The topic was broached with respect to the Weiner scandal by Clarence Page, an op-ed writer on the editorial board of the Chicago Tribune. Page, by the way, has Intelligence Delusion Syndrome, which is rampant amongst the op-ed writers in the United States, and whose most pitiable victims include Bob Greene, Richard Roeper, David Brooks, and anybody who writes "commentaries" on cnn (I'm avoiding looking at you, Ruben Navarrette, Jr). Because papers and web-sites are desperate to fill their empty spaces, they'll publish the drivel of any lower-middle-brow hack with something that resembles an opinion and spellchecker, and suddenly that hack thinks he or she is much more intelligent and insightful than he or she actually is.
Anyway, back to Hotness Delusion Syndrome. It does not only pertain to available men. It also pertains to hitched men. Readers, I'm going to tell you something that might be hard for some of you to hear. Brace yourselves. I'm taken. That's right. I'm not on the market. "But why are you blogging then?" you ask. "Why are you even using a computer?" Good question. And before we go any further, I want you to know that this doesn't change a thing in those sexts I sent you. When I said I was "engorged with desire" and "panting like an Alsatian in the Belgian Congo", I meant every word of it.
But I also have Hotness Delusion Syndrome. I realised it this morning.
Some time after dawn, I was standing in the living room-kitchen of my apartment, nursing a tea, looking out the windows. A group of construction workers repairing the exterior of the building ascended past the windows on their platform. They glanced in to see me standing there, stately, plump, and buck naked. And my first thought was, "You lucky Mexicans."
Of course, that is a symptom of Hotness Delusion Syndrome. I suspect that their eyes were not averted with illicit desire. I suspect that the suppressed smiles tugging at the corner of their lips were not shy flirtations. I suspect that the words they exchanged were not references to a particular passage in an Alan Hollinghurst novel they had all admired.
Anyway, I grabbed the nearest cat to cover my shame and raced to the bathroom where I had to look in the mirror and confront my malady, which now, at least, has a name.