an oldie, but a goodie.
Ask women what they’re attracted to in men and you get the most delightful responses: Large hands. Dark hair. Quiet. Tall, just tall. Skinny and pale. Intense. Big arms. Smart. Abs. Love a geek. Love a bad boy. Love a musician. Forearms. The way he looks at me. The color of his eyes. You just ‘know’; it’s a vibe thing.
Guys are not always as astute in being able to identify their attraction triggers. I may or may not be one of those men.
A few weeks ago, I’m standing with my arms around two friends. A young woman comes to the bar. She’s tiny. Thin. Short. With a look on her face like she’s probably going to hate me; it’s irresistible. I walk up next to her, and we start talking. A few sentences in, I stop her: Why don’t I understand a word you’re saying to me right now? It’s her accent. She tells me she’s from the Isle of Man. I fall in love. Why not? It’s perfect. The din of some club. The red lights behind the bar. This young, incomprehensible lady from the Isle of Man.
Days later, I speak to a bubbly girl who’s drunk and wonderful. I nod and hmm and ask all the right questions to keep her talking. Anything for her not to stand up and walk away. It’s her eyes. They’re a color I’ve rarely seen before. I try and remember where I’ve seen that color last:faded orthodox church roofs. salts in test-tubes in chemistry laboratories. the dark clouds approaching. I want to lay her down and be atop her so I can line up our eyes.
Yesterday, I went to buy a bow-tie from the man in the fancy clothing store. He loses himself in the descriptions of the sets at some production of Wagner’s Ring cycle. Also Tristan. I love Tristan. And I love Parsifal, I respond. He is soo attractive in that moment—in that dark store, surrounded by spools of fabric and imposing price-tags with expensive names.
They say Casanova was able to love a woman entirely in the moment. That he could impart into the right moment the intensity of self-abandon: be totally in the thrall of another. Helpless to their charms. It is the most seductive thing to have someone love you—not for the whole show that is you; not for the goo-goo-ga-ga feeling. No, it is seductive to be loved for your eyes (my mother says mine are dark and cut a little, like knives, she says). To be loved for your hands (she kissed them and said, now play me another song). To be loved for your silence, your fashion style, your tattoo, your accent. For words you like to use. For the little ornaments of yourself you hang to try and show people you’re worth looking at.
The point is to train your senses so that when a woman walks past you, and a second later her scent catches up with you, to turn quickly and inhale and love that moment—and her. To love the man at the video store and the way his hands move. To fall in love with colors of eyes, with shapes of ties around necks. With people’s awkwardness, their confidence, their humor, their breasts, the way their socks never match. To actively look for the things that are attractive to you, and to not shy away from them, and to not make excuses for them. To be transported out of yourself: There is soo much to miss if you’re not ready. Soo much to miss if you only let yourself be seduced by Prada models and Johnny Depp. Soo much to find attractive. Individuality, quirks, and oddities; and letting yourself love a woman’s cute feet, even if Voguethinks she’s a little chubby.
The world is full of people like you and me. Look at each other. Notice one another. Find the details you love. And let yourself be transported.
Homework: Fall in love with the specifics. With inexplicable things. Report back who you love(d) and what you love(d) about them.
