Several years ago, I was friends with a guy who was what Cosmo Magazine in the mid-1990’s would call a S.N.A.G. As in, Sensitive New Age Guy. He wrote a lot of poetry, wore his hair long, read a lot of books. I thought it was refreshing to be with a guy who knew exactly what I was thinking and who listened to me carefully without trying to be the problem-solver with a toolbox of solutions. And then one day he told me that he believed that he was an angel.
And no, he didn’t mean it in a metaphorical sense, or even in the “just call me angel in the morning ANGEL” sense, he meant it in the I-actually-have-wings-under-this-nike-jacket sense.
One day, I asked him to go with me to the City Jail, as part of a feature story I had to do for Journalism class. We interacted with the prisoners there, asked a lot of probing questions, listened to their stories for the entire afternoon. When we were about to leave and lining up to get our cellphones from the visitors’ counter, two policemen were running after us with angry looks at their faces. We soon found out why. It turns out that Mr. S.NA.G. had just slipped a small hard stone into the hands of one of the prisoners we spoke with.
“What was THAT about?” I screeched in the car, after successfully persuading the policemen that no one was trying to stage a jail break, especially not a nerdy-looking college student in jeans who left both her UP library ID and Nokia 5110 cellphone at the visitors gate.
“His aura looked dark and foreboding. I gave him an energizing crystal to balance his chakra.”
My high-pitched voice got even more high-pitched. “Chakra? Chakra? CHAKRAHIN kaya kita. E kung nakulong tayo dun? Tingnan natin kung di mangitim at manuyot Atenista mong aura dun.”
And that was when I realized that I was never, EVER going to fall for a Sensitive New Age Guy again.
Fast forward to now. My friend Lin, who just got herself a spankin-new love life, and I were talking about the guys we like. We agreed that we both wanted a guy’s guy. Sexy, swarthy, unapologetically-male. In my beloved Gus’s drunken words: “makamundo, earthy, hayop bumarurot.” (though I’m not sure about that last part, or even that I know what it means, hehe.) Of course, we want someone decent and gentlemanly and progressive — that means no gay-bashing and no feudal archaic notions about gender. That’s a given, for sure. What I mean is that I’ll always find 100% maleness, with all its foibles and frailties, unbearably sexy. Some days are good for flowers and scented candles, some days you just wanna be made itsa to the bed and take in all that rough maleness in its rawest, most primal sense.
It’s also a given that we all want someone sensitive and considerate not only of our feelings, but of other people’s feelings. HOWEVER, maybe it’s just me, but there’s just way too much self-help books going around to help men and women navigate their way through the murky forest of male-female relationships. Gimme a break. Sometimes it’s all a matter of having strong foundations and taking things from there. Please don’t sit down with me, overanalyze my feelings to death (i can do that on my own, believe me), and trace my issues back to my childhood (I’ll pay for someone with a doctorate to do that). Just listen to me and be my steady rock.
And one other thing, while Im at it. There appears to be a whole global trend these days towards metrosexuality. David Beckham started it, no thanks to Posh Spice and her ministrations. Everyone and her sister has a crush on Sam Milby, whose singular claim to fame is having sheepish eyes that always look like they’re about to cry. My brother, who is teetering precariously into the world of metrosexuality with his body fit shirts and the amount of “product” he puts in his hair (I’m breaking up with the guy who uses the word “product” to describe the stuff put in hair or on the face), at least eats like a kargador and burps after a good home-cooked meal. I’m all for good grooming of course, and do wrinkle my nose when I see guys with long and dirty toe nails, but I draw the line at guys with strategically-placed highlights, who skip basketball for Belo, and has all the Mars and Venus books in his shelf.
Of course, all these are personal preferences which we’re all entitled to have. I’m certainly not suggesting that there are superior and inferior breeds of males. I’m sure Victoria Beckham and Dr. Phil’s wife are pretty happy with their lot in life; I have heard that Mr. Angel has found someone who has made him spread his wings and soar even more.
But me, I’m quite happy with a guy who is comfortable enough to tell me, “please don’t force me to watch the Philharmonic Orchestra with you because it bores me to death”, but listens to what I have to say, values the work that I do, and…. cares enough about me to go gown-hunting with me during SM North’s three day sale.
Maybe to sneak a peak or two at the fitting room, but who’s counting? Then again, maybe I’m just being “feeling.” Hehe.
Here’s a really funny song — albeit politically incorrect in parts — by Brad Paisley, entitled “I’m Still a Guy”.