Things You Only Know If You've Shagged A Male Model
The Debrief: Ever wondered what it's like to bang a male model? Wonder no more...
Mainstream society's definitive of physical beauty is obviously problematic at best. But the fact is, we aren’t all models and we aren’t all paid for our symmetry and grace and, just sometimes, a model will live up to some of the tired tropes in the history of vanity. It’s just fucking funnier when it’s the freakishly beautiful male model you’ve decided to have sex with for a little while. Guys, I had sex with a male model and have decided to bestow upon you the wisdom I learned during this undertaking....
You’ll feel like you’re nailing the natural selection thing
Time (and again) has taught us there’s nothing better than laughing and sex once you’ve got over the obligatory mourning period of a break-up. When you find yourself single again, you remember all the hot boys that can lie on top of you. You can go out there and bang men who DON’T possess moobs (those belonging to your ex boyfriend, which you sort of accepted way too quickly, and realise now was not really OK on a slim guy). Your seductions need not be Sunday-dinner-with-the-parents material, but they can fuck you back to life after shitty splitsville – so why not make like a wild animal and go for the ones with whom, hypothetically, you’d actually create the most attractive offspring? What your actual body wants.
A friend of mine chose the ‘safe’ bet – a friendly but unattractive co-worker as her first post-break-up shag. After a handful of liaisons that went beyond desk-flirt and work drinks, she encountered close-to-relationship stress (and average sex) that was completely NOT what the doctor had ordered. I chose the exquisite model I’d met at a party; his face/glare made me wobble, his sex life would surely be too much of a candy store for him to want to commit, and as a result I’d neatly avoid any relationship confusion.
...But are you?
On greeting me, this guy simply kissed me on the cheek, took my hand and walked me down the street. Whilst remaining on the phone to someone else. I had to admire his gusto, it was hot. It was also an observation that would later be backed up when he whined, ‘I will be a famous artist, but doing what I don't know yet.’ I learned to keep my scoffs to a minimum and just let him talk. This was a person with the wool so far over his beautiful doe eyes that, concentrating so hard at a casting, he managed to miss the news that a terrorist attack that had taken place in the next street until I asked called him to check he was OK that night.
You’ll understand why they get paid so much
The first time we had sex, what struck me were the theatrics. Really intense, lots of eye contact and stopping and starting. It was almost like he wanted to be watched. During primary foreplay he asked me how much hair I had down there. ‘This is exactly the right amount,’ he decided on inspection of my fairly natural bush – as if everything was measured, like his waist-chest-inner leg ratios. It made me wonder how he kept his own lawn (natural, thank God not weird and waxed like your stereotypical Men’s Fitness male mod/part-time pornstar), and how he would judge the rest of my anatomy (feedback was extremely generous considering I’m no Cara Delevingne). ‘This is my favourite part,’ he summarised as he bit my love handle. Maybe I was very different to his usual type: maybe they were bony and hairless like one of those cats?
As for his bod – there had been a microsecond where I feared he had micro-penis because he was so dainty everywhere else, but I needn't have panicked. Everything was in proportion. I began to understand why he got paid so much. The exhibitionism continued, as he overpowered me, stuck my palms in his hair (lest I miss out), grabbed the fat on my stomach (awkward). He was really vocal, even though his long-suffering brother was next door. Post-coitally he held me close and instructed, ‘Tell me you love me.’ I laughed, I didn’t tell him I loved him, and he went to sleep offended that I wasn’t already head over heels.
They’ll probs have a crisis of confidence at some (read: many) point(s).
Most of the time he didn’t lack self-esteem. When I woke up he was gazing at a picture of himself, cooing, ‘Look how beautiful I am here.’ In it, he was tarted up like some sort of forest imp. ‘Don’t you agree?’ He asked. I was silenced – the guy needed more than silence to confirm I thought he was beautiful. ‘Yes, it’s stunning,’ I offered. I sort of marvelled at his own self-admiration. It was actually quite sexy – and a nice contrast from the last guy I’d dated: a painfully shy pattern-cutter who definitely wouldn’t have allowed someone to dress him as a forest imp.
A tidal wave of contact continued as we sexted and phone sexed daily. He had no qualms about sending images with both his erection and face in shot, so if he wanted to be famous he was going the right way about it. I started to wonder why he hadn’t been cast in Rick Owens’ recent famous ‘full frontal’ A/W15 catwalk show, and became intoxicated by his ‘free spirit’, finding myself firing reciprocal X-rated snaps with an air of confidence and abandon that I hadn’t experienced since I was 16 (thank God phone cameras didn’t exist then).
But next came the existential crisis, when he got ill during fashion week. Dogged by flu, he’d walked too slowly and he was dropped from a show, prompting a life re-evaluation. ‘What am I doing here? It’s stupid and emotionally draining.’ ‘Emotionally’ and ‘draining’ are two words no one wants to hear during a short-term romance, and though relieved he was in no way referring to me, I realised it was the cartoonish self-assurance I had found the turn-on all along.
The whole cocksure thing will suck you in
I started to think this interaction was reaching its timely end (you need to love yourself before others love you, right?), and before assuring him he looked perfect in the 1001 selfies he’d sent me that day, sent him a picture of my tits – as both a reminder to myself of how I was now sexually aspiring higher than my mooby ex, and as a way of forcing the model to make more space for me in his camera roll. Look, I totally bought into it OK and joined in. Because why not? You only date someone who takes 1001 pictures of themselves daily once in your lifetime, right?
‘How does it feel to date a model?’ he asked me once. As it happened, he wasn’t the first one I’d been out with. And maybe he won’t be the last – I’ve set the short-term bar too high now, haven't I? I may no longer be rebounding, but I’ve learnt that, for some reason, I go crazy for a guy who likes himself as much as the camera does. Maybe I’m the freak?
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Picture: Eugenia Loli
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