All of a sudden I fancy Leonardo Dicaprio. Now. This minute. Not then. Then, when he was all winsome and plumptious and doe-eyed and heavenly. Now. Now, when he’s basically Jack Nicholson; frayed and faintly devilish. The 18 year-old me would be horrified. The same 18 year-old who shrilled, “I could never, ever kiss a man with a beard. It’s so heinous.” And yet…
Anyway. I’ve stopped fancying George Clooney now that he’s all Cary Grant and establishment and married to that long tall drink of human rights. Then? Oh then, when he said he’s taken too many drugs and had too much fun to run for office; then when we never knew which cocktail waitress he’d pop up with next; then when it looked as though he was incapable of commitment? Then, I had the horn.
Because the thing you realise as you fray slightly around the edges, is that there is such a thing as up-here horn and down-there horn. Up-here horn is an intellectual understanding and appreciation of handsomeness, funniness, on-paper sexiness, It’s the horn you feel at the end of a good, healthy date – when everything is working and hopes are high.
Down-there horn is altogether more out of control. It works against you and your best interests. It thrives on risk and potential danger and old-rogue appeal where a big belly and a thinning hairline are entirely off-set by the sense that there will be other things to think about, feel, imagine. It’s when you fancy Sean Penn rather than Channing Tatum. Insanity. But down-there does not play by the rules. Never has.