It doesn't take a superhuman intellect to get why so many gay guys geek out for superheroes. For the nervously closeted adolescent comic book reader, there's pretty obvious appeal in all those stories about mild-mannered, unassuming characters with a spandex secret stashed away in the closet. That psychologically precarious balance between the maintenance of a double identity and fantastical powers waiting to be unleashed is potent enough; throw in sustained, worshipful attention to the male physique and you've got a compelling combination.
Ah, yes, the bodies. In the days before any conceivable type, scene, or activity was mere keystrokes away, we pre-internet preteens took our titillation where we found it -- and in the bulges and ripples of the masked avengers, we found it in spades. Not that these guys were naked, of course. They had their colored costumes. Except that, as Michael Chabon, author of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, has convincingly argued, they were really all color and no costume, their true purpose being "the depiction of the naked human form, unfettered, perfect, and free."
Consciously or unconsciously, we recognized the capes, belts, and trunks for the four-color fig leaves they were. Even so, for the mainstream comic book reader, a little imagination was still required -- until Watchmen.
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