I was asked today what I thought was the sexiest part of a man.
Now let’s see. I remember when I first started on-line dating in my 40s. I remember the first profile I ever wrote. I do fancy myself a bit of a writer so I knew the standard “I am this, that and the other thing” and I want you to be “that, this and the other thing” would never work. I wanted to be honest yet creative. Alas, that was several computers ago and I don’t have it anymore but I do remember the first line – The sexiest part of a man is his brain. Followed closely by his forearms.
Okay, so call me weird but yeah, I have a thing for forearms. Sleeves rolled up. Sinewy, muscled flesh suggesting strength and masculinity without being too obvious. Damn. Excuse me for a moment. I’m getting a little hot and bothered just thinking about it.
Okay. I’m back.
But what about the brain thing? Yes, I like a smart man and by that I mean a man who utilizes his intelligence wisely (hey, I made a funny) for any number of different things. Rocket science, Scrabble, painting the kitchen or playing guitar. I like a man who can tackle almost any challenge with a certain confidence, knowing that even if he doesn’t flourish he will give it a damn good go.
But I don’t think Sheldon Cooper (Big Bang) is sexy. Quite frankly none of those guys is sexy although I will say that Johnny Galecki looks pretty hot when he’s not portraying Leonard. So obviously I misspoke on that profile because if the sexiest part of a man is his brain wouldn’t I find Sheldon sexy? I guess that goes to my second statement that the guy also has to utilize his intelligence wisely. And diversely. Yes, that’s it. I’m not looking for a savant. I’m looking for a well-rounded smarty pants.
But what about physique? I don’t know many women who will argue with a fireman-calendar physique but I can state from personal experience it will never be enough. During my dating career I met a lot of flabby, jiggly, aging-before-their-time dudes who were my age or even younger. So I hooked up with a bi-athlete who was a year older than I and had a rockin’ body. That rockin’ body bought him exactly 6 months of my attention until I could stand no more. He had the IQ of a donut.
So is it success? Wealth? Status? Are those the big turn-ons? I once read that is It as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one. How I would love to subscribe to and then live that concept. Alas, I cannot. When I left my husband I walked away from all of that and then some. It just wasn’t enough to keep me there.
Maybe it’s creativity? God knows I’ve loved me a few musicians in my time, an actor or 2 and even once a sculptor. So is that it? I crave the artistic type, the guys who live in the clouds and follow their muse no matter what the sacrifice? I’m going to say no only because I like having a roof over my head and food in the fridge. The “starving artist” term was coined for a reason.
I will also wager that emotional availability is paramount. And sadly there are a lot of men who do not excel in this department. But hey, I have girlfriends who are ridiculously available and as much as sometimes I wish they turned me on, they don’t. Love ’em. Don’t want to do ’em.
But today I figured it out. The sexiest part of a man came to me in a transcendent flash of illumination. Well, it was either that or my second glass of wine.
The sexiest part of a man is his sense of humour. I want to laugh – preferably out loud – at least once a day. I want to smile even more often. I want to be surprised and overtaken by laughs and smiles all the livelong day. I want to roll on the floor in fits of hysterics, cry with hilarity until I pee my pants and I want to giggle and chortle, chuckle and guffaw until every hilarious cow comes home.
That, to me, is sexy.
I will wager that a combination of all of the above is optimal. Intelligent, fit, creative and let’s not forget those forearms … yes, that is a sexy man. But that ability to make me laugh (and I don’t mean groaner jokes and borrowed one-liners), that ability to use his intellect to make me laugh … well … damn.
Sorry. You’re going to have to excuse me again.