On sweat and kisses

I’m a sucker for documentaries. It works equally well at the level of the Discovery channel or with something that just came out of Sundance. It may be the voyeuristic aspect of watching other people’ lives pass before my eyes artfully edited and the thrill of following the narrative and coming to my own conclusions.
And I found myself watching Murderball, the documentary about men in wheelchairs who love to play a form of rugby that defies anything you’ve seen and will shatter any ideas you have about men in wheelchairs. I remember that once you mentioned that you’d like to date/do a guy in a wheelchair. I did not find it off the wall. I’ve thought the same myself. Several times, as a matter of fact. I’ve dated deaf guys, guys who do not see well, and guys with speech impediments. I’d had dated one in a wheelchair without thinking too much.
I think I do not have that physical perfection thing as ingrained in me as I see it in most Gay American men. They seem hellbent in finding Mr. Perfect. With the right set of abs, the right bicep size, the perfect hair and the awesome clothes. Bull. I was watching these men in the documentary and I could see the testosterone dripping. Two of them I actually right away thought as hot and that I would do them on the spot. Hot. Hot. Hot. They looked like some kind of mythical creatures. Kind of like iron centaurs. The upper body of a man –a hot man- and the lower body belonging to something non-human, but that still seem to go along perfectly well.
I think I am attracted more to the man itself than to the image I’ve been force-fed by the gay press and the mainstream media. I am attracted to a man’s attitude. To the way he moves, talks, looks at me. These men even though they are in wheelchairs, still have that essence, that demeanor, that aura. I found myself totally immerse in their stories and looking at them. Yep. That way. Even though some people may perceive them as the ‘woe-is-me’ kind of guy who could be pitied because he is not ‘normal’, these men totally kick ass. I think I found them hot half because of the fact that they are still essentially manly, all sweat, stubble, strong –though not perfect- bodies and driven and half the heroic sense you get when seeing someone who totally overcomes his circumstances and does what he wants to do. While still managing to appear accessible, vulnerable and utterly approachable just the right kind of balance, don’t you think? They seem to embody the perfect balance in a male: the bull in the Disney cartoon with a flower crown. Man enough to connect with his feelings. This I imagine is the kind of man who can kiss you tenderly, while handing you flowers and then proceeds to fuck you until you come all over yourself.
And I think that that kind of man is hotter than the hottest twink/musclebound stud/model you could find in the pages of any glossy. Or porn video.
I like my men real, with stubble, with awkward moments, with doubts and desire, giggling and moaning. I like men who have not been buffed, waxed, groomed and primped to an inch of their lives. I guess I prefer the garden variety of men more than the hothouse variety. Told you, I’m weird like that.
Cheers, babyboy.