I like men.
I mean, I like men.
Tall, dark, and handsome. Lanky, muscular, easygoing, stern, quirky, nerdy, brilliant, regular Joes?–I like ’em.
(Full disclosure: I tried dating a short man, once. It didn’t go well. And when I say short, I’m saying my 5’6″ could go over his head if I wore low heels. It was an awkward date, and I ran–literally ran–through the dorm after the door locked behind me, just to get away from him and his intent to kiss me. Have you ever not wanted to be kissed so badly that you ran away? It was that bad.)
There’s something about a man. Tall enough to tuck yourself into him–under his chin, against his heart, his arms around you. Oh, such a nice feeling. Broad shoulders, the kind that hit you right there. Arms that you can sleep on like a pillow. A tuchus you could bounce a quarter on. Thigh muscles that make you sit up and beg. (I can never get enough of just looking.)
A good friend–my best friend–and I were chatting the other day on Facebook about an actor we both like (I’m married, but he is so on my list. Yes, that list. And if you’re a red-blooded female that likes men, not these poster boys the girls want these days, then put Neal McDonough on your list, too). We’re both attracted to how manly he is. Let me use her words for what I mean, because she sums it up oh-so-very-well:
“Just that in [Hollywood], all these guys are really thin with six-pack abs
and couldn’t lift a juicer, but he looks like he could split logs and get into
a bar fight and then drag an anchor across the grass or something.”
That’s what I’m talking about. A man.
We’re surrounded by a society that glamorizes these…boys. Half of them seem rail-thin, and look fit because they’re so lean. Yeah, okay, they exercise, they take care of themselves–but they look soft. These are not guys that look like they could do hard work, like splitting rails for fences or throwing bales of hay or some such. They reek of having an easy life, or having the appearance of one, because that’s what they know–what they expect. I like a man with a little hardness about him, something in the edges that doesn’t blunt or fade. I need someone I know can literally do the heavy lifting when it’s needed. And I want a man who can make me feel like a girl.
Take Mark Harmon, for example–he seems far more easygoing in real life than his character (and boy, do I love Gibbs), but if you’ve read anything about him, you know he works hard. He built his own house, for Pete’s sake! He’s not a talker, he’s not prone to making much of himself. Those young fellows of Hollywood clamor to be seen and heard, and while they flash in the pan, there are actors out there who take the world in stride and do the best they can without making asses of themselves. Actor or no, that’s the sort of man I admire.
(Here’s where people wonder what kind of complex I have. I don’t think it’s any different than any other girl liking men that remind her of her father. I do like older men, and I like them quiet, more than a little stubborn, willing to butt heads with me, and still be a font of comfort and humor–but not all the time.)
It would be nice if I could post something that doesn’t devolve into a stream-of-consciousness thought–alas, so goes my brain. I suppose, in short, I miss seeing honest-to-God men out there in the world. If you’re not running into a cocky jock, it’s a metrosexual. Both are useless. Give me a man with layers, with a quietness and strength about him, a reticence that falls away when he’s peaceful, resting, secure. There’s something inherently fulfilling about being that person to a man like that–the one he feels himself with, and knows he can set aside the armor he wears in the world.
You can keep your Edwards and your Jacobs–give me my Rhetts, my Wyatts, my Jethros. Leave the Mulders and the Malcoms and the Grissoms to me and my kind. We know what to do with them.