He was just too much. Over the top, preposterous, a hulking cliché.
His chest was from a mutant, his arms bursting at the seams (almost)—same with his legs—it was obscene. His face was mister Neanderthal, and then that hair! Oh man, that blonde shoulder length helmet bob did not date well!
He was derivative, cardboard, pointless, and boring—everything I learned to roll my eyes at, but there he was, He-Man, my first crush, in all his irrelevance.
It was my naivety maybe—how would I know at the age of eight about the finer points of good fucking? I wasn’t adept at cruising the field and had no knowledge of handsome men. I certainly had no sentimental education, no concept of fatal attraction and its broken promises. But otherwise, my crush wasn’t so bad after all.
He-Man: his peers liked him, and he looked out for the little guy even though…
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