The way he hoists the bag of rice over his shoulders — slouched under the weight, but moving with grim, determined purpose. Exquisite. Sure, he’s got a bit of pudge. But haven’t we all? I’m certainly no peak male specimen. Could stand to lose a few pounds, trim a few hairs.

I’m not judging—only admiring how masterfully he carries the bag. If rice-hauling were an Olympic sport, he’d podium without question.

This is pure respect. Athlete to athlete.

I’m not attracted to him. At least… I don’t think I am. I spent a few formative summers at conversion camp. Daily prayers. Ice baths with shards so sharp it’d cut any temptation right out. One counselor, Brett, said it came from the Devil.

I like to think they did their job. Especially Brett. Though he seemed to struggle with temptation himself — mostly after lights went out. I try not to think about it.

So no — definitely not attraction. Just deep, reverential appreciation… of the human form in motion.

My ex used to say I didn’t appreciate her body. I did. She was like a painting — curves, color, softness in all the right places. I admired her the way you admire something in a museum: respectfully, from a distance, trying not to touch anything.

Sure, sometimes things didn’t… function. But that’s normal. Performance anxiety affects a lot of households. Viagra is a billion-dollar industry for a reason. Millions of couples suffer every year.

That’s why I like being back down South. Feels like there are plenty of men here who just get it. Nobody says anything, of course. Not at church, not anywhere public. But there’s a kind of silent nod we all share.

She wouldn’t understand. So no, I don’t mind that she kicked me out. More time for community, I’d say. Out here, we don’t need fancy labels like “homosexual.” We just keep to ourselves. God-fearing men. Men like my Pa. Men who respect hard work.

Like the rice-bagger. God, he’s good at working. So good. There’s a rhythm to it — shoulders straining, back glistening, that steady, unbothered focus. He was built for labor.

And those scars. Pale whip streaks across his back. He must’ve gone to one of those camps. If not, maybe his Pa just picked up the slack. Hard to say. Could be either.

I think I’m gonna ask him out for a beer. Nothing weird—just to say I respect his work ethic. One hard-working man to another.

And the way he’s been looking at me lately?

I think he gets it.