You can't have it all.

Sigh, what a looker!

There he was, all 6 feet of him, a magnificient hunk of masculine masculinity. Those black eyes, those rippling biceps over six-pack abs, that fabulous bronze toned skin, those sinewy legs powerful enough to crush you to death, that slicked black hair falling alluringly over one perfectly shaped eyebrow - ah! such wonders of nature. I lapped up the scene enthralled.

And all for me too.

I was exercising in the gym and decided it was time to hit the showers. I walked up to this door meaning to open it and being the perfect gentleman that he was (along with being about the most perfect looker I had seen in ages), he offered to open it for me. I demured, coloured and shyly waited for him to open it.

He curled his long fingers (no ring, thank god!) around the handle and gave a gentle pull. The door didn't budge. But my hero, he is a powerful man. He pulled harder. No result. He asked me to stand back a little further, and immersed himself into the task of getting that nasty door opened if that was the last thing he would ever do. He put both his hands together and pulled again.

I was transfixed by those powerful muscles rippling under the skin, like trapped beasts straining to get out.

But the door seemed to have a will power of its own and didn't give in.

He flicked his hair away and I saw a tiny bead of sweat covering the small frown on that magnificent forehead and smiled encouragingly. Sigh, is he a hunk or is he a hunk!

He continued to strain and heave and I continued to drool over the gorgeous scenery, complimenting God on his excellent taste.

After about 10 minutes, he mopped his brow and sadly shook his head, incredulous at no results.

I decided it was time I took matter into my own hands. I walked up to the door and gave it a gentle push with one finger of my left hand.

It opened like a breeze.

The door had to be pushed to open.