Type Cast

Every so often, and by that I mean at least twice a day, I turn to one of my compatriots and say, "That guy is cute." And my amiga will sigh and reply, "You have such a type."

I take umbrage to this, since every one of those guys is different. I mean, okay, yes - different from each other in the I-rarely-check-out-identical-twins sort of way...but different from each other in the I-have-many-man-types kind of way, too. I've checked out brunettes, redheads and blonds, the polo-shirted and the heavily tattooed. I've checked out men who run the gamut, ethnically speaking, from translucently fair to blue-black; I've scoped out guys who might still be in high school and guys who might be taking advantage of their Freedom 55. I am a type slut. (Not to be confused with a practising slut.)

Sure, I have some definite preferences. Don't we all? For example, in addition to making eyes at passing men, I also scope, if applicable, their bikes. Or I take note of the contents of their shopping cart (which can be handy when trying to assess possible girlfriend status. A lot of sandwich meat usually = single [and possibly suffering from scurvy]; tampons, not so much). Other tiny details are also important. An ostentatious watch is a mondo turnoff, since, for me, it usually indicates a either a poncey childhood or an obsession with cash - neither of which are attractive. More probably, a bad haircut can be a deal-breaker, since it can be a marker of not having the eight dollars required for a trim down in Chinatown. A three-ton watch on a guy with a bad haircut can mean only one thing: unrelenting d-baggery. But those details are mere leaves of the Tree of Men...types are broader, more forgiving of the small things in exchange for the big picture.

I'm not about to publish my Field Guide To Men I Think Are Attractive (coming this fall in hardcover!), but I will plead that my so-called type-having is so not a reality. I've had three semi-to-fairly serious boyfriends, and they have been, like, polar opposites of each other. Yeah, all three of them. Defying the laws of physics? Par for the course in my dating life, dudes.

It's important to note that "types," when I'm talking about them, are pretty strictly a physical definition. There are other kinds of type-selecting out there. Sero-sorting, which is when HIV-positive men elect to only have le sexy times with other positive dudes, may have led to a lowered incidence of infection in San Fransisco. There's also the ever-popular practice of arranged marriages, which, shockingly, was never all that popular in the West. Granted, getting your parents to handle the question of wife/husband pretty much guarantees that you're going to end up with someone who's your mom's type instead of, maybe, your own. At least your beloved will be someone's type.

Friends: the next time I nudge you and make the "he's cute" face (or, more likely, point directly at a stranger and say loudly, "He's cute!"), recall this edict and make no face at me. I like them short, tall, chubby, lean, in every hue and at every age. If I have a type at all, it's "attractive people" and friends, we all define attractive in different ways. For some, it's this man, while others (others more in line with my way of thinking) would prefer this fella right here. To each his own, and happy hunting!