New York’s Bravest, the fine firefighters of our great city, are lately putting out a fire I hoped would never be extinguished: The fire in my loins.

Don’t get me wrong. I will always admire members of the FDNY for their courage, their dedication, their commitment — just lately, I haven’t been able to admire them for their abs.

The firefighters I’ve seen hanging off the truck of late have something else hanging over their belts. They’re eating a lot of five-alarm chili after those five-alarm fires.

This is a tough thing for a New York woman to admit. Firefighters — like that mythic guy who owns his own apartment, wants to settle down and will text you back — are one of the staple city fantasies. Legend has it that a woman might, if out of options for a Saturday night, perhaps start a small grease fire in her kitchenette and, after calling 911, touch up her makeup before answering the door.

Perhaps your cat is stuck up a tree and needs help, especially ­because you put her there.

That’s part of a firefighter’s job description: Cat rescue. How dreamy is that?

In their spare time, I imagine, firefighters hose down their trucks in slow motion, and pose for calendars wearing only reflective suspenders.

Yet in my Brooklyn neighborhood of late, as I spy an approaching engine, I wave my thanks but I barely glance into the cab because I know what I will find there. These men absolutely need to be wearing a shirt under their suspenders.

The problem is that while the FDNY requires a rigorous physical fitness test to get in, the department does not make members take regular tests after that. Some firefighters absolutely try to stay in tip-top shape. Others . . .

State code does mandate that smoke-eaters receive consulting on nutrition and health. For one hour a year. “Yo, guys, lay off the pizza.”

Does this affect the safety of New Yorkers? Not at all. Firefighters still risk their lives to keep us safe, running into burning buildings. This isn’t a critique of their performance.

What it might affect is the next “Magic Mike” movie. Will Channing Tatum still be swinging the ol’ hook-and-ladder, or will he have moved on to . . . uh, buff veterinarian.

Am I being ridiculous? Sure. But know this, my smoldering fellows: This is a plea, not a putdown. I want to go back to the romantic notions of being swept off my feet by a fit, dashing fireman, touch of soot on his cheeks, as he whispers, “Are you all right, miss? I got you.”

Oh, and maybe introduce a swimwear portion to the Academy test.

In the meantime, I noticed that the NYPD is hiring 1,000 new, young, perhaps strapping recruits. New York’s Finest . . . how you doin’?