I Don’t Care About Your Sexy Eyes

I’m a man connoisseur in every way. Forearms, mouths, hands, cocks… I could swim around in every feature that belongs to dude-kind for infinity. My taste in men is oddly specific and frustratingly difficult to define.

I once developed a crush on someone purely because he showed up for a visit in a hot pair of specs. God help him when he starts getting grey hair because that will signal the end of our friendship. I’m a sucker for salt-and-pepper, but literally the only feature that beats crow’s feet with me is cock. I know all men have them, so they’re not exactly unique to anyone, but penises are the most important things in my life. </not kidding>

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Taste is an aphrodisiac for me, too. If you’re wearing a mechanical chronograph, you have my permission to undress me on the spot, and if you own a fob watch, my search for a soulmate is over. Sexy glasses send my dopamine levels soaring, and if you’re one of the three men on the planet who knows how to choose shoes, I’ll worship you forever.

I may be the only woman in history who cares more about wrinkles than eyes. I’m not specifically setting out to find a man older than 50, just one who has a happy history etched all over his face. Smiles and serenity are easy to spot in a man who’s aged as well as a fine bourbon.

I could write novels about how a man moves. Someone who’s humble and comfortable in his masculinity knows how to carry himself. There’s a certain suaveness to his movements if he isn’t overcompensating for insecurity. That, right there, is enough to make me giddy.

There are a thousand ways I’m a connoisseur of the male of the species, but none of them has anything to do with classic aesthetics. I can tell you upfront whether or not your looks will grow on me. I’ve been doing this long enough to know, but if most people find you attractive, odds are comparatively slim that I will, too. I’m not attracted to symmetrical features or pretty eyes. I’m attracted to character that seeps through every pore.

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