Is it unusual to claim that Star Wars has played a significant role in shaping my sexual identity? I believe many of my fellow Gen X peers would agree. After all, which heterosexual man from my generation hasn’t fantasized about Princess Leia in her chains?

While that fantasy is certainly appealing, it was Luke Skywalker who truly sparked my sexual awakening. I vividly recall watching him enter Jabba's palace clad in black, effortlessly using his Jedi mind tricks on the lackluster guards. That moment was transformative for me.

Even now, that film remains a favorite, reinforcing my love for the original Star Wars trilogy, despite my disinterest in the subsequent films. We cherished those first three entries, created with tangible models, while the CGI of later films often felt cartoonish.

So when my nephews began watching The Mandalorian and urged me to join in so we could discuss it, I hesitated. Being a Star Wars purist, I longed for the enchantment of the original trilogy, not the new-age spectacle.

However, when my nephews request something, I inevitably oblige. In December, I finally settled in to watch The Mandalorian.

From the outset, I was captivated. Who was this Mando character? Was he meant to be Boba Fett? Where did this narrative fit within the Star Wars chronology? The tantalizing connections to Return of the Jedi piqued my interest.

And, I must confess, I was struck by the uniform. The armor, the gleaming helmet, the gadgets and weapons—Mando is undeniably attractive.

But hold on. How could I find someone appealing without ever having seen his face or body? This was a new experience for me.

I found myself fascinated.

Despite my attraction to Mando—and the cuteness of “Baby Yoda”—I ultimately stopped watching after a few episodes. There simply wasn’t a connection.

When I shared my feelings with my brother after Christmas, he urged me to give it another chance and suggested we binge-watch during my holiday visit, a few episodes each night.

Sure enough, I became engrossed. I began to grasp the show’s timeline and confirmed my suspicions about its ties to Return of the Jedi and Boba Fett, awakening my inner fangirl.

And... goodness, Mando just kept becoming more appealing with each episode. My heart raced whenever he brandished his powerful weapon that could disintegrate anything in its path. (“It’s called an Amban Phase-Pulse Blaster,” my brother would chide when I referred to it as a "stick" or "rifle.") And when he donned his jet pack for the first time… oh my. Just thinking about it sends shivers down my spine.

Don’t even get me started on his bond with Baby Yoda. (I’ll use his internet nickname to avoid spoilers.) Watching a battle-hardened space warrior take on a fatherly role was incredibly enticing. Mando, I'm ready for you. I'm all yours.

I suspect my brother and mother (who eventually joined our Mandalorian marathon) may have regretted watching it with me, especially when I exclaimed, “Oh god, yes, Mando!”

“What is happening?” my mother asked at one point. “You can’t even see his face. You don’t know what he looks like.”

“I don’t care,” I responded. “It’s not about that. I can’t explain it.”

And even now, I struggle to articulate it. We do catch glimpses of Mando’s face throughout the series, and yes, Pedro Pascal is undeniably charming. If he were to strike up a conversation with me in an intergalactic cantina, I would definitely lean in and might even flirtatiously touch his Beskar-armored thigh. (Mmm.)

Yet, that’s not the core of my attraction. It transcends the typical “Mystery Lover” allure of wanting to know what lies beneath the mask.

No—my desire centers around Mando’s helmet. I find myself wanting to kiss it. I’m not sure how that would work, but I’m resourceful—I’ll figure it out. It’s humorous, but I genuinely feel a primal draw to that helmet, envisioning licking it, caressing it, and engaging in all sorts of mischief with it.

And what about what’s unde