I was walking by a newsstand cluttered with pictures of Barack Obama when it occurred to me, fleetingly, that I planned to vote for him. The next thought was also fleeting — damn, that's a good-looking man. Later, the proximity of these thoughts, one tumbling after the other, would alarm me.

This was maybe a year ago, long before the two leading Democratic candidates had articulated the difference between their health-care plans, long before we knew much about anybody's platforms at all, back when voting on Super Tuesday felt like Christmas shopping in July. And that moment forced to me to question my own allegiance, which suddenly felt less like the convictions of an informed citizen and more like, well, a crush.

How could I not have a crush on Obama? The easy Yale charm, that smooth, cigarette baritone, the seductive poetry of hope; surely I don't need to lay this out for you. Most likely, you've seen the video, and that woman lays out the situation pretty well, all while wearing skimpy underwear and rubbing her lady parts against campaign posters. The "Obama Girl" video came out a few months after my own conflicted note to self, and seeing it, I felt at once horrified and relieved. Here was a swimsuit model cooing out her political convictions with all the intellectual rigor and depth of a ten year old screaming at a High School Musical concert. But it was a smash, spawning T-shirts and response videos. I learned, with some satisfaction, that I wasn't alone. The Obama Girl video tried to get other candidates in on the action, including a "Beat It"-style standoff between Obama Girl and Giuliani Girl, but talk about an unfair fight. It was like pitting George Clooney against Frankenstein.

So why am I so uncomfortable about my feelings for Obama? It may have to do with how asexual I'd previously found all politicians. My mother's knees may have buckled at JFK's square jaw and patrician good looks, but my groins deadlined for Mondale. Sexuality and politicians were like anti-matter, destroying each other on contact. (Could anybody have erotic fantasies about Jimmy Carter? About Michael Dukakis? About Joe Freaking Lieberman? Even Mrs. Lieberman is not having erotic fantasies about Joe Lieberman.) This was the kind of relationship I expected to have with lawmakers. They were like silver-haired history teachers whose bloodless libidos allowed me to concentrate on the lesson at hand. But then Obama came along, and suddenly I was hot for teacher.