“Of course I don’t have a ‘type’,” I lie. “I’ve fancied so many different people that the idea I’d only go for one type of guy is laughable.” I tell this to people I know and love, and I tell it to myself. And it’s bollocks.
Much as I’d love to not have a type, I do. Oh how I do.
There’s a certain kind of man that gives me a certain kind of feeling. Not pitiful butterflies in my stomach or shivers down my spine or any of that saccharine crap: these dudes make my cunt wet and my eyes water and they send my heart into an angry, drum-beat overdrive of panic. They make me afraid.
These men with their lithe, casual hotness. Slightly (or incredibly) nerdy, playing nervously with glasses on the bar, or with cigarettes in their hands. Men with wet eyes and eager smiles, and the tiniest hint of a late-lost virginity that gives them extra enthusiasm for fucking. Men who wank creatively: with buttplugs and lube and grotesquely unconscionable fantasies.
There are two or three in my head right now (get out get out get out). There are a couple in my back catalogue who – if I walked down the street and bumped into them – would wonder why I was physically staggering with shock, or shaking in an effort to hold back the urge to kiss them. Not kiss them, sorry, that’s wrong: bury my face in their neck and just… fucking… bite them.
I don’t want to have a type, but I do. It’s these guys: the ones who hold back dark secrets and stutter through chat ups and joke that ‘oh of COURSE you won’t fancy me but on the off-chance you did I’m quite into choke-fucking if that’s your thing?’ Men who call me ‘mate’ and who smell so filthy and good when they hug me. Whose cocks press tight against the inside of scruffy jeans. I can’t see but oh sweet Lord how I can imagine.
They make me cold with fear.
I’m terrified of these guys because they are the ones with whom my self-control goes out of the window. Making me wonder – and quite rightly – whether I can claim to have any self-control at all if it disappears in a spray of jizz when the right kind of temptation sidles into view.
What’s your sexual type?
I’m not telling you what my exact sexual type is in case you either:
a) are it, in which case things will become awkward at parties or
b) are not it, in which case if we’ve ever fucked, or ever might fuck, you’ll mistakenly assume that because you don’t ‘match’ I won’t enjoy it. I still will.
I’m reading a book by Marian Keyes at the moment in which she describes heart vibrations – how two people can be perfect for each other because their souls give off the same rhythmic vibe. That’s obvious twaddle, of course, but it made me think of the feeling when I meet a guy who’s ‘my type’ – a similar gutpunch of obvious attraction, similar vibrations. Except it’s not my heart that’s quivering.
I want to fuck all these bad men
I’ve met some ‘types’ recently and it’s all I can do to bite my lip and smile and say ‘nice to meet you.’ I chit-chat with them and laugh at their jokes and pray to Christ they laugh at mine. I introduce myself to their girlfriends, and say goodnight at the end of the evening. Just ‘goodnight’! When what I really want to say is ‘oh please please please fuck me. Fuck me so hard it makes me cry. Please put your hands on me – anywhere – and just squeeze and rub and slap and punch me and make me feel better about feeling like this when I shouldn’t. Take away the misery of unrequited lust, and tell me I’m a bad bad bad fucking person for wanting you.’
It’s not their fault, of course: it’s mine. To paint these guys as tempting architects of my failure at monogamy would be to pretend that I have no agency: no morals. But although they can’t help striking exactly the chord that has me throbbing with need, I have to avoid them, and come across as either rude or awkward. I can’t help it.
While one of my types is nearby my mind will do bad things: flash images and scenes of him fucking me against a wall. Or pulling my jeans down to below the crack of my arse and rubbing a trembling hand between my legs. Slowly and deliberately opening one button on my shirt, and grinning as he reaches in to put cold fingers on my nipples. Wrapping a belt round my throat and choking me with it while he fucks me – while he whispers ‘you shouldn’t be doing this and you fucking know it’, pauses for a beat… two beats… lets me take a breath… then slaps my face as he pushes his cock harder inside.
Do you have a type?
I hope some of you know what I mean. Some of you conjured an image of a particular type of person – that person who sets you on a course of lustful flashes, and for whom your attraction feels almost dangerous. I feel like this about certain guys regardless of anything else that might be going on: whether I’m currently with someone who is also my ‘type’, for instance. And I laugh and point out hot men and go ‘that one there – he’s pretty’, and I point out interesting men and go ‘him: I’d go for him’ and all the while I’m thinking ‘yeah, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? I’d go for anyone with a good sense of humour and a pair of hands to grab my arse with. My type is something stronger, and utterly intangible.’
So when you ask me if I have a ‘type’ that’s the reason I’ll lie. I’d rather say ‘no of course not’ than give someone the full, disgusting truth. I do have a type when it comes to sex, and it’s undiscerning, perverted, and arational. It doesn’t matter in the slightest if these guys are bastards, if they’re already attached or totally disinterested. My cunt doesn’t care whether they’re the kind of people I could live with forever or the ones I’d throttle after 10 minutes. It doesn’t care how many of them there are: there is always room for one more.
I say I don’t have a type, because with enough love and enough interest I’ll have this passion for anyone. But these guys… these guys… these insta-lust ‘types’ that my brain hates but my body needs like sunlight: when I’m on my death bed and watching the guilty replays of my life’s mistakes, it’ll be these guys who play the starring roles.
My nerdy, horny, depraved and desperate men. My weaknesses.