My ideal man is Caucasian, Asian, and black. He’s Cantonese, Israeli, and South African. I’ve found perfection in every one of them. My perfect man came into the world to the riffs of Jimi Hendrix, or he skipped the Sixties and learned to walk in the disco era. He has flecks of silver in his hair or he has yet to develop a rash of crow’s feet. My perfect man is every man who moves as though his entire soul fits perfectly into his body because he feels no need to compensate for his shrivelled ego. He can’t be a specific race, age or height because men who are secure enough to be humble come in a million different colours.
My perfect man moves like a symphony. He is sex and bourbon. He is grit and understated masculinity. He isn’t built from muscles gained from hours at the gym. Biceps and washboard abs don’t impress me. It’s all about the way he moves.
I love a dominant man, and this comes through in subtle ways because he doesn’t need to throw weight into everything he does. He sucks submission out of me instead of trying to push me into it. He’s sexy not because of his face or masculinity but because he dominates effortlessly. He pulls my strings without having to make demands–why would he need to? He has real power. My kind of dominant barely needs to say a word about what he wants. He gets it anyway.
My perfect man has power, but it doesn’t shout because it doesn’t need to. His potency comes through in the things he never needs to say, and when he moves, he’s fluid. He feels no need to overcompensate by throwing his weight around.
I don’t think the alpha dom is a myth, but he doesn’t always give himself the label. Real alphas lead but seldom draw attention to their position. Anything less is not worthy of followers, and the ultra-masculine are often too self-obsessed to allow room for kindness. One who has genuine force feels no need to profess it through the way he moves or the things he says.
My perfect man isn’t forceful and entitled. Such men demand submission, so they cannot earn it.
My perfect man doesn’t try to push every ounce of testosterone through his pores. He doesn’t need to because he’s confident enough about his masculinity to let a smidgen of femininity through. Enough, at least, to make him a man instead of a person who constantly tries to assert his manhood.
I don’t care about height or weight. I have no preferred ‘look’ because my perfect man is every man who feels happy in his body. Men who are secure in the knowledge that they’ve earned the space they take up in the world are flawless to me.
Dishonest men move pretentiously. Their lies leak into the way they walk. My brand of perfection is as it is because humility lets every drop of uniqueness through. A truthful man doesn’t try to control the way he exists in a physical dimension.
I like beauty, but classically attractive men are as likely to be beautiful as those who could never find their way onto the pages of Men’s Health magazine. Beautiful men don’t need to display their masculinity because they’ve become comfortable with their strengths and weaknesses, quirks, and pathologies. My perfect man moves like a panther because he has enough integrity to be entirely himself.