I think girly rock dudes are hot. That feral struct in skin tight denim cut low on slim hips, the musk and clove cigarette and perfume scent of their skin, long hair flicked by a long fingered hand over a broad shoulder, dark lined eyes, tattooed arms and glossy lips. The way a well turned male calf is accented by a black patent leather stiletto, all rock n’ roll decadence and invitation to sin.
Don’t get me wrong, darlings, I’m not all about dudes, I adore women (and frankly a whole bunch of other sorts of people) too, impossibly cool rebel babes with red lipstick mouths and switchblades in their purses. I like em victory rolls or afros or beehives or milkmaid braids but all worn with fuck you attitude. I like party girls who will leave me in tears. I like loud funny ladies with personalities as big as houses, and women who are essentially forces of nature. I have a crush on Regina George because I have an unfortunate habit of falling for women who aren’t very nice to me. I have a crush on Beth Ditto because she’s so fucking punk rock. But frankly, that tough as nails in spike heels archetype of womanly sex appeal has been well covered by people a helluva lot more talented than me, so this one, my loves, this one’s for the boys.
See, not everybody likes the same kind of guy (or guys at all), some people like em’ big and beardy and teddy bear cuddly, other people like em’ all neat and sweet and tidy and just right for bringing home to ma (not my ma, the archetypical ma), others like em wearing suits and ties striding down the corridors of power, some like em’ nerdy and beanpole thin in sweater vests, and so on and so forth through the infinite gradations of human sexual preference, but what I like? I like it when they’re beautiful, and know it. I like it when I can borrow a dress waking up at their place. I like my men slender, ropey,built lean and efficient and beautiful. I like em sitting legs spread in a short skirt, drinking in the green room. I love artists with ink stained fingers and painted nails. I like bohemian beauties with closets full to bursting.
I could also give some femme stereotype based reasons, like “won’t get bored in Sephora” and “will share beauty secrets with you” and “knows how to give a decent blowout so you don’t have to tire out your arms reaching over your own head” and “if you find lipstick on his collar it doesn’t mean he’s cheating unless it doesn’t match one of his”
I could tell you that a dude who gets street harassed by shitty bros (which happened at least occasionally to every dude I’ve been with) is refreshingly empathetic about the whole thing. I could tell you how even though equating femininity with ability to nurture is bullshit, the girly dudes in my life have always been great with kids, perhaps less out of natural talent then because they’re already not afraid to be seen as feminine. They don’t mind playing tea party with you and your niece, because they’re not afraid of losing their “man card” because fuck the concept of the man card anyway.
I love them, sharp angles, high cheekbones, endless legs. There are times when I love how feminine I feel in comparison to them, because anyone can look dainty and femme next to a lumberjack, but looking dainty and femme next to Thranduil takes talent. Sometimes I love how similar we are, long limbs and loose walk, how few differences there really are between our bodies. Mostly, I just love them. I love watching a man shave and take his time painting his face. Love sitting on the bed watching him fix his hair. There is something so seductive watching a lover line their eyes, rouge their lips, so intimate in their androgyne grooming routine, the masculinity of old fashioned shaving soap, filling the room with the scent of sandalwood and the antique safety razor, the femininity of a powder puff and mascara wand. I like them queen bitch cruel and coquettish. I like languid glam rock pirates I like them dominant, because I am submissive, I have my reasons for finding peace of mind under a high heeled boot, but that’s not what this is about.
I can tell you about how there’s something so obscenely beautiful about blowing a man in a skirt, his hand tangled in your hair. I can wax poetic about how they wear glitter as a fuck you to the world. I can go on forever about the dionysian perfection of a man with flowers in his hair, about the unearthly ethereal beauty of a man in a high necked Victorian gown, and frankly if I didn’t have as much self control as I do, this could get a lot more inappropriate than it already has, and none of us want that, anyway the point of my goopy rambling is that, yes, girly dudes are highly fuckable, but of course not everyone shares my taste, and I’m fairly sure some of you could come up with equally adoring descriptions of your prefered type, and see that’s what’s wonderful about humanity. We all see beauty in different places. Everyone is Venus rising from the ocean to someone. Everyone is someone’s idea of perfection, someone’s ideal, and isn’t that the most fucking marvelous thing?
Isn’t that heartening and wonderful to know that beauty is subjective, that there is no universal “perfect beauty,” and isn’t that just fucking beautiful?
Thoughts From The Peacock Angel 