If you think David Patterson is The Perfect Male Specimen, you prolly don’t have much of a clue what women find sexy. Dave’s cheekbones need to be chased off a cliff chained to his vapid ego. Women like Miley Cyrus are into men like him. Women like Eva Mendes like men who fit inside their skins comfortably enough to celebrate their flaws—whose eyes are too close together and whose eyebrows are so low they’re getting all tangled in their eyelashes. Ryan Gosling, in other words, because secure men move like the sexiest kind of sin.
Aesthetics are important to me, but not in a David Patterson kind of way. I like taste. I’ve had dreams about the perfect collar shirt that your six pack would be jealous of. To me, sex appeal is character made visible, but a full life is even sexier. Brutally scratched up quadriceps that have done K2 without bragging about it are far hotter than the biceps you earned at the gym. Don’t come anywhere near me if you need a calculator to get your diet right.
If you don’t revel in life’s earthly passions, you and I are not going to get along. I like men who tell me what the forest was like, not the juice bar. I guess that’s why I don’t like boxy bodies that are cut out of zero fat diets—they’re a sign that a man has hours to spare on barbells and mathematically correct eating. I like my bodies to be lived in, with a layer of fat to prove it. I want to be able to cook for you without a list of dietary restrictions tailored around your ego.
Give me a man who’s too busy getting through the Booker Prize shortlist to spare time for weight lifting. Give me someone who values his barista over his raw food cookbook. Show me that man, and I’ll show you seething hotness and conversations that last until 5 am.
Keep your Men’s Health Guy. I don’t want him.