Spartacus Isn't My Idea of Sexy

Your idea of a hot time might be Spartacus. Muscles, muscles, every where. Me? I’m a West Wing girl, not only for the dialogue, which is genius, but for the hot factor. All that silver hair, those receding hairlines and crow’s feet are my idea of a gladiator pit.

“My name is Maximums Decimus Nerdius, commander of the brainy people of the North, General of legendary vocabulary and loyal domly dom of the sub, SpanishRed. And I will have my sexual gratification, in this life or the next.”

West Wing is my man-porn. When I need to be cock blocked by a photograph, I look at a Men’s Health magazine cover. Those biceps and abs are enough to turn me off for an entire hour. I need spectacles, not Ray Bans. I need good hugs, and all that hard body just doesn’t snuggle well.

Most of all, I need personality. The more classically good looking a man becomes, the more character his face loses.

The type who spends two hours a day in the gym doesn’t move like Belgian chocolate rolling over a woman’s curves. He’s just not secure enough. Besides, all that time lifting weights leaves no hours behind for a sexier obsession—playing the cello, taking over the world, that sort of thing.

The type who spends two hours a day in the gym tells you what the juice bar was like instead of the ocean.

I’m not attracted to social butterflies. My first love fell all over his words with all the suaveness of a puppy dog. He was one of the hottest men I ever got involved with. Know why? Even though he had a speech disorder, he said anything he liked. That’s courage and confidence, and it’s sexy as fuck.

A sexy man knows his identity. He’s intimately acquainted with life, not his kitchen scale. He has spirit. He treats the world like his own cosmic highway, and he walks it like the panther he is. Be abrasive, be solitary, be odd, if that’s who you are. Make a mess, get lost, whatever floats your boat. Just don’t be Men’s Health guy. Not if it’s me you want.