For pretty much as long as I can remember, I’ve always been hopelessly attracted to musicians, specifically of the rock & roll persuasion. While other high school girls fantasized about Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt, I idolized the feathered hair, open shirt and sexy swagger of Robert Plant, lead singer of Led Zeppelin. His poster still graces my wall next to my desk, a black and white, cock-emphasizing shot from a downward angle. It may be because I lost my virginity listening to “Whole Lotta Love”, but there’s just something about the way he croons “baby, baby, baby” that gets my motor running. Yet as I’ve grown older, although my crush on Plant persists, I’m more in awe of the fast fingers of lead guitarist Jimmy Page.