It’s been an odd few weeks.
For anyone who’s read my recent posts, you’ll know I’ve been battling anxiety, depression and a brain that seems convinced every unopened email contains disaster. My world has become very small. Most days have revolved around simply getting through until bedtime and hoping tomorrow might feel a little easier.
Then the weather happened.
Britain somehow found itself basking in 38°C heat, and while everyone else was complaining about melting roads and sleepless nights, I noticed something rather unexpected.
I’ve started feeling… feral.
As someone who sits on the asexual spectrum, people often assume attraction is something I either don’t experience or only experience rarely. The reality is a little more complicated than that.
Most of the time my sex drive is fairly quiet. I’m perfectly happy with that most of the time.
Then summer arrives.
Suddenly every other man seems to have abandoned sleeves, everyone’s glistening after walking to the shops, and my brain appears to regress several thousand years.
It isn’t even primarily about sex.
It’s something far more instinctive.
I see a big, solid, bearded bloke with sweat running down his forehead, his T-shirt clinging to his shoulders after a day’s work, and somewhere deep inside my brain a tiny caveman simply grunts in approval.
Apparently that’s all the sophistication my subconscious can manage.
“Yes. Bear. Grunt”
I’ve always been drawn to men who look… solid, stocky, muscled, chonky.
Not perfect Instagram models, far more attractive men, real men.
Just ordinary, rugged men. The sort who look like they could spend the afternoon building a fence before sitting down with a pint. A bit of muscle, a bit of softness, a beard and the quiet confidence that comes from simply being comfortable in their own skin.
And yes… someone who smells like they’ve actually lived in their body today.
Sweat gets an unfair reputation.
Obviously there are limits—we’ve all encountered someone on public transport who has crossed the line from “masculine” to “biological weapon.” But the smell of hard work, warm skin and summer? I’ve always found that attractive.
Perhaps it’s because it feels real.
In a world full of filters, edited photos and impossible expectations, sweat is wonderfully honest.
It says this person is alive.
- They’re hot.
- They’re moving.
- They’re real.
What struck me most, though, wasn’t the attraction itself.
It was what it said about my mental health.
A week ago, my nervous system was trapped in survival mode. Everything felt like danger. My thoughts were consumed with work, fear and trying to make it through each day.
There wasn’t much room for anything else.
Now, every so often, I catch myself appreciating a hot, sweaty bear walking down the street.
Not obsessively.
Not in a way that controls me.
Just… noticing.
Oddly enough, I think that’s a sign that something inside me is healing.
When your brain has enough spare capacity to appreciate the simple, primal attraction to another human being, perhaps it’s quietly telling you that it no longer believes every second of every day is an emergency.
Of course, this creates its own problem.
Because I live in Britain.
Which means this annual awakening lasts approximately four days before it starts raining again, everyone puts their hoodies back on, and my inner caveman goes back into hibernation.
Perhaps that’s for the best.
Although, if next summer could bring a few more rugged, sweaty bears my way… I probably wouldn’t complain.
Leave a Reply