I hope my attraction to fictional deadbeats doesn't have larger implications

An Ode to Trent Lane

O, Trent, your laconic pout has known so many incarnations. A draughtsman's pen, the bowlegged curl of a cowboy's hat, and an ersatz woman's coif have all rested so fetchingly on those treasured, beringèd ears. I would be jealous of their attention if only you paid them equal mind as you worked your daily magic, your butchers' knife whirring its flitting dance with bloody almost-steak, a melodic croakly croon seducing the steel larynx of your microphone. O, Trent, if you only knew of the adventures that await us.

You could to antique Vienna as Paganini, with me your wigmaker and tailor, to conquer audiences with il cannone del gesu feverishly singing at the behest of your rakish, knowing fingers; we might share a physical intimacy known only between a gentleman and the fitter of lace to your wrists, the measurer of your inseam.

The luxe hydra-headed shower of a wealthy patron may languish without our ministrations, we, the grunting contractors of a construction firm before-Ehrenreich. And I would wait on baited breath to show how close to heart I keep your comfort should you sustain injury or fatigue or should an errant brush against my toolbelt remove the vital button of your overalls.

But perhaps more earthy delights await us in a South Boston butcher shop, our rapport so subtle, we could hold conversations in the percussive echoes of cleavers meeting butcher blocks, untold stories contained in the act of stuffing a sausage together.

O, Trent, such feelings you engender in me. Such experiences we could share -- being clutched in the lee of your chest as you defend our lives with your whip, the tearful silent whispers of longing as you mime your mute but brimming love for me, a torrential summer soaking from your long, powerful hose.

So...like...uh...email me sometime?