‘Guyliner’, fake tan, excessive waxing, preening and coiffuring seem to have become the norm for many men in their 20s and 30s these days.
But ask most women, at least of Drunken Slut Mum’s generation (let’s say those born roughly before 1980) and they won’t be overjoyed/impressed by any of this nonsense.
How are you supposed to get anything done in the bedroom if he spends longer than you do putting creams and potions on and waxing his chest hair? I also don’t want to be competing for mirror space if I wake up with him in the morning and have to get my face on.
I am not broaching this topic as an onlooker, either – I have done my share of narcissistic self-beautifying men. My first experience was a Robert Smith from the Cure wannabe who loved the shade of cherry red lipstick I wore at the time and borrowed it so much I ended up giving it to him. Kissing got a bit messy if we wore different shades. It ended badly with me cheating on him with someone more manly while on a residential school trip.
There were then two guys at college who were in some ways interchangeable. They both had long hair and were fans of ‘glam rock’ – by this I don’t mean Slade and Wizzard, rather Dogs D’Amour, The Quireboys and vintage Rolling Stones (google the ones you haven’t heard of). This somehow required the wearing of ridiculously dandy shirts, tight trousers, eyeliner and occasionally a velvet baker boy hat or bandana. I now wonder why I didn’t run a mile on seeing someone in this ‘get-up’ but I suppose it helped that both were pretty boys and ultra-confident.
I also had a brief fling with a guy who liked to cross dress a bit – not frilly frocks, false nails and a long blonde wig – just the fishnet stockings, fetish-style pvc basque and a touch of lippy and eyeliner. However, because he was stunningly good-looking, charming and funny, he somehow got away with it without seeming ridiculous. I did his makeup one night while straddling his lap which was an oddly arousing experience until I applied some of that clear strong smelling stuff that is supposed to help lipstick stay on longer. He objected rather forcefully nudging me off his lap and shouting “aargh – that’s horrible – get it off!” You see, men are actually too soft to endure what we women go through to look good…
So, I do approach this from a qualified perspective. What puts me off being a lesbian is the lack of difference between myself and other women. Apart from the obvious ‘boy bits’, I like to sometimes feel men’s stubble rubbing against me (but not so often that I end up with a red flaky chin), to stroke their chest hair, to occasionally get a slight (only slight, mind) whiff of their natural sweat and to feel their stronger, bulkier bodies against me.
Which brings me to another personal turn-off: skinny men. There are few things worse than feeling his hip or pelvic bones digging in as he grinds away on top. Ouch! And any kind of cuddle afterwards lacks a little warmth. You can’t bury your head into a xylophone. Skinny men must have an appeal to some ladies – many are attached and often to larger ladies – but not me. I don’t want a bucket of morbidly obese lard, either, or someone rippled with muscles to rival the Incredible Hulk. I just want a solid, three-dimensional man, who does good hugs, has good bonking suspension and is stronger than me.
The Man more or less covers all the above. He doesn’t mess about with all that metrosexual stuff and uses his strength to occasionally take control in ‘the act’ by pulling me by my legs to manoeuvre me into optimum launch position or initiating our next move. Try getting a skinny, feeble man to do that. I don’t want to be dominated all the time, but see nothing wrong in a man exercising his masculinity now and then. Just like us females sometimes use our tits and arse to our advantage when the need arises.
So, men – wipe off the fake tan and leave my eyeliner alone! I don’t care if you haven’t just straightened your hair or sprayed yourself with half a bottle of some over-priced scent. Set your natural pheromones free and lead me upstairs or take me over the kitchen table!
Read my blog – drunkenslutmum.co.uk