I want so bad to be like those guys on the covers of bodice rippers, those men with ripped shirts, rippling abs, chiseled chests, cheekbones, strong jawlines, awesome chins and angular features holding the beautiful submissive women with windblown hair in a firm dominating grip as her clothes fall free of her soft sweet nude flesh on the paperbacks. 

These romance books are like viruses that get in my big fat head and screw with me, make me feel good, make me think that's me then I look in the mirror and go, "What the fuck?" 

Why can't I be happy with my looks? I want to be handsome! I want to be the guy a woman sees and goes, "Damn! He's fine!"

I'm a romantic guy! I have a great imagination! I know how to please a woman! I do whatever she wants! I can take control of her! I can make her moan! I can make her faint and swoon!

Why can't I be happy with myself? Why can't I love myself? I believe the woman when she tells me in that low whisper as her lips rub my ear, "You're everything to me." I trust her when I feel the heat of her breathe on the side of my neck as she moans, "I love you, Jerry!"

But should I?