My Type

There are guys I'd like to fuck on paper, and there are guys I'd really like to fuck.

I've fucked some of the faces and bodies I would admire if I saw them in a centerfold. I won't pretend they weren't wonderful in their aesthetic perfection, but the most thrilling lays are the surprises--the unconventionally hot guys, not especially photogenic, perhaps, but who, when met live in the flesh, exude an aura of sexual energy, what people used to call animal magnetism.

When people ask me about my type, as someone did this morning, I explain that I both have and don't have a type. My type is male starlets like Sean Flynn and Robert Conrad in the 1960s. It's GQ models David White and Jeff Aquilon in the '70s. It's Kristen Bjorn's South American hunks in the 1980s. It's Brad Pitt on the cover of Rolling Stone in 1994. Conventionally handsome, perfectly toned.

These are the dudes I'd like to fuck on paper. I haven't now and never have had a chance to get in the sack with any of the men I just named, which has only enhanced their allure for me. On paper, I crave the perfect nose, the perfect cheekbones, just the right golden glow upon bronze pecs, arabesques of dark pubic hair. These sex objects are two-dimensional, unreal, almost abstract. My first fantasy figure was Mighty Mouse, a fucking cartoon, for christ's sake. For masturbation, no pulse is necessary.

In real life, I've been the most excited by a particular situation, a scenario with no scripts. I've been most turned on by men's attitudes and actions.

It's not that looks don't matter to me. They do. But the hottest men are those whose appearance changes, in subtle ways, from one angle to another, depending on how the light hits them, whose good genes are enhanced by their living presence, their voice, their smell.

The hardest hard-on I ever had was, long long ago, when a handsome but not-exactly-my-type amateur photographer asked me to pose nude for him, and then he proceeded to touch me, moving my arm, my head, my leg, to this or that side, positioning my body for a shot.

My ex used to drive me insane with lust by raiding my laundry basket, putting on my castoff shirts and pants, without underwear, and rubbing himself against me so that I could feel his stiff cock underneath the familiar corduroy.

Another guy, a gymnast and musician with the palest, rawest looking complexion and a beaklike nose he had broken on one or two occasions, once lay me on my back on the floor and bit the buttons off my shirt.

Another guy, years ago in Savannah, got off on having sex while playing CNN (then brand new) on the TV. For years, the CNN logo superimposed on catastrophe footage shot a frisson of weird euphoria up my spine.

These guys were all hot, good looking and athletic, but not conventional model/actor/pornstar types. Not one of them had a six pack. But they could definitely work a moment of real time and create a lasting memory--a thrill you couldn't catch on film.

There are heartbeats under warm ribs I can still hear. Skin I still feel upon my skin. Odors--scotch, tobacco, coffee, sweat--I recall, as well.

So I have no type, not really. I want to be surprised at what will excite me next.