Sunday, June 6, 2010

Embarrassingly, I very much have a 'type'.

Fergus Brown
How unfortunate. 

A friend and I sat on my bed discussing our ‘types’, as far as physical attraction goes. After vehemently insisting that I did not, in fact, have a ‘type’, I then went on to say, “Although you know, I do like boys with beards - even more so if they also have messy hair. Curly, messy hair. Preferably brown. And I do love when boys wear poorly ironed plaid shirts. Oh, and totally glasses, but not in a ‘these still have the clear Perspex in them from when they were on display’ kind of way. More in a ‘if I wasn't wearing these, I couldn’t stare dreamily into your eyes without them going blurry’ kind of way.”

Alarmingly, it seemed that, not only did I very much have a type, but also that type had a decidedly homeless vibe to it. I have somehow reached a point in my life where unkempt facial hair and a lack of laundry skills can turn any average dude into a veritable sex bomb of a man. Throw in a couple of clever tattoos and a very obvious Adam’s apple, and I’ve already turned jelloid. My claim of being type-less could not have been further from the truth if it tried.

Perhaps more to the point, it perplexes me to no end that I find eye diseases alluring. Not even in a sympathetic way – no, we’re talking “let me smooch that eye patch right off your beardy face,” kind of stuff. For whatever reason, the prospect of a boy with poor eyesight does things to me. Astigmatism, you say? Oh, baby! That’s right, big boy, talk eye drops to me. What happened in my life that could have resulted in such an attraction? Perhaps someday I’ll find out that, all along, I was repressing some memory of an unrequited love that will explain why exactly I get my kicks from the physical ailments of my mates. Until then, I suppose, I just have to try and control myself lest I go weak at the knees every time I see a boy on crutches.

It’s not even as though this sort of aesthetic is particularly original, or vaguely hard to come by; it’s more or less the unspoken uniform for every twenty-something Arrested-Development-watching, indie-music-listening-to, quasi-creative type on the planet. On the contrary, this ‘type’ transcends time and space, and spans many an ocean, a phenomenon to which I can attest. Perhaps my guaranteed adoration of such a man comes down to the fact that, with this ever-growing army of plaid-clad Beardies comes the assurance of meeting a slightly off-kilter dude who, growing up, was always just unpopular enough that he was forced to develop a delightfully self-depreciative sense of humour (that is to say, the XY-chromosomal version of myself).

I feel like it's somewhat of a security blanket - as in, I know what kind of dude looks this way, therefore I must know what to expect. Yes, on articulating that, I know how sad it sounds to have a security blanket-esque fetish. Even if it is a very, very comfortable blanket.

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