I have never understood how people can ogle bodies without the slightest idea about the brains that go with them. For my interest to be piqued, there has to be intellect behind the brawn. Smart is sexy, and at the risk of sounding pretentious, I'd rather have someone read sonnets to me than parade around in the altogether (of course, someone reading sonnets in the altogether isn't something I rule out *g*).
Better still, let him read Poe. Guh.
I'm not putting down les Rugby players, either. Maybe they're all ruddy geniuses, and if so, point me to an interview so I can find out (I still probably wouldn't ogle--I prefer my men clothed; something for the imagination). But I don't want to see oiled-up testosterone machines flexing their muscles at me if there's not a sharp mind flexing in there somewhere as well.
Okay, I'm off to pick up Hannah and head up to Swan Point for more picture taking, 'cause I'm geeky like that and I still haven't found The Old Gent's grave.* I'll probably bore you with more pictures when I get back.
*Lovecraft died at 47. Why he referred to himself as 'The Old Gent' is beyond me. He must have had similar opinions to t00by Doctor Guy about what constitutes old.