The bloke implosion

Thomas walked into the bedroom wearing his boxers and a smile. He opened the buttons on the front so that his hard-on jumped out as if it were spring-loaded. I had to laugh. It was an unusual seduction technique, but seeing that 40 minutes later we lay on the bed, sweaty and spent, I suppose it worked.

It did get me thinking though – men, they don’t ‘do’ sexy very well. There are plenty of things about blokes that are sexy – strong jaw lines, six packs, tight asses, sense of humour, dreamy eyes and that lovely fuzzy garden path leading your eye down into his pants – all enough to ensure that the women of this world continue to have sex with men on a regular basis without any undue effort on men’s part.
Yes, yes, I know that good-looking men and those with money and/or power get laid infinitely more often than the average chump, that your average male generally has to approach women and face the horrible probability of rejection, but once all that’s out of the way, they have an easy ride, pun intended. Once their part is done, a woman’s part is just beginning.
Women make an effort to be sexy, men rarely do. In nature, it’s generally the males that have the fancy plumage – in humans it’s the opposite. Most girls have a few pulling outfits and at least one set of sexy lingerie. Men – ha! A lot of them wear their boxers for at least two days in a row, and some, one of my exes included, think turning their underpants inside out means they are good for at least another day. Gross! That’s just wrong!
The male of the species is by far the hairier but it’s women who take the trouble to be smooth. How many men do you know that allow a maniac dripping hot wax near their genitalia and then pay for the privilege? Very few, and if they do, chances are they are gay. Offer a man a month of blowjobs in return for getting a back, crack and sack wax, and most of them would forgo your generous offer. Women have learnt not to expect too much and most of us are grateful enough not to get beard rash.
Most women make an effort to learn how to dance so they’ll look sexy while shaking their booties, while there are far too many blokes shuffling, shoe-gazing or jerking like marionettes on the dance floors of this great little nation of ours. Of course, there are some blokes who can dance and if you are a clubber, that’s a big deal. A man who can dance looks like a man who won’t be afraid to flip you left, right and upside down while shagging your brains out.
All my gay male friends can dance, because they know that dancing is sexy, but loads of straight blokes couldn’t be bothered making the effort. Which is silly, because the man that can is far more likely to score on a Saturday night than a rival with two left feet. However, these guys often tend to be musical bores.
Seduction demands conversation, at least initially. Instead of asking about you, your interests, ideals or political leanings – the small talk most girls learn at their mother’s knees – if your King of Clubs doesn’t turn out to be Mr. Dancing Queen, chances are he will end up giving you the provenance of the music being played, the back catalogue of the artist, the name of the producer and the type of bottled water preferred by the sound engineer. Oh good God!
Fair enough if you happen to be getting intimate with one of the lovely blokes that work for this fine magazine – rides, the lot of them! – but otherwise, a complete turn-off. Read the magazine, please, just don’t memorise it. Musical anoraks aren’t sexy.
It’s a sad state of affairs when Kate Moss – one of the highest paid models in the world - and Zoë Ball – a successful radio DJ and the original beer-swilling ladette - both make the time and effort to learn how to pole dance. You’d think Kate wouldn’t need to or that Zoë wouldn't be arsed with upping the sexiness quotient, but they did. And what did they end up with for all this? Pete Doherty and Norman Cook. Talented, fair enough, but sexy? I’d rather marry my vibrator.
As Ariel Levy notes in her book, Female Chauvinist Pigs, the average modern miss isn’t averse to behaving in ways that were previously the preserve of those who worked in the sex industry. For a while back there, pole dancing was the exercise regime du jour. A woman I know had a pole installed in the master bedroom of her Lucan 3 bed semi-d. In addition there are belly-dancing classes (to find your nearest one, check out the window of your local corner shop), stripping classes and although not yet available in Ireland, lap dancing classes.
It’s not that I object to any of this. If flinging yourself around your bedroom pole or knowing how to remove your lingerie in a professional manner does it for you and the man of your affections, by all means, go ahead. But what I want to know is, where the hell is the favour in kind? We put in all this effort, but what are the blokes doing for us? Nothing! It’s not fair!
Plenty of girls know how to put on a condom using their mouths, but how many men have mastered the art of removing a bra with their teeth? Huh! None that I’ve met any way. Furthermore, until they reach the age of about 25, most blokes have enough of a struggle undoing the old hook and eye clasp with their hands.
Where are the male stripper classes? Or the Full Monty work-out DVD? I presume they exist, but how many blokes are actually trying these out? Okay, so pole dancing might be tricky, given a man’s anatomy, but they could always wear a sexy little cup. But no, it just shows a lack of exertion.
Would I object to Thomas waxing his entire body, removing his clothes slowly while gyrating to music, swinging on a pole and then covering his torso with baby oil? Not at all, bring it on! I’d even be glad to stick a tenner down his tight, little g-string. Granted, there is a better-to-even chance that I’d break a rib laughing, but is it likely to happen? Not in this lifetime or the next.