Issac's arms make me holistically aroused; if I think about them for too long I pass into an ethereal state of complete and absolute ecstasy. Last night at the dinner table, in between mouthfuls of sprouts and mash, my thoughts slipped to the gradient of tan brown of his upper arm to the pristine, unadulterated whiteness of his underarm. I dreamt I was a penguin on santa's sleigh, flying through a state of surreal bliss down his sculpted muscles. I awoke foaming at the mouth on the floor. I've had to wear a shock collar since that day and I flip the switch whenever I fall into temptation. But I'm still vulnerable at night. I saw the doctor about insomnia, my parents don't understand that I can't sleep because of that byronic masterpiece, that apex of masculinity. Sometimes in chemistry class I just unconsciously start drawing the sculpted perfection of his forelimbs and have to burn my class notes so as not to trigger another fit. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life until I felt his arm skin, now I know that my divine appointment is to recreate the elusive suppleness of his flesh, the softness of his epidermal blanket. If I could only emulate its elasticity in crude botched imitation, I would fashion a bed, pillow, sheets, a chair, a house, a municipal block out of Issac's arm.