Back to Black

My friend G and I were having a little chat on good old facebook the other day regarding the ‘type’ of man we are attracted to, and whether we can actually and truthfully define our personal preferences.

She was of the opinion that my predilections were quite clearly identifiable, and provided a neat, and somewhat dashing appraisal of my so-called ‘taste’:

“A, you appear to have a vile obsession with men who look like they stink”.

She then proceeded to list men I have expressed lusty desire towards which filled her criteria of potential aroma offenders:
-Russell Brand
-Noel Fielding
-Richard Ayoade
-and just about any member of any Indie band wearing black skinny jeans

However, I have not always displayed such an inclination for the scruffy, STI-carrying types. In fact, my early partialities were of a far safer, less drug-abusing type.

So now it is time for an embarrassing confession (aka moment I lose any shred of dignity remaining)…

My early childhood crushes included none other than Jonathan Taylor Thomas…. And Taylor Hanson. I am the poster child of TV Hits poster devotion.

Retrospective psychological analysis (performed by myself…. I mean, its certainly deserving after such a traumatic sexual attraction) reveals such appeal was more than likely linked to their apparent femininity, lack of threatening masculinity and squeak clean image. Let’s call it the Zac Efron effect.

Phew… off the hook with that one.


On to the next stage of life.

From the age of about fourteen onwards, my choice in man was clear. Like the cheerleader in any clichéd American teen flick, I loved the jock. From the GPS swimmer, to the NSW rugby union representative, to the Australian rower, these were my men. Minimum 190cm, strong and intensely masculine.

So much so that their Adonis physique was supplemented with a less than godly personality, and I learnt the hard way that the brutish competitive mentality so desired on the sporting field unfortunately carried on into the relationship (and no, not in a good way you kinky minded folk!).

Freudian dissection of such a desire? Well in this instance I quote a drunken song composed by Miss L after a night of gin-induced hijinks:

“m-m-m muscles, drive me crazy
You’re in trouble with the ladies…”

It went on, but got a little dirty. Whilst this blog is in no way G rated, perhaps we will save subsequent stanzas for an in person performance (with wine bottle as microphone of course).

Thankfully, this phase of Alpha Male dating has passed. However, I am just as troubled by my attraction to the filthy virility of thew aforementioned ‘stinkers’. Whilst I defy any woman to deny the attractiveness of rock star attitude, in truth the combination of skinny jeans, leather and androgyny really aren’t a winning package.

What does this fascination say about me? Am I subconsciously drawn to a live of heroin hovels, poverty and rancid dwellings? I really jolly well hope not.

Let’s in fact hope that my type continues to develop past this devolution in subliminal genetic screening to someone who at the very minimum, is not a walking disease factory.

Finally… my lovely friend G’s thoughts on the latest gent to tickle my fancy (the lovely Mr Ladder of course):

“well A, at least he looks as if he showers. Good work”.