display in all his nubile glory in form-fitting boxer briefs, oiled to a sheen like a greased pig, and then directed to grunt and strain, his innate hotness will trigger an onanistic response.

Quite literally, he’s getting off on himself.

As an objective woman of science, your role in the situation is not integral, but we advise that, in order to avoid shaming or berating the male’s natural reaction, you to proceed to grab or liplock that sex stick so as to aid him through this potentially confounding process.

Even though I tell myself that this is tragic and chemically-enhanced male beauty, I still can’t stop my groin from stiffening at the sight of it. As a child, I had no conception of what “gay” was — much more the existence of the Muscle Bear — but that didn’t keep me from laying eyes on Brawn Master Lyle Alzado, secretly desiring that he would punish me hard, and thinking…

…Daaaaayuuuuum.

It’s like a Fellini movie got mashed-up with a Flash Gordon gladiator match.

I’m starting to think that hot-ass bikers are like unicorns — I’ve seen them in print, on TV, and in my head, but I’ve never actually crossed paths with one in real life. Not once.

They turn up in gay porn movies. They look great splayed over their hogs in magazine pictorials. They’re always welcome at Gay Pride. Still, the real deal is always a let down for me — lots of wasted-looking slobs, obvious weekend warriors, and shallow-grave-digging highway killers. Whenever a group of bikers pass me on the road, I feel this giddy rush of anticipation that dies almost immediately when I see American Flag windbreakers and wives with damaged hair in tow.

Where has this guy been all my life? When you dream of being accosted on the sidewalk by leering werewolves on wheels who circle around you Satan’s Sadists-style and slap your ass, their leader manhandling you as you protest “Please sir! I have to get home on time from lacrosse practice, or my Dad’ll be sore at me!,” isn’t this the hot piece you picture — your pleas only making his groin that much more aggressively tumid as he promises you can go if you just let him tongue-fuck your face first?

Didn’t you always wish that your idyllic little Northwestern town would be overrun by howling glory stompers with handlebar ‘staches and wifebeaters, turning the place into an all-out dragstrip riot as they cripple local law enforcement and cut off all communication to the outside world? A born loser with prison arms and an ass like a grill on a mack truck sets his sights on you, and despite all the Pilates, you’re no match for his feral brawn. “Dang! Them’s some nice blue eyes ya got there, pretty boy! I like the ladies, but they can’t take my kind of rough handlin’!” You resist, saying “I don’t want any trouble, man! I didn’t mean to turn you on!,” to which he only laughs before braying “Too late!”. Then, as he hoists you over his shoulder like a rampaging silverback, you can only futilely beseech “No! You don’t understand! Blue eyes are just a genetic luck of the draw! They’re a recessive trait!”

“A recessive trait!”