Some days don’t arrive with an argument or an insight. They just show up.
Today is one of those days. The week is halfway over, which somehow feels both reassuring and slightly disorienting. I’m off tomorrow, though I’ll be working Saturday, so the usual rhythm of the week feels a little skewed—time folded in on itself.
Work today is steady but manageable. There are several things I need to get done, but nothing especially heavy or consuming—just the kind of tasks that move projects along without demanding all of my attention.
Thursday will be simple and practical. A short doctor’s appointment to finish something we couldn’t quite wrap up earlier in the week. Nothing dramatic, just a loose end being tied. After that, Planet Fitness—probably just thirty minutes on the treadmill. No grand workout plan, no pushing limits. Just walking, moving forward, letting my thoughts drift while the minutes pass.
I usually read while I’m on the treadmill. It makes the time go faster and keeps my mind from constantly checking in with that familiar question—how much longer? When I’m absorbed in a page or two, my body seems to take care of itself. I don’t think as much about balance or movement; I just keep going.
The part of the day I’m most looking forward to comes later: spending the afternoon with an older male friend I don’t get to see nearly often enough. We usually talk nonstop—about books, art, history, museums, and whatever else the conversation wanders into. Those kinds of conversations are their own kind of nourishment.
Not every day needs to be productive in obvious ways. Not every post needs a point. Some days are about maintenance—of the body, of routines, of friendships. And that’s enough.
Sometimes, halfway through the week, showing up quietly is its own accomplishment.
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore, Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly; Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.
She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.
Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.
Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.
The beards of the young men glistened with wet, it ran from their long hair,
Little streams passed all over their bodies.
An unseen hand also passed over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.
The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them, They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch, They do not think whom they souse with spray.
About the Poem
This section of Leaves of Grass is one of Walt Whitman’s most quietly radical explorations of desire, longing, and the power of imagination. Twenty-eight young men bathe naked together in the water, carefree and unselfconscious, while a woman of the same age watches from the privacy of her home. She is physically separated from them—clothed, indoors, alone—yet in her imagination she becomes the “twenty-ninth bather,” joining their laughter and movement, touching and being touched. The men never see her; the encounter exists entirely within her longing.
Whitman presents this imagined intimacy as emotionally and sensually real, refusing to diminish it simply because it is unacted. There is no punishment for desire here, no moral correction. Wanting, especially wanting that cannot be fulfilled, is treated as a fundamental human experience rather than a failing. The poem honors the interior life as a space where longing has its own truth and legitimacy.
For 19th-century readers, this treatment of desire was deeply unsettling. The poem lingers on naked male bodies without euphemism, grants a woman an active erotic imagination, and treats sexual fantasy as natural rather than sinful. Victorian literary culture demanded modesty, restraint, and silence—particularly from women—but Whitman offers none of those reassurances. Instead, he insists on the holiness of the body and the legitimacy of erotic thought.
At the same time, the poem’s gaze dwells unmistakably on male physicality and communal intimacy: bodies floating together, bellies turned toward the sun, touch passing freely among them. This focus aligns with Whitman’s broader treatment of male-male closeness throughout Song of Myself, where affection between men is often physical, tender, and spiritually charged. Although framed through a woman’s perspective, the poem participates in Whitman’s larger project of celebrating bodily connection beyond conventional boundaries.
Read this way, the woman’s presence can feel almost like a veil—one that allows Whitman to explore erotic attention to male bodies and shared sensuality while navigating the social constraints of his time. Ultimately, the poem becomes less about voyeurism and more about exclusion and yearning: the ache to cross boundaries, to belong to a world of unguarded bodies and mutual touch, and to claim desire itself as something worthy of recognition and song.
About the Poet
Walt Whitman (1819–1892) reshaped American poetry by rejecting formal verse and embracing a bold, expansive free style that celebrated the self, the body, and the collective human experience.
With Leaves of Grass, Whitman insisted that:
The body is sacred
Desire is not separate from spirituality
Love—especially between men—deserves poetic dignity
Though he never publicly named his sexuality, Whitman’s poetry has long been recognized as foundational to queer literary history. His work insists on the holiness of physicality and the legitimacy of desires that society prefers to hide.
Whitman’s enduring challenge to readers is simple and radical: to see the human body, in all its longing and beauty, as worthy of love and song.
I have a doctor’s appointment today. Just a routine checkup—nothing to worry about. I always enjoy seeing my doctor. He’s very kind and, frankly, very good-looking (hence part of the blog title). Since I still have vacation time to use before the end of May, I took this morning as sick leave and this afternoon as vacation. So: no work for me today.
Last night, I had another one of my steamy dreams.
Earlier in the evening, I’d been thinking about a vacation I’m planning in April. I know I’ll be going to several gay bars, and maybe—just maybe—I’ll finally get some relief for whatever these dreams are trying to tell me. The dream began with that trip… and then drifted back to my office.
Several years ago, when I was briefly on Grindr, I was messaged by a young man. As we chatted, I realized he was a student. Any sexual relationship with a student—even an online one—is grounds for immediate dismissal, so I told him why I was hesitant to continue the conversation. That’s when he calmly said he knew who I was because he used to be a student worker at the museum.
The restrooms are in the same entrance area as the reception desk where our student workers usually sit. He told me that every time I walked into the restroom, he fantasized about me fucking him in one of the stalls.
