There is something I don’t understand: other men sometimes find me attractive. I know that sounds like I’m fishing for compliments, but I’m really not. I genuinely don’t understand it.
Right now, I don’t particularly like my body. I’ve written before about my belly, about getting older, and about looking at photographs of myself and sometimes seeing something very different from the person I feel like I am. I’m losing weight, getting stronger again, and trying to get back to the body I used to have, the body I wish I had, and the body I think I ought to have. What I haven’t been very good at is dealing with the body I actually have.
And then somebody comes along and tells me they like it. Or that I’m sexy. Or they make their interest considerably less ambiguous than that. And something peculiar happens in my head. I don’t immediately think, “Oh, excellent. He fancies me.” I start looking for an explanation. Perhaps he’s being nice. Perhaps he’s horny. Perhaps I’m simply the nearest available bear. Perhaps he hasn’t seen enough of me yet. Perhaps the lighting is particularly forgiving. There must, apparently, be some explanation other than the most obvious one: he looked at me and liked what he saw.
The ridiculous thing is that I know perfectly well how attraction works, because I experience it myself. I like bigger men. I like bears. I like bellies. I like solid bodies, hairy bodies, older bodies and bodies that look like they’ve actually been lived in. I don’t inspect another man’s stomach and calculate his BMI before deciding whether I’d like to get my hands on him. A belly can be incredibly sexy.
On somebody else, apparently. Mine seems to be governed by different legislation. When I look at another man, softness can be attractive. When I look at myself, it’s something that needs fixing. Age looks good on other men; on me, it’s evidence of deterioration. A big bloke can walk into a room and I can think he looks fucking magnificent. I walk into the same room and wonder whether I’m taking up too much space. There is clearly a double standard operating here, and I’m beginning to wonder why I think I’m the exception to my own sexuality.
Perhaps part of the problem is that I know my body too well. I don’t see it for the first time; I see its history. I remember being younger. I remember being fitter. I remember feeling stronger and more solid. I remember versions of myself that no longer exist. When I look at myself now, all those previous versions are standing somewhere behind the reflection.
Other people don’t necessarily see any of that. They just see me. And perhaps what they see isn’t the collection of defects that I sometimes see. Perhaps they see a big, tattooed, hairy bloke. A bear. Perhaps they see something they want to touch. Perhaps they see a body that looks comforting to hold. Perhaps they see someone they’d quite like to get naked.
That last possibility remains surprisingly difficult for me to accept.
Being desired is strange when you don’t particularly desire yourself. Compliments can almost become uncomfortable. Someone says something nice about my body and instead of simply enjoying it, part of my brain starts examining the statement for inaccuracies. Sexy? Are you sure? Would you like another look? There are additional angles available. I can provide supporting evidence.
It’s absurd when I write it down, because if somebody I fancied responded to my attraction that way, I’d probably find it frustrating. Imagine telling someone, “I think you’re gorgeous,” and having them reply, “No you don’t.” Well, yes, I fucking do. I’m the world’s leading authority on whether I fancy you.
Perhaps other people should be afforded the same privilege. That’s something I’m slowly trying to understand. I don’t actually have to find myself attractive for somebody else to find me attractive. Those are completely separate things. And perhaps I’ve been treating my opinion of my body as though it’s objective fact when it isn’t. It’s one opinion, and frankly it’s an opinion being supplied by someone with quite a lot of baggage.
There are decades of expectations attached to the body I see in the mirror. There are memories, comparisons and insecurities. There are ideas about masculinity, ageing, weight and what I think I’m supposed to look like. Someone looking at me across a bar doesn’t arrive carrying that dossier. They might simply think, “He’s hot.”
I’m not going to finish this by announcing that I’ve learned to love my body. I haven’t. There are things about it I’d like to change. I’d like to feel stronger again. I’d like to feel more solid. I’d like to look in the mirror and spend less time mentally editing what I see. Maybe I’ll get there.
But I’m starting to wonder whether I’ve been setting myself an unnecessary prerequisite. Perhaps I thought I needed to find myself desirable before I could really believe that somebody else desired me. Maybe I don’t.
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