Spunkaliciousness (and vanity), thy name is Aaron Heslehurst

Like any gay man, I like my male TV newscaster eye candy. Sometimes I like it to be rugged, earthy, and all Juicy Fruity with a Canadian accent, like '70s-era Peter Jennings reporting in khaki from Tel Aviv. At other times, I like it tart, kinda edgy, like a green apple Jolly Rancher--ever-so Anderson Cooper in Gloria Vanderbilt jeans transmitting from post-Katrina Mississippi. Then other times, I like it sweet, soothing, and pleasing to the eye and to the tongue (or so I would imagine), an egg custard with cinnamon sprinkles, like Sanjay Gupta talking about America's need to watch its waistline. But when you're offering up tasty treats like Sanjay, Anderson, and Peter, who's thinking about calories and tooth decay?

But then at other times you gotta Touch the Windsor-Knot Tie of Temptation. You gotta Savor the Saville Row Suit of Dead Sexiness. You gotta Eroticize the Emu-Ego. You gotta Pump the Pavlova of Passion. You, my friend, have a Hunger Down Under for that Hunk Hunka Burnin' Love and Stock Market Reports that is . . . Australian TV presenter Aaron Heslehurst.

Not familiar with dear Aaron? Then you don't watch the business report on BBC World, relayed weekday mornings on BBC America in the States. Because if you did, you'd be nodding your head, licking your lips, and contemplating positions from the Kangaroo Kama Sutra, just at the mention of The Aaron.

But don't take my word for it. No, no. Check out Aaron's website to learn more. For to know Aaron is to lust him.

See Aaron look little-boy-lost, barefoot in a parka in some dingy ol' alleyway. See Aaron look all hirsute and soulful, contemplating his marvelous past and fabulous future. See Aaron act out his favorite Cliff Richard album cover, resting on his assets--but not his laurels--straddling his suitcases on the streets of London, no doubt waiting for a taxi to take him to even greater stardom. "Driver, take me to . . . erm . . . whatever you call the Hollywood for TV business reporters!" he'd bleat in his homey Aussie twang.

And, finally, see the real Aaron, looking all chiseled and professional with pen and paper in hand, ready to report to the world on the Hang Sen's hourly status, the Save-the-Blackberry Fund, and recent developments in the North Sea eel catch.

But wait, is that a wedding ring on your finger, Aaron? Oh, Heslehurst, how could you? You bloody tease.

Aaron, if you're reading this--and I know you are because I know you, Aaron, I know you. You have to read everything written about you on the web, don't you? Well, if you're reading this, call me, OK? We can work this out. If I can overlook your predilection for Glamour Shots snapped by a photographer whose last gig was obviously as a stylist for Benelux Vogue, if I can shirk off concerns over your tanning bed and hairspray addictions, if I can turn a blind eye to your dangerously inflated sense of importance and seriousness--then I can certainly get past a little thing like a wife.

I'll be waiting by the phone, Aaron.