The metrosexual
August 24, 2003 | 12:00am
Lincoln Steffens once said that "Somebody must take a chance. The monkeys who did became men, and the monkeys who didn’t are still jumping around in trees making faces at the monkeys who did." And so this ideology extends north of true to the unevolved macho who sneers and incoherently mutters sissy to the urbane metrosexual man. It is either this or he tunes to "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" to get a crash course on sophistication from five gay design and lifestyle experts so as to get on with the program.
There is much abuzz about the metrosexual man. What is he? To the untrained eye he is what dumb frat boys call gay (although he is not at all). Being a metrosexual has nothng to do with sex even. In a chat session for the Washington Post, Daniel Peres, editor-in-chief of Details, bible of all metrosexuals and butt of all jokes of the editors of Maxim for his gloss and weakness for Prada, comments that metrosexuals are simply highly evolved men with high standards in life. A straight gay man – every woman’s dream and no wonder he’s getting all the chicks. The word was coined by a marketing team in Britain to describe this emerging class of men from the opulent ’80s who have found the joys of pampering themselves. It is the millennial gentleman, the sleek dandy who prefers to be bronzed rather than powdered.
Although I can imagine a few femmes still choosing the macho man over the Khieled god so as to live out her Harlequin romance novel fantasies, a number of erudite hotties are making dates with angels at facial salons and yoga camps nationwide. I have made it my preference to date metrosexuals.
Only because a Creed scented lover is better than a sweaty hog and, mind you, has respect for 300 count Egyptian cotton sheets and Bette Davis at her best. I once gave in to the conventions of my college and dated a man-boy. I swear I knew I made a mistake as I choked on all the fumes in the car shack that we dailied and promised to the Gods of Chanel that I will never go Old Spice again. There is nothing like being romanced by a Lang-wearing lothario with Canovas and Diptyque candles wafting about the air creating a cloud of Byronic glamour with wine that is not Gato Negro.
A lifestyle channel-influenced generation has inspired many channel surfers to appreciate everything that Martha Stewart participates in, from flowered ice crates to homemade doilies to insider trading (just kidding, had to say it). They do what Neanderthal men would call "wussy" exercises like hybrid yoga, Pilates and yes, they go to the spa on weekends. They make excellent partners for women who learned that the ladies who lunch are the ladies who lunge. I myself am partial to masculine companionship not because I’m a tart (in this case at least) but because straight men, for some biological reason are free from toxic conversation (entering one ear and out the other as opposed to the in one ear and out of the mouth) and won’t steal your boyfriend or husband.
Now to date a dream "girl friend" – that’s a hot, groomed, self-styled Madison stomping red blooded male – is on top of my wish list bumping off that orange Birkin that has always plagued my thoughts. Of course there is that little worry that perhaps he might have overstepped his boundaries. I mean bronzer is fine for a night out, but blush is definitely veto material. Criticizing my taste in toilettries is definitely proceeded with caution. And I guess squealing along with me as David Beckham or Jude Law parade themselves on the tube is really Delilah on the rocks. I still want some muscle going on in the relationship and if my minuscule biceps beat his it would be hard to play house really. There is still that difference between form and function to be respected after all.
However for all the flack that the metrosexual has received, he proves to be a golden goose of the Ethan Hawke movement, the Jamie Oliver age, the Prada men early ’90s revolution. All in all, ladies who want to know if a flunkie is hitting on you in a salon (believe me lots of straight non-metrosexual friends know that salons are swarming with chicks) test him on what treatment he’s getting. Manicure says utterly guido thus no thanks (not even for tolerant me). Pedicure says bohemian chic (emphasis on chic of course) as he cares what comes out of his sandals. Hair color says trendzoid. Cut says stylish and wise (no barber topiaries). Facial says pampered (now you make out if you can live with this). A flunkie usually gets a back massage as he reads Town and Country. Metrosexuals know that you only get a good rub lying down. No barber tricks for him.
So if you do find a guy who guesses your cologne in a whiff and goes on and on with you about interior design but is explicitly hitting on you – enjoy. If not, let me know where I can find him.
There is much abuzz about the metrosexual man. What is he? To the untrained eye he is what dumb frat boys call gay (although he is not at all). Being a metrosexual has nothng to do with sex even. In a chat session for the Washington Post, Daniel Peres, editor-in-chief of Details, bible of all metrosexuals and butt of all jokes of the editors of Maxim for his gloss and weakness for Prada, comments that metrosexuals are simply highly evolved men with high standards in life. A straight gay man – every woman’s dream and no wonder he’s getting all the chicks. The word was coined by a marketing team in Britain to describe this emerging class of men from the opulent ’80s who have found the joys of pampering themselves. It is the millennial gentleman, the sleek dandy who prefers to be bronzed rather than powdered.
Although I can imagine a few femmes still choosing the macho man over the Khieled god so as to live out her Harlequin romance novel fantasies, a number of erudite hotties are making dates with angels at facial salons and yoga camps nationwide. I have made it my preference to date metrosexuals.
Only because a Creed scented lover is better than a sweaty hog and, mind you, has respect for 300 count Egyptian cotton sheets and Bette Davis at her best. I once gave in to the conventions of my college and dated a man-boy. I swear I knew I made a mistake as I choked on all the fumes in the car shack that we dailied and promised to the Gods of Chanel that I will never go Old Spice again. There is nothing like being romanced by a Lang-wearing lothario with Canovas and Diptyque candles wafting about the air creating a cloud of Byronic glamour with wine that is not Gato Negro.
A lifestyle channel-influenced generation has inspired many channel surfers to appreciate everything that Martha Stewart participates in, from flowered ice crates to homemade doilies to insider trading (just kidding, had to say it). They do what Neanderthal men would call "wussy" exercises like hybrid yoga, Pilates and yes, they go to the spa on weekends. They make excellent partners for women who learned that the ladies who lunch are the ladies who lunge. I myself am partial to masculine companionship not because I’m a tart (in this case at least) but because straight men, for some biological reason are free from toxic conversation (entering one ear and out the other as opposed to the in one ear and out of the mouth) and won’t steal your boyfriend or husband.
Now to date a dream "girl friend" – that’s a hot, groomed, self-styled Madison stomping red blooded male – is on top of my wish list bumping off that orange Birkin that has always plagued my thoughts. Of course there is that little worry that perhaps he might have overstepped his boundaries. I mean bronzer is fine for a night out, but blush is definitely veto material. Criticizing my taste in toilettries is definitely proceeded with caution. And I guess squealing along with me as David Beckham or Jude Law parade themselves on the tube is really Delilah on the rocks. I still want some muscle going on in the relationship and if my minuscule biceps beat his it would be hard to play house really. There is still that difference between form and function to be respected after all.
However for all the flack that the metrosexual has received, he proves to be a golden goose of the Ethan Hawke movement, the Jamie Oliver age, the Prada men early ’90s revolution. All in all, ladies who want to know if a flunkie is hitting on you in a salon (believe me lots of straight non-metrosexual friends know that salons are swarming with chicks) test him on what treatment he’s getting. Manicure says utterly guido thus no thanks (not even for tolerant me). Pedicure says bohemian chic (emphasis on chic of course) as he cares what comes out of his sandals. Hair color says trendzoid. Cut says stylish and wise (no barber topiaries). Facial says pampered (now you make out if you can live with this). A flunkie usually gets a back massage as he reads Town and Country. Metrosexuals know that you only get a good rub lying down. No barber tricks for him.
So if you do find a guy who guesses your cologne in a whiff and goes on and on with you about interior design but is explicitly hitting on you – enjoy. If not, let me know where I can find him.
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