I don’t have a type—sorry, I absolutely DO.

I think most of us would admit to having a type—a preference when it comes to the man/woman/other we’d like to date/shag/marry. We have certain attributes that get us going. Do you like rough hands, long legs?—Maybe both? Must his eyes be smiley? Must her hair be brown?

Are specific characteristics a dealbreaker?

Will you refuse to date a woman below a c-cup? (Shit.) If his shoulders slope, will you give him the old heave-ho? And when you learn that he makes an unreasonable amount of noise whilst sipping tea, will your thoughts run to murder?

I’m not that fussy.

That’s not completely true. I have my celeb crushes (and my social media ones). Those unattainable blokes, those fitties with incredible forearms, the kind of men who not only have wit, charm and intelligence but could throw you around the bedroom without putting their back out. But what I’ve realised about these men is this: they fancy women who play the cello or teach Pilates. They desire ladies who are quietly confident and look French.

I don’t look French. I wear velour jogging bottoms.

So although most of the men I could never have fit squarely within the ‘conventionally pretty’ box, I have always said that I don’t have a ‘type’ in the world of real romance. The height of a guy isn’t a bother. I’m not all that fussed about age—well, I regularly go for older men—I am such a cliché—daddy issues? Probably.

But when I appraise the men I’m attracted to (that was the ‘research’ for this article) there does seem to be a theme. I really do like my men how I like my tea: pale and insipid. (Ok, that’s mean but I’ve wanted to use that line in a blog for some time.) To be fair, these fellas have much more about them, even the really pale ones.

Rugged Scandinavian is not only a kind of furniture, it also happens to be the kind of man I’m drawn to. 

But please, don’t get me wrong, if I like a bloke, my brain isn’t scanning a mental checklist prior to giving him the go-ahead. Because fancying someone, for me at least, is also about what’s floating around in his noggin. 

That’s when I realised I really had a type. 

And it has nothing to do with outward appearance. You see, what I really dig in a male is emotional incompetence. Guys that are unable to emote are like catnip to me. And if their communication skills are that of a toddler, well, bonus!

Ok, so I’m not consciously making efforts to seek out men who have the emotional range of a mollusc—I’m clearly attracting them somehow. Therapy would probably drag up the reasons why. Perhaps I encountered cool indifference at some impressionable age and thought, “I must have that person’s approval—I simply must!” but this is what this blog is for, therapy (and boy, do I feel better already. This writing lark must be working, I’m cured).

Now my 20s and 30s are a distant memory, I no longer view emotional detachment as sexy. It’s a dull courtship trope and it’s exhausting. When you’re younger, that play hard to get, treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen nonsense is alluring, especially for young women. Men are socialised to be aloof, never expressing what they really feel—in fear of ridicule, rejection, blah blah and it works, some laydeez love that shit.

But let’s face it, when we hit our 40s (and beyond) we don’t have the time to piss about. Someone leaving it a week to respond to a text, because they’re terrified you might think that they really like you, is immature. It’s bollocks. People like that are playing silly games, games that are best left to the professionals: children.

So yeah, I don’t have a type again, so that’s nice.

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