Image via gerard-butler.net

Can I be really base logic for a minute? I really love men. Love them. I love their bodies. I love their hairiness. I love the way that they can make those little eye crinkles seem sexy (when it would send most women scurrying for the nearest tube of Kinerase Under Eye Rescue). I love how they smell. I love their down there. People wonder why my ideal clubbing situation is at a gay dance club? Um, hello, look at all the man flesh! And while I love me some chubby guy next door (Seth Rogen? Katherine Heigl's character in Knocked Up wasn't good enough for him), sometimes you just see a guy who exemplifies absolute Greek god perfection and you are just reduced to jaw-dropping stutters.

Ladies. Gentlemen. I give you one Mr. Gerard Butler.

Confession: I may have purchased 300 without having seen it first and told Esteban I bought it for him because of all the Spartans and the killing and the whatnot. Confession #2: I may have also dragged my 9-year-old niece to a matinee of Nim's Island on the off chance that Mr. Butler would take off his shirt.

But can you blame me? Feast your eyes, my darlings. Allow yourself a moment of not caring about whether or not he likes the oeuvre of Sofia Coppola, whether he seems like the type to remember a birthday or make you chicken soup when you're sick. Just think, for a moment, from the precious square inches of your naughty space. Think about this man lavishing, nay, relishing in every square inch of your bare bodkin. Take a few minutes. There. See? Isn't it delicious to just have a dirty mental break now and then?

You may now resume your very serious daily life and sophisticated discourse.