Ask any woman if she's ever lusted after amusician, and, most likely, she'll say, with a faraway look in dreamy eyes,"Of course." If she says anything else, she's lying -guaranteed.

Something about musicians and the glamour that surrounds them- professional and otherwise - has a tremendous amount of sex appeal.

Now, I admit that many a musician has been the recipient of my undividedattention. Considering I've been around musicians since the age of six, this isunderstandable. Yet, despite having been around them for so long, I have nevereven come close to realizing the mystery of their appeal.

Untilnow.

For the past few months, I have spent two nights a week sitting in onmy stepdad's band practices. I started coming for the obvious reason - theyperformed in a grungy club and I was persuaded to go. There, I met Billy, theband's bassist, and slipped once again into the seventh circle of lust. Afterthat, it seemed only natural to sacrifice two nights a week to sit and drool overBilly. Reasonable, really.

But soon, band practice became more and moreabout the band, and less and less about Billy. About a week ago, I realized Itruly liked each and every member of this band - not as band members, but aspeople. Disturbing. Little by little, the sparkling veneer surrounding the bandwore away.

And the mystery was solved.

These men are not musicians.They are real men with real weaknesses who just happen to be in a band.

They ceased to be The Drummer, The Bassist, The Guitarist and TheVocalist and became simply Justin, Billy, Glenn and Rain.

Airbrushedpictures and glossy magazines had once been a constant for me when consideringmusic, but they couldn't even begin to do these men justice. Hokey as it maysound, these four men have a perfect, infallible beauty in their flaws - bothphysical and intellectual - that could never be captured in a teeny-boppermagazine's pin-up article.

Glistening sweat that had once made them appeareven more physically attractive became the truth. They were simply sweaty, stinkymen who worked hard on what they did. Flawless skin that had once looked so softand seemed so perfectly touchable became rough, freckled and scarred from one toomany tattoos. Yet these flaws only made these men perfect in my eyes.

Rain's gravelly voice and big silver-buckled boots soon were simply another partof an insightful and sweet man who dubbed me "Tabi-cat" early in ourfriendship.

Justin's sweet-faced innocence and shirtless drumtechniques blended in, and he became simply a confused sweetheart who loved me toget up in the middle of practice to go to McDonald's for a SupersizedQuarter-Pounder meal.

Glenn ceased to be the stepfather I'd heard play athousand times and became a creative genius who is incredibly quick to laugh andbrush off the bickering of the other band members.

And Billy. WhileBilly's glamorous appeal faded with every passing day, my respect andlust, surprisingly, did not. It grew into something more. I really liked thisguy. He became less the cool guy with the red boots and blue Mohawk, and his insecurities and ability to make a lame comment in any situation becamemore apparent.

Even now, as I watch these men work hard to preparefor another show, I am amazed. The glitter of the past lies in quiet, undisputedpiles on the dingy carpet. Justin sits behind his drums, sneaking fries duringslow pieces. Billy rocks back and forth, eyes closed, looking for all the worldlike a crazy old fool in his short shorts and workout tank. Glenn concentrates onnot screwing up the song, watching his skillful fingers fly over the frets. Rain,with his bright red peach fuzz just growing in, is jumping around and bemoaningthe political injustices of the world in his perceptive lyrics.

These menare great.

These men are real.

These men are my perfectmusicians.