Picture it: bulging biceps, broad shoulders, muscular thighs, a square jaw, large powerful hands. I glance up from my coffee-table, yawn, and return to filling in my tax forms. ‘Manly’ bores me. ‘Rugged’ leaves me stone cold. Macho makes me snigger. But enter a skinny-malinky-long-legs and I start to flutter, shift in my seat, toy with my hair, lick the tip of my fingernail thoughtfully, and send sly sidelong glances.
It’s Legolas over Aragorn, Johnny Depp over Brad Pitt, Regency Rake over Burly Scots Warrior, computer geek over cowboy, underfed artist over powerful city-suit, bony over bulging. Long slender legs captivate me; sturdy burly limbs leave me with nothing but distaste. Narrow shoulders tapering to an even narrower waist fill me with reverence; powerful pecs don’t earn a second glance. Brawny and beefy are insults, to my mind. Six-packs – well – I can take ‘em or leave ‘em, to be honest.
What I worship is hipbones. Sharp, prominent hipbones with an interior shadow that slides invitingly down into those slim-fitting jeans. The hard shape of them beneath my exploratory thumb. The purple flowerets of bruises they can leave on your inner thigh. Mmmm… hipbones…
To be honest, my tastes haven’t changed much since I was fourteen, which shows a) a woeful sexual retardation, or b) having a sufficiently hermaphrodite mind myself, I don’t feel the need for excess masculinity cluttering up the place. We’d only fight over my drill.
It was established at school that I had ‘weird taste in guys’, which I thought meant I got all the elven scrawny ones to myself. As it turned out, they mostly got each other. All the guys I’ve found irresistable have either been gay, bisexual, or thought to be gay by everyone but me. Skinny and girly? Bring it on. Make-up on men? Yummy. Look good in a dress? Borrow mine! No, really, I’ll just slip it off right now, it’s no trouble… In most gay clubs, I feel like I’m in a sweet-shop with the wrong currency.
Thankfully, body-fat percentage is not always directly proportional to heterosexuality, so I can have my oatcake and eat it. In reality, there are plenty of lean willowy gods for me to worship. In erotica, the pickings are often the only thing that’s thin. Kristina can keep her rugby team. Tilly can have all the swollen biceps. I’ll pass on the cowboys, the baseball team, the fireman, the woodcutter, and the knight, but I’ll take the alchemist, provided he’s sufficiently wan. Or rather, I’ll fight over him with Madelynne, who provided most of today’s artwork… because as it turns out, I’m not alone. (Cue music)
So how exactly not-alone am I? Who else would spurn rugged, manly, bulging, muscular, beefy, well-built, and hairy for lithe, slender, lean, elegant, graceful, and smooth? And just how many people am I expected to share this man with?