My fetish for hot, hairy men started in preschool. I had a dream. In it, I was running around at Children’s Palace, an oversized 1980s toy store, presumably bought out by Toys R’ Us.  A tall, middle-aged man with a gut, a thick, brown beard, and short hair wrapped me up in mummy gauze and gave me a cigarette to smoke. I felt frantically fascinated by this scenario of strangulation and nicotine and frightened by the older man’s rough actions. Moments before suffocating in hallucinatory mummy garb, I woke up. Ever since, the idea of being bound by a hairy, older man has had considerable appeal.

In elementary school, one of my fellow Boy Scouts’ dads was an older, cocky guy who wore a Waylon Jennings t-shirt tight against his lanky figure. He sported a cowboy hat and sat around like a real man, legs casually crossed, cock pressed against the crotch of his form-fitting black jeans. His moustache and goatee accented his dark, chiseled features. He smelled like sweat and Old Spice and if I saw him now, I’d give him a dashing, long gaze, take him behind a bar, and get my hand into those tight black jeans.