I love looking at men. In fact, often I imagine them naked.
I’m old, let me leer.
Okay, I’m not old. I’m in my 30s. So, I’m older and sometimes I check out men simply because I can. I’m no Mrs. Robinson but I’m in what amounts to pre-cougar stage. Five hundred years ago I would’ve been nearing the end of my life, right?
I didn’t always leer, though I don’t know why not. How this started was, simply, one day, on the subway, my eyes suddenly turned predatory and tried to eat someone up. There I was, minding my own business, looking around, when I saw him, minding his own business, and something happened. It happened between my eyes, went straight to my brain and then, immediately, plummeted South where it pulsed a heartbeat or two.
I thought: Whoa: you’re a babe. You can argue that “babe” only applies to females but don’t disagree with me, you’ll get wrinkles from frowning.
He was sitting with his friends, a group of guys and girls. They were loud, joking, hitting each other playfully; he was the only quiet one. Or maybe he wasn’t quiet. Maybe he just looked quiet because of his impossibly gorgeous face with the full mouth stretched exactly between the invisible lines leading down from his cheekbones, and his eyes, bored-looking, and a perfect nose, perfectly flared. So, he was a babe, as in whoa-babe and as in younger. Not a baby, of course, but at least few years my junior. He looked back and I held his gaze. I wanted to show him that I thought he was hot. That I was actually thinking of him without his clothes on. He smiled, perhaps a bit unsure, and I smiled, surprised at myself, at my sudden boldness. Surprised that I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it.
I am usually the one being looked at, you see. Because I’m a girl. I see you looking. I’m used to being appraised: eyes, lips, rack, ass, legs, back again.
The subway halted, and the whole group got up and got off. I thought, damn, I should be a model scout, this guy would be perfect for a sweater ad.
That’s what this was about, right? I was just admiring something beautiful. It was an aesthetic experience. I appreciated the guy. I wasn’t suddenly turning into a cougar and I had no intentions of pouncing on this stranger. I was married and, frankly, married to a babe.
Except that wasn’t what this was about. I was thinking of more than just looking at this guy. The idea of actually checking a man out, wanting to taste him — this was something new, something that was definitely predatory and sexual and, dare I say, something that made me understand what men go through all the time.
I’m not a model scout, and I had no intentions of helping this guy land a contract for a sweater ad. He was a subway babe — he was my subway babe, and I wanted to sleep with him.
Speaking of women looking at men, there’s a hilarious blog that addresses this fantastic pursuit/ hobby. At Babe City Babes (BCB), two women post photographs and (mostly) funny write-ups about guys that they think are hot. In their words, “A hot babe is a beautiful man with style, charisma, and a sort of irresistible magnetism.” The photos are candid, taken on the streets (predominantly NYC). Readers are encouraged to submit their own candid babe photos. Crudely put, it’s a female equivalent of AskMen.
The men on BCB are often tattooed, greasy-haired with floppy wool hats that look like their childhood blankies stitched together. They wear a lot of plaid. But then there are a few, too, who wash their hair and wear suits, generally nonchalantly styled to appear uninterested in fashion.
My husband is confused (of course he is) at some of the men on the site that women find attractive, but he admits to being excited about this clear display of straight, unapologetic female voyeurism. He wants to know why one bearded bartender is more attractive than another and I patiently explain why, and recall having similar conversations about, for example, Sarah Jessica Parker, who to me looks like an Orlov Trotter (well, in a dress) but to my partner is a goddess.
In any case, visiting Babe City Babes makes me feel good about this recently awakened leerer within. The blog is about more than women checking out men — it’s about hunting. When I was in my 20s, playing visual ping-pong with the opposite sex was basically an affirmation of value. Now, in my 30s, I care a little less about what you think about me staring, not to mention whether you think I’m worthy of staring at you. I don’t care. I’m staring because you’re a babe and because I’m hungry.
Image courtesy of zubrow.