He is wearing jeans, tan ankle boots and a Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned low enough to catch a generous eyeful of his well-maintained torso and the countless tattoos that splatter his chest and left arm. His hair is pushed back off his face by a pair of sunglasses perched on top of his head. He wears a crucifix around his neck and his fingers are weighed down by clunky silver rings. Yes, he is gorgeous; gentle demeanour; impeccable manners. But without wishing to dent his heartthrob status, I'm not sure the nagging urge I have to take him home with me is desire. I think I want him as my son.