He never showed me his face, but he had a fantastic body—and an impressive dick. I didn’t believe him at first. I was heavier then, badly out of shape, and at least twenty years older than him. But he said I was his type. He liked older, larger men.
We even made plans for him to come to my apartment. He never showed, which was probably for the best.
Later, I realized who he was from the student workers we’d had. After standing me up, he returned to work at the museum and seemed more comfortable around me than before. I noticed him looking at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. We never spoke about Grindr, and I never let on that I knew who he was.
That May, he graduated, joined the Marines, and disappeared from my life.
Which brings me to the dream.
In the dream, it’s seven years later. He shows up at the museum and comes into my office. He asks if I remember him. I say of course I do. He asks if we can close the door.
Once it’s shut, he reminds me of that Grindr conversation—the student who used to fantasize about me. I tell him I remember. It’s not something you forget. He says he’s always regretted not coming to my apartment and that he’s sorry he stood me up. He’s nearly in tears.
I stand up and hug him. He melts into me and tells me how hard it was seeing me every day for the rest of that school year. Then he straightens himself and asks if he can take me to dinner that night. He’ll be in town for a few days.
We meet at his hotel at six and go to a nice Italian restaurant. The conversation is awkward at first, but then it flows. I ask about the Marines. About MMA. I knew he’d won a regional tournament when he was in college.
At the end of dinner, I try to pay, but he insists.
Back at his hotel, he invites me up. As soon as the door shuts behind us, he presses me against it and kisses me—hungry, urgent, like he’s been holding this in for years.
For once, I don’t wake up before the dream gets to the good part.
I give him exactly what he’s been wanting all these years.
And then something strange happens: I start to wake up, but the dream doesn’t stop. My body is in bed, but my mind is still there—still walking out of his hotel room, still feeling the echo of his hands on me, already imagining the next time I’ll see him.
I wake fully just as my dream-self is leaving his room, hard and flushed, caught in that half-awake haze where desire lingers even after the scene ends.
Eventually, things settle down and I drift back to sleep—though not before Isabella notices I’m awake around 2:30 a.m. She makes a halfhearted attempt to get me up for food, then decides my hip will do just fine and curls back up with me.
P.S. For anyone unfamiliar with the reference, “Dr. McDreamy” comes from Grey’s Anatomy, where it’s used as a nickname for a devastatingly handsome doctor… and if you’re going to have a hot doctor and a sex dream in the same post, you might as well commit to the bit.
“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world…”
—Ephesians 6:12
When Paul wrote these words, he was not speaking metaphorically about vague personal problems. He was writing as a man deeply familiar with empire, law, and state power. Paul lived under Roman rule, a system that enforced order through military might, legal control, and rigid social hierarchies. Roman law determined whose bodies mattered, whose relationships were legitimate, and whose lives could be constrained—or erased—for the sake of stability.
Paul himself had been imprisoned, beaten, and placed under house arrest. His letters were often written under surveillance or confinement. When he spoke of “rulers,” “authorities,” and “powers,” his audience would have understood that he was referring to real governing structures—political, legal, and religious systems that claimed ultimate authority over people’s lives.
And yet Paul is careful. He does not encourage violent revolt. He does not call for vengeance. Instead, he reframes the struggle. The problem is not individual people, but systems shaped by fear, domination, and exclusion. These systems, Paul insists, are not aligned with God’s reign—even when they wrap themselves in moral or religious language.
That is why he urges believers to “take up the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to withstand on the evil day, and having done everything, to stand.” (Ephesians 6:13)
The armor Paul describes—truth, righteousness, faith, salvation—mirrors the equipment of Roman soldiers, but with a radical twist. This armor is not meant to harm others. It is meant to protect the vulnerable soul against a world that demands conformity at the cost of integrity.
For LGBTQ+ Christians, this history matters. Unjust laws today—those that restrict healthcare, criminalize identity, undermine families, or legitimize discrimination—function much like the systems Paul knew. They are often justified as “order,” “morality,” or “tradition,” but their real effect is harm. They tell certain people that their lives are suspect, their love illegitimate, and their presence a problem to be managed.
Paul’s words remind us that standing firm against such systems is not rebellion against God—it is fidelity to God.
Paul also knew that resistance cannot survive on anger alone. That is why he tells the Philippians:
“Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just… think about these things.”
—Philippians 4:8
In a world that constantly told early Christians they were dangerous, deviant, or disposable, Paul urged them to guard their inner lives. Fixing our minds on truth and justice is an act of spiritual resistance. It keeps oppressive systems from colonizing our hearts.
And finally, James offers wisdom born from a persecuted community as well:
“Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will exalt you.”
—James 4:10
Humility here is not submission to injustice. It is a refusal to let power define worth. Early Christians had little social standing, no legal protection, and few allies. Their hope rested not in empire, but in God’s faithfulness to lift up those the world pushed down.
That hope continues to sustain LGBTQ+ Christians today.
To stand firm is to say: we will not internalize lies about who we are.
To resist unjust systems is to say: God’s justice is larger than human law.
To take up the armor of God is to protect love, truth, and dignity—especially when they are under threat.
The call remains the same across centuries:
Stand.
Not in hatred.
Not in despair.
But in faith that the God who sees injustice also walks beside those who refuse to bow to it.
Joe
The Closet Professor 