Last night I met some friends at a bar in town. As is the tradition with said friends and despite our increasingly aged appearance we find ourselves congregating in various dens of iniquity across the capital. It’s fairly safe to say that any bar advertising a 12 hour happy hour and ‘wine’ (I use the word loosely) at 5 quid a bottle will see our custom for a good proportion of the night. I probably don’t need to emphasis just how brain splitting my hangover is this morning. You pay peanuts you get monkeys, you drink meths diluted with vinegar ... you get the picture.
There was a slight twist on last night’s theme, however, and we were ‘treated’ (again, a word I will use loosely) on entering said establishment to two gentlemen naked bar a pair of tight black briefs and a dickie bow. Better known, I believe, as naked waiters or, depending on what tacky hen night you are attending, butlers in the buff.
Well, I was rather taken aback I don’t mind telling you. It’s been that long since I've been near a naked torso I rather felt like Dot Cotton at a Chippendales concert. Stuff me, what is it with the West End these days? I only came out for a swift half. ‘Hey, we can’t give you a decent glass of Sauvignon Blanc but here’s a naked man with a rose between his teeth and more fake tan than Amy Childs. Call me a jaded old bitch with an unhealthy dependency to alcohol (No really, do ... I've work on this reputation for years) but next time, I'll take the decent plonk.
The gay men amongst us, however, delighted at the idea of being waited on by walkin’ talkin’ living Kens and we were treated, by one of the more fruity members of the group, to an extensive and highly descriptive story. I won’t bore you with the details, what with it being 7.30 in the morning, but put it this way, I will never look at vegetables in the same way again. Or butt plugs for that matter.
As delighted as I was for him at the idea of his butler sandwich, it must be said a ‘perfect’ body does nothing for me. We soon found ourselves in a debate about the pros and cons of having polished pecks and to die for deltoids but no matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t make it happen. Give me a fat man any day of the week.
Here’s the thing, a lot of women don’t like fat men because close up they’re, well, fat. they wobble a bit, puff and pant during sex and can’t (please God, don’t) walk around shirtless in the street (an activity, to my mind, which should be outlawed generally in this country, we are British after all) but they eat and laugh and indulge.
Nothing is sexier than a man who savours and devours. One that knows good wine and drinks too much of it, who wouldn’t be seen dead in a gym. This man is a bear, he is excess, he’s the man that smokes too many cigarettes, who drinks neat whiskey at 3am and orders Chateaux Neuf de Pape on a 9am flight to the South of France. He’s Gerard Depardieu, he’s Keith Floyd he’s Robbie Coltrane and David Hockney. he is La Dolce Vita.
These are the men I want to have sex with. (Well, not quite literally perhaps but you get the idea.)
And then we have our butlers in the buff. Sigh. You see, the atmosphere has changed already. They are waxed, they are polished. They have tribal tattoos and Chinese writing scrawled across their backs which they think reads ‘Live, Love, Laugh’ (Oh, the irony) but actually says, ‘I’m an arsehole.’ They are the men that spray tan. Read it, absorb it. Spray tan. Bring me a woman that says the image of a man standing bollock naked with a shower cap and goggles on in a spray booth is sexier than a man smoking a Gauloises and drinking red wine and I'll call time on this blog. I don’t claim to know everything about men but I'll tell you this much, a hair free pair of tangerine coloured balls does not a sexy man maketh.
This man will pump and flex, he’ll aspire to be extra on TOWIE and drink Vodka Redbull once a week at Chinawhites. He’ll fuck you for hours, and hours ... and hours, because he think that’s good sex (and can’t come because of all his steroid munching). He only likes beautiful people and refuses to believe women use the toilet. He’ll encourage you to have a boob job and want to do a couples ‘no carbs before marbs’ diet 5 months before your summer holiday.
Avoid this man. He will make you feel shit about yourself and turn your new White Company sheets orange.
So myself and my friend agreed to disagree and we concluded that one man’s treasure was another woman's trash.
There is no such thing as ‘perfect’ but give me a man with a bit of meat on his bones any day. Now where’s that hair of the dog, this hangover ain’t going to cure itself.