‘Gosh Mr. D. you have a fine piece of an ass!’ I think to myself while watching my oblivious work colleague carry a box of files in front of me, climbing some steps.

My friend told me I’m lucky to be a woman or I would have the problem of sporting hard-ons at the most inconvenient places. In my defence I say I’m appreciative of the masculine form, the shape of the male body, the kinaesthetic process. Of course the drooling gives me away.

I watch men as, I’ve been told, men watch women. I imagine them in bed, naked and sweaty doing the funny business, with me, of course. I create fantasies and day dreams about them. I go to a swimming pool to watch the nice semi-naked bodies prancing around. I look at cyclists calves and want to bite them. I think my friend is right and I am defenceless: I am most definitely, and pleasurably, a perv.

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