I haven’t done a ‘what is not wrong with you‘ post for a while, but this particular gripe has been brewing for a couple of weeks, so I thought it high time that I spat it out.

Men: I don’t give a shit about your hair. There, I said it.

There’s a creeping trend for men to start caring about their hair, and I don’t like it. Yes, it’s nice to look nice and if having a special haircut gives you a boner when you look in the mirror then by all means drop fifty quid at a posh salon. But if you’re just doing it to impress the ladies, my general advice would be not to bother.

Not because all women don’t care (some do) but because I figure that the time, effort and worry invested in something as inconsequential as the collection of keratin strands you collect on top of your head could be much better spent in other ways.

You could learn to play the piano, take up a sport, read books and newspapers – anything. And even girls who like a guy with neatly-trimmed locks will probably admit that they’d rather he were talented, funny, or interesting.

And don’t get me started on the amount of money men are now expected to fork out on hair products – gels and mousses and special shampoo – that could far better be spent on a tube fare to my house to come and fuck me like it’s Friday.

Is it OK to be bald?

I have only ever met two types of women: those who find bald guys incredibly sexy, and those who don’t give a flying fuck.

I happen to fall into the former category – bald guys are sexy as hell. There’s obviously the tactile thing, for a start – touching someone’s head is deeply sensual. Although running your fingers through someone’s curling locks can be nice, nothing quite rivals the feeling of stroking your fingers nice and hard over someone’s scalp, letting them trail down to the back of their neck as they close their eyes to revel in the comfort and lust.

Where was I?

Oh yes. Hair.

Is it OK to be ginger?

I have tried to contain my rage on this point for a long time, but the truth must out: not only is there ‘nothing wrong’ with being ginger, there is something despicably fucked-up about jokingly pretending that people with ginger hair are somehow freakish monsters.

I’ve been told there’s a historical reason for this – something to do with the English hating the Scots (oh, xenophobia, with what comedy genius will you tickle our ribs next?). But I don’t care – I don’t give a shit what pathetic reasons there might be for this half-hearted jocular bullying.

Recent conversation that I actually had with a real, human person:

Me: I would pay serious money to suck that man off.

Him: Really? But he’s so ginger.

It’s a joke – I know it’s a joke. But it’s a fucking awful one.

I knew a girl at college with the most stunning red hair – bright red, curly, down to her waist. She had pale, pale skin with soft hands, a tiny waist and nice small perky tits that you could imagine cupping in your hands while you fucked her. I digress.

The point is that she was ginger, and as so was subject to the most ridiculous jokes – boys would pretend they couldn’t ask her out because, despite her heart-melting beauty, she was ginger. In fact that reason they couldn’t ask her out was that she was searingly intelligent as well as being beautiful. But ginger is a nice default nonsensical insult for imbeciles to use when they have no genuine criticism.

In conclusion

Fuck your fucking hair. Fuck whatever sits atop your head. It’s nice to stroke or play with sometimes but if I’m assessing whether I might like you to stick your cock into me, whatever you happen to be sporting – a crop of strawberry blond curls, an Elvis quiff, a floppy One-Direction-style chop, a shining bald pate or a hat that makes you look like an arsehole – none of these things will make a significant difference.

It’s not what’s on your head that counts, but what’s in it.

Are you a tits man or an arse man? Or, perhaps, a leg man? Guys are often asked, for no rational reason that I can identify, to shoehorn themselves into one of these boxes. But what’s the alternative for girls? We aren’t asked if we’re ‘cock’ or ‘arse’ women.

Perhaps it’s because we’re trickier to categorise – we have a tendency to sexualise bits of your body that aren’t obviously sexual – your eyes, your hands, your arms. Lovely though your penis is, it’s rarely your hottest feature.

This point was hammered home fairly solidly to me recently when I watched Cindy Gallop talking about female desire. In what I think is a desperately sexy accent, she goes misty-eyed about men’s forearms. I mean, forearms, for crying out loud. Filthy bitch.

But she’s right – sometimes the things that turn us on are bloody odd. I’m a big fan of chipping in, so in no particular order, here are some of the sexiest things about boys.

Hands

Beautiful hands – long fingers, chubby fingers, rings, fingernails cut or bitten to the quick that mean you can slide them into me eagerly and easily.

Even better – big hands. Hands that you use to touch me, grab me, restrain me. Hands that you put flat on my tits and squeeze. Hands that you can place on my waist when I’m beside you, that you can use to squeeze and control me.

Hands that fit neatly into the back pocket of my jeans.

Final note: boys wearing nail varnish: yes please. Please. With sugar, a cherry, and a massive helping of girljizz on top.

Armpits

Naked men lying on my bed with their hands either gripping or tied to the bed posts. These men are not hot because they’re vulnerable – they’re hot because they’re showing me their armpits.

Guys have hairy armpits and it’s wonderful – beautiful. They’re dark, and dirty, and provide definition against your powerful, masculine arms.

Ideally they smell musky and sweaty, like fucking in a sauna. If you promise not to freak out at my perving, I would love the chance to lick them.

Shoulders

It doesn’t matter if you’re fat, thin, skinny or muscular – your shoulders are sexy. They’re what I’ll bite and drool and dribble over while you’re fucking me nice and hard.

They’re male and strong and defined and so so different to my own. The things that make the two of us different make you especially hot.

I once fucked a guy with tattooed sleeves, the designs ended just at the tip of his shoulders – essentially an arrow to highlight and point at what my eye’s already drawn towards. Apparently I wasn’t paying the requisite amount of attention to his face, because he stopped halfway through that fuck to ask: “are you perving on my tattoos?”

Yes. I most definitely, definitely was.

Hipbones

Ungh. Yes. This only really works with very lithe, skinny boys, but I love to play with your hipbones.

If you’re lying on your back and I can see the definition of your hipbones at your waist it will take as much restraint as I can muster not to just grab your hips with my hands and push my thumbs into the little dent above them, ideally while taking your cock in my mouth as you moan like a desperate, wriggling teenager.

The dimples just above your arse cheeks

Why is this beautiful? It’s beautiful because if you’re wearing pants, staring at these dimples is the closest I get to your arse without actually seeing your arse. It’s a tiny bit of definition that hints at what’s below. And is usually even sexier than your arse itself.

Bonus points if you also have soft, wispy hair in the crook of your back that I can stroke when I’m reaching down behind you.

The back of your neck

I want to bite it. I also want to sniff it, kiss it, lick and nuzzle it as I sit behind you on the sofa with my legs wrapped round your hips, one hand steadily rubbing your ever-hardening cock.

Incidentally, the back of the neck is one of the reasons why fucking guys in the ass can be so spectacular – if you have a guy lying on his front, you get a stunning view of his neck as you push yourself into him.

This is one reason why I try to avoid hugging guys I’m not sleeping with – being that close to their neck just feels pervy, like I’m violating them with my thoughts.

No matter who you are, if you hug me I will take deep breaths in – sampling exactly what your neck smells like and what it feels like to rest my face there. Out of courtesy I’ll refrain from actually licking it, but I’ll probably be imagining what it would be like to bury my face in it while we fuck.