All right ladies, look away now. Michael Phelps is no longer splashing across your television screen. Calm down and enjoy a little table tennis.

You’re not fooling anyone.

Sure, the swimming events have been exciting, and it is indeed an honor to watch Phelps, the most successful athlete in the history of the Olympics. But stop pretending you’re watching for the historic importance or because you suddenly just love the sport of swimming.

Just admit it. You’re watching because of that hot, wet bod and that skimpy, little low-riding suit.

I know. You can’t fool me. I share a household with three females — a wife and two daughters. The only testosterone present, besides my own, is in the form of a lovable Labrador retriever. The cat doesn’t count. He had his testosterone surgically removed several years ago and he’s never forgiven me for letting it happen.

Ladies of every age all seem to scoot a little closer to the television screen whenever Bob Costas announces that NBC is going to that water-cube-thing to cover Phelps winning his 200th gold medal. Their breathing all gets a little slower and deeper, too. They clear their throats a lot and lightly run their fingers through their own hair, as if somehow they can attract Phelps’ attention from the other side of the world through the TV screen. It’s enough to make a sports-loving male head of household feel a little bit ill.

“What’s wrong honey?” I’ll ask my wife. “You seem to be perspiring. Are you blushing?”

“What?” she’ll reply. “Oh, are you still here? Did you say something?”

So that’s that, I guess. And although it is difficult, I have to admit that Phelps does indeed have quite an athletic bod — and I’m not a guy who pays much attention to other guys’ bods. I’m just not wired that way.

But what is the deal with that swimming apparel? It seems to me that mens’ swimming trunks have changed significantly in recent years.

I know, it was specifically woven just for Phelps to reduce drag as he swims. I understand that. But that Speedo fits so low that it seems to be one millimeter and one tiny little wardrobe malfunction away from creating some kind of international incident. We’ll watch things unfold, so to speak, live on our television screens.

His eyes are up there, ladies.

Honestly, Phelps has about a 12,000 calorie-per-day diet, and he burns it all in the water, winning medal after medal. I can see why you’re all looking at him with such intensity.

A 40-year-old guy who loses his breath as he waddles out to the kitchen to find that fudge-filled vanilla drumstick he hid in the freezer behind the ice cube tray just can’t hope to compete with Phelps and his Speedo. It simply isn’t fair. If I set the living room carpet on fire and danced on it while dressed in a giant Daffy Duck costume while singing “How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?” at the top of my lungs, I still wouldn’t get any attention.

I’ve got to tell you, I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.