Tag Archives: women

I see the world through hairy chested glasses.

1 Jul

I dig hairy chested men.

You heard me right. Hairy chested men…I like ’em.

It seems these days people want to pretend that one of the most obvious signs of passage to adulthood never happened. They shave, wax, laser, and buff off every bit of hair that is not on the top of their head (or just above the eyes – though the maintenance of that is, apparently, an art form all its own. ) Women have done this for yonks, but  men are now firmly on the bandwagon.  The ‘back, crack and sack’ is offered at many reputable waxing salons, and you can see the denuded results on beaches and in celebrities mags at every turn. Women of the millennial generation don’t even seem to know that men come in varieties other than ‘cleanly plucked’.

So today I am coming out, loud and proud.  I DIG HAIRY CHESTED MEN. In fact, I dig hairy legged men, hairy armed men, men with beards even! What’s that? Hairy backed men? Ahhh..yeah..tough call…  NO, NO, I am including them,too!

I came about my preference honestly, and by this I mean



YEAHHA! I am a child of the eighties. In my day, men kept themselves just as nature intended. The above specimen (who is, BTW, perfect) was my first huge adolescent crush. He, and other men of the day, shaped my preferences. Yet recently, when around other women, I often find myself defending my love of  men who, frankly, look like men. Real men. Men who know that grooming means a  moustache trim, or quick shave BUT NOT BELOW THE NECK!

Now for a bit of science:

The growth of this luxuriant body hair, ladies, is fueled by testosterone. MmmmMMMMmm testosterone. I swear to Christ you can smell some guys oozing it. How is that possible? The testosterone  becomes trapped in the body hair, thus allowing  it to follow these manly men about in a fug of awesomeness.  If the hair is not present on the  body, the testosterone leaks out messily on the surface of the plucked skin, often causing the hairless men to become a bit addled by it. Because they do not understand the scientific consequences of removing this hair, the begin engaging in compensatory behaviours, subconsciously trying to replace the hair with things such as tribal tattoos and Orange Crush-inspired fake tans. I refer you once again to the specimen of perfection above…see any signs that his skin has become a drawing board for the co-opting of other cultures? No you do not. You just see the rug of virility that Mother Nature put there for him – as a gift to you,  ladies. A gift. And if our mothers taught us anything, it is not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Look him square in the chest.


Will the smock-like patterned shirt come for me?

23 Jun

I was at a gathering this evening where there were many ladies. Gazing around the room for a bit, I realized there was a pattern that connected many of these women. Most of these women.

It was this:

The smock-like  shapeless, patterned blouse.

I understand the covering of the face, but the smiles? Ladies you have nothing to smile about. Those shapeless smock shirts are bringing you down.  They are bringing our whole gender down, robbing us of any semblance of some of the best things that makes us women. They steal away shape,  sensuality,  natural feminine lines.  They replace these with stripey lines in aqua, lavender and ecru. Try as you like to make these look fun in this picture – and as models you are working for a living. I can respect that. But you’re making this appealing to someone – not just someone….a roomful of women apparently. And they are buying it.

The more I looked around the room, the more I realised that all of the smock-shirt wearing ladies were of a similar age. An age not that far off mine, really. That’s when I began to sweat a bit. These are smart women – thinking women. And yet here they sit, in the smock-like stripey blouse.  I am a smart woman, a thinking woman. How did the smock-like stripey shirt get past them?  If it got past them, surely it will be able to steal past me.   Will the day come when I am in a changing room,  running my hand over  the shiny synthetic surface of the dart-free, pleat-free, shape-free front of a blouse that is obscuring the very thought of me having breasts, thinking “This will do”?  Will my will to be a woman ease out of my pores like a final, dying gasp?*

When that day comes – and judging by the numbers in that room it is coming – just put me out to pasture on a cruise ship somewhere, won’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll have picked up a set or two of these:

Christ I just hope I can muster up a smile.

*Yes, I may have slightly overstated the many complex things that constitute being a woman. You may take that as a measure of my fear of the smock-like stripey shirt.