Historically, I never had a type. Mostly my type was anyone who liked me. But that’s another story. Boyfriends ranged from tall and arty to short and arsey but no one could ever point out a man and say to me, “He’s right up your street.” Until recently. I, it seems, am a late-blooming pervert.
I used to like their minds. Funny was helpful. Kind was useful. Clever was diverting. Now? Well, now it’s more about muscles. Not absolutely vast and absurd but just a bit vast and absurd. And also ink. I have developed a tendresse for tattoos. And not just a little ying-yang on the upper arm but bloody great sleeves and chest tattoos and everything. They don’t have to be young. This isn’t cougar territory. They have to be broad-shouldered and faintly threatening. And it’s fun to gaze at flesh. Simple. Silly.
Let’s take Riz Ahmed as a for instance. So clever. So dazzling on diversity. A rapper (and not in an embarrassing way, in an authentic way) and a writer and an activist and all done with those orb-like doe eyes. Soulful. But it’s not the soulful Riz that rings my bell. It’s the inmate Riz, in The Night Of, where he’s pumped-up, inked-up and on the turn from good ‘un to doomed ‘un. That’s how I like my Riz: Ripped. “That’s because you’re a pervert,” said my best friend. “I’m trying,” I replied. Enough of the brainy, witty, neurotic thinkers. They are my reality but not where my secret sex-ambition lies.
So – when it comes to perving – you can keep your professorial types with their brilliant minds and pigeon-chests. I’ll pass on the mouthy lawyers with their razor wit and their stringy arms. If Midult men can perv over young skin and improbable curves, I can quietly lust after beef and brawn and slightly bad attitudes. I’m probably not going to do anything about it. Probably not.