That strong, sweet, and supple quality

I SING the Body electric;
The armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them;
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the Soul.

Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves;
And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead?
And if the body does not do as much as the Soul?
And if the body were not the Soul, what is the Soul?

The love of the Body of man or woman balks account—the body itself balks account;
That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.

The expression of the face balks account;
But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face;
It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists;
It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees—dress does not hide him;
The strong, sweet, supple quality he has, strikes through the cotton and flannel;
To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more;
You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.

--Walt Whitman, from I Sing the Body Electric


...I love the male form. I love its hard lines and angles. I love the sharp features of the face, and the musculature that reminds of ancient Greece and the classicism of Michelangelo’s statuary. It is the same beauty I see in Renaissance architecture, Calvin Klein ads, and those black-and-white vintage photos of sailors in V-day. Of course, one hides under “art,” the other under “history,” and the last under a consumer marketing ploy aimed at affluent “heterosexual” males. It’s all the same -- primally, instinctually, and artistically; though the social “validity” and quality of the art form varies.

…and so, today, I woke up with a boy and he was warm and soft to touch and cuddled underneath my blanket. I opened my eyes, noticed that he was on the other side of the bed, wondering what he was doing so far away from me, and then, pulled him closer so that I could smell him and feel him hugging me. Then, misty and droopy-eyed, I yawned silently and went back to sleep.


I'm feeling lucky:
http://books.google.com/books?id=Yo7omlFkg1cC&pg=PA5&lpg=PA5&dq=noel+darlucio+pura&source=bl&ots=9wbhihIjrc&sig=1NF47bvSDd1TsTzwoHx2VbxakuQ&hl=en&sa=X&ei=kpevUcr4Iam80gH9p4H4Ag&ved=0CDcQ6AEwAg#v=onepage&q=noel%20darlucio%20pura&f=false