“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.
My types.
20 Comments
Excellent post. Yes, I hate to admit it but I also have a type and for me it’s always the guy in charge. Perhaps because of the challenge getting him to notice me. Maybe it’s a power thing and because I like to be dominated. But mainly because I catch a certain twinkle in his eye and wonder whether he *really* feels in charge or whether he is just pretending. And how in charge he might feel if I was to undress him and stroke him, suck on him and let him thrust into me…. aaaaahhhhh, excuse me, I need a private moment to reflect on this now ;-)
Your type sounds pretty good to me too ;-)
I’m 6’4″ and pretty athletic, so when a tall, athletic woman appears I start to gurgle and drool. In fact I’m pretty sure that I can’t turn the netball on on Sky Sports because you’d never see me again…
Oh and add to that list female MMA competitors, chess players, Duran Duran fans and goths. Basically, I’m not that fussy…
I need to go out on the piss with you.
I also keep fairly quiet about my type, because it sounds very teenage, and possibly a bit racist but… My type is pale men. Not just ‘white’ but ‘may combust in direct sunlight’. Pale men with knobbly hands and a general air of malnutrition, pale, emaciated men with big, bush baby eyes, girly faces and a penchant for dressing like their off LARPing. Guys I could destroy in a fight, and who would bruise so prettily.
When I was at college, there was this guy who looked like he’d been kept in a cupboard all his life and fed on gruel. I could have picked him up one handed. You could see the colour of his bones – that kind of thin. He wore this big, black frock coat, and his knobbly wrists used to hang out of it, and he had this long, pale neck and every time I saw him, my brain just fizzled out. It was stupid.
Guys like that and I’m a clueless idiot with no confidence again. Fortunately, my husband knows this and likes them almost as much as I do – even though he’s a bit that way himself (vain bugger.)
But, yep, my type. And, and if they can Dom…
My exact type right now happens to be my company director. Whilst extremely competent and assertive in his role as Boss, outside the office he is nerdy and awkward and all sorts of delicious, with a lithe waist and a slender neck that is taking every ounce of professionalism in me not to grope.
Not sure if it’s a boon or a burden that he clearly wants in my knickers as well. Only the Christmas Party will tell…
Ooh, best of luck at the Christmas party =)
Tall boys (the taller the better)with broad shoulders & muscley arms…if they have tatts I just want to climb them like a tree & lick them. Hubby laughs at me then tells me to go for it lol
“climb them like a tree” – amazing =) I love how horny this sounds.
you like every thing in a man that i do but you left out one thing a nice big thick branch if i am going to climb them like a tree i hope it has a nice big thick branch i can sit on my hubby loves seeing me sit on a nice big thick branch
‘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?’
Ohhhh FUCK.
Ok, now that i’m over the initial horny trauma of reading this post (thanks for that) and have had a couple of seconds to think about it, i’d say my type is and has always been of the skinny, nerdy, flopsy-haired variety. But it’s more than that – the staggering, gut-punching thing actually tends to hit me when i’m confronted with a man who has those physical qualities PLUS a certain kind of shrewd intelligence and a sort of wry, nihilistic sarcasm.
Maybe it’s a cutting remark or a dry, humourless laugh but when I spot it I instantly start crushing on THAT dude. And those crushes are almost always inappropriate (one was once directed towards a future in-law, which made Christmas dinners pretty damn uncomfortable). I’ve no idea why I find this so knicker-wettingly hot except that maybe it hints at something a bit dark and a bit destructive and possibly a bit filthy. Hmmm, I think I may need to go and have a lie down now.
Mmmmm. Yes to wry sarcasm. I’m actually quite intrigued by how many people have left comments describing many of the characteristics that my ‘type’ has. Is this because actually these guys are the best of the best? Or because I manage to write in such a way that I attract a really specific audience of people who fancy the kind of people I fancy? Odd. But either way, if you fancy these guys and one of them happens to be your boyfriend, please do not introduce him to me because it will do bad things to my thoughts.
Oh to be tall and white!
I walked into a three of my types. They were fixing aircon in my office. One, tall, big arms (not worked out big, that kind of wiry muscly big) wearing sort of worky combat trousers and a polo top with dark blonde hair and sort of roughish cheeky face, his younger assistant and another one standing by with his legs apart with big strong back and massive. They stopped to look at me as I was walking in heels and making noise and kept looking as I went by. I looked at them too. I felt my nipples harden and my fanny twitch because in my mind’s eye I was in that little storage room just off the corridor, surrounded by them and sucking one dick after another as they take turns, the tall one in charge and the young one last in the queue impatiently waiting for his turn tugging on his dick. Just a flash of imagination of having my mouth stuffed full off dick while having another thick smooth dick in my eyeline being worked with this massive hand had me break out in a hot flush.
So what I am trying to say is workmen.
My man knows it and funnily enough is a big tall guy who works with his hands and wears workwear. When he rocks up home in his work trousers and boots my knickers are off within 15 seconds. He also takes the piss out of me in vicinity of building sites assessing ‘caliber of workman’ for me.
Short-shaved hair, chin stubble, piercing eyes, tall, and strong arms (especially forearms) Basically the guy I was fucking but couldn’t be with, before I met my boyfriend- who has none of the above and I didn’t even fancy when we first met! He is a bit bigger and cuddly, which I’m beginning to realise is also my type as I have a tiny crush on a workmate who is similar…
Yep. It’s a different type for me…a particular type of blondes. And I know one. But by all gods, it’s painful to hang around him. I mean it’s fun and exciting, entertaining…exhilarating. And I do want to screw his brains out. And both of us have partners, and yes, I still love mine dearly :(
Loved this, and am now thinking about my ‘type.’
Tall, pale, geeky men with a dark sense of humor and sarcasm in spades. Intelligent, and passionate about something – music, art, politics, (as you’ll understand) coding. A little shy and quite possibly very awkward. If they have a lisp, or a stutter, Lord, I’ll want to bang them like a screen door in a hurricane.
It’s not necessarily his look, it’s his vibe. That guy that seems almost unattainable. Girls flock to him, wanting something from him like he possesses the secret to the universe, but he shows no interest in giving it away. He remains cool, uninterested in these girls. This is who I’m drawn to. I want that secret to the universe, the one that only he, in that moment possesses. When I see this guy, my physical state immediately changes. I feel my blood pressure rising, my heart beating faster, and my mind is racing with animalistic instincts to devour all other girls around him…to ensure he is mine for a moment – preferably enough time to cum.
I wish I’d read this post (and the comments) as a teenager. It might not have been so stutteringly awkward to talk to girls if I’d known some of them like the occasional nerd.