Yesterday, something occurred to me. Something that caused my soul to deliberately hurl itself down the stairs like Princess Di.
“Cor, she’s nice.”
Now, I don’t believe in the term guilty pleasure. If you enjoy something, you enjoy it, so why be ashamed? There should be no guilt, unless it’s something truly worthy of being ashamed of, like mugging people, collecting snuff porn, or at the most perverted end of the scale, watching anime. But guilty crushes are a different beast. In fact, crush is totally the wrong word. I don’t have a crush on Peaches Geldof, I’d just think she’s hot. Vacuous, annoying, pointless, a tiresome, bubblewrap-headed amalgam of everything wrong with society’s priorities in 2011 – but hot. If we met, I wouldn’t start blushing in her presence, nor feel my heart pulsating waves of gentle warmth through my body each time her eyes fell upon me; I’d just have a semi.
In discussing this, I’m going to sidestep the issue of the regular guilt one feels when finding someone attractive. Should I find myself doing a Sid James style double-take at a passing girl in the street, mentally, I’ll be offering a shame-faced “Sorry, Miss. I didn’t mean nuffink by it, honest!” in the voice of a Dickensian chimney-boy, caught with his filthy little hands a little too near the master’s cookie jar. It’s all chemicals though, right? Chemicals, biology. Not that that stops me feeling like an animal when I see…
… and think “I’d hit that,” while holding up an an answered high-five for my fictional Frat brothers. With women like this, every erection feels like a Nazi flag carried aloft through the streets of a nice, rural black community. Kindly Aunt Jemima-looking elderly ladies in proud church hats throw disappointed looks over the timber of their stoops; the ball from a pick-up game thuds against the shimmering concrete in a series of increasingly smaller bounces, as the players stop and glare, aghast faces flashed with rage.
“A man made me do it,” I want to say, flag rippling in the light summer breeze, “a bad man with a gun. He’s going to hurt my family.” But I have no family, and the only bad man is me, leering at a file named Paris_Hilton_Upskirt.jpg.
Call me judgemental, but I get the impression these aren’t women you’d want to sit around and talk to. Conversely, I like to think I can be a great conversationalist. I can be funny, smart, interesting; but nobody’s taking long lens photos of me at the beach and remarking on the hardness of my lovely little nips. Maybe that’s it. The sexual Yin-Yang. I know Kim Kardashian is an entirely hollow vessel that’s spent more time thinking about eyelashes she might like to apply than even touching a book, but…
Still, the heart (well, the penis) wants what it wants. I think half of the feeling of intense self-loathing over these Hate Crushes comes from just how mainstream they are. It’s the “I like U2 and the films of Brett Ratner” of sexuality. A pretentious hipster like me, who’s into esoteric things someone like you probably hasn’t heard of struggles with this. My celebrity crushes are quirky actresses like Ellen Page and one of the slave girls from Starz’s Spartacus. The women in this article are ogled at by Sun-reading men in canteens, brushing pie crumbs from their paparazzi-snapped taxi door crotches and saying things like “You wouldn’t kick that out of bed would you, mate? By that I mean I would shag her.” The other thing that bugs me is that the qualities I find most attractive in a woman are the ones most obviously lacking in these types. Creativity, artistic leanings, wit, intelligence, the ability to not take oneself too seriously…
Her favourite film is probably Scary Movie 2. But man, my hand is in the air right now, in that futile wait for the latest one-man high-five to be cemented.
So what about you? Use the comment section like some dirty confessional booth. If I don’t reply, then I’m in the shower, scrubbing all the skin from my body.