That was enough for me.
The male ego (at least mine) is fragile, and I sat down and had a long talk with myself: "Boris, old boy: whatever they want, you ain't got; whatever you got, they don't want." So I stopped chasing them. Now, at 52 and on meds that reduce the libido to zero, I am sort of glad it's over. But I will attach here some material that "indicates" a bit of what I found--and lost--twice.
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"It did not seem possible that Wendy Wright had been born out of blood and internal organs like other people. In proximity to her he felt himself to be a squat, oily, sweating, uneducated nurt whose stomach rattled and whose breath wheezed. Near her he became aware of the physical mechanisms which kept him alive; within him machinery, pipes and valves and gas-compressors and fan belts had to chug away at a losing task, a labor ultimately doomed. Seeing her face, he discovered that his own consisted of a garish mask; noticing her body make him feel like a low-class windup toy. All her colors possessed a subtle quality, indirectly lit. Her eyes, those green and tumbled stones, looked impassively at everything; he had never seen fear in them, or aversion, or contempt. What she saw she accepted. Generally she seemed calm. But more than that she struck him as being durable, untroubled and cool, not subject to wear, or to fatigue, or to physical illness and decline." -- Philip K Dick, UBIK.
Or maybe the verse from CSN&Y: "Gasping at glimpses of gentle true spirit, he runs, wishing he could fly--only to trip at the sound of good-by."
And Ben Jonson's "Ode to Cynthia":
Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to cheer when day did close.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal-shining quiver,
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever.
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Bless us then with wished sight
Thou that mak'st a day of night.
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower
We will grieve not, but rather find
Strength in what remains behind.
-Wordsworth
Boris, you are not alone, and I suspect there is someone looking for a wonderful man.. just like you, only she doesn't know where to find you.. Keep the faith, you are still just a kid.. I love ya man.. :)