Chicken or Beef

Is it true that all of us actually gravitate to certain types? Just like an impossibly vicious cycle where the hapless moth gets drawn to the alluring flame, are we similarly irrevocably drawn to certain types of men despite the far too obvious dangers attached to them?

In spite of my more lurid fantasies, a gathering of gay men ( a gaggle? a giggle? a google? ) simply doesn't translate to lustful moans and sweaty naked torsoes lining the floor as gay porn would have it. Instead, it's usually witty entertainment, delicious hors'doevres and a stunningly large bill to match. Just yesterday at the impromptu gay gala organized by Lanky Lex ( reputedly the pink pony of the bunch ), there was a passing mention that I seem to have a certain type. Certainly left me gobsmacked! I do?!

I have a certain type?!


Wouldn't you like some beef?
The purported claim made by the judgemental homo-jury was that when it comes to man cuisine, I usually lean towards certain dishes, mainly the big ...*ahem* bigger-boned... well hell, let's call them the big, brawny, beefy specials! According to them, the leftover limp shrimps, the tough old turkeys and the youthful spring chickens on the virtual kaiten belt are blissfully ignored in favour of the meaty main course. I'll have to admit that being carnivorous - leaning towards the bovine and the porcine which explains some of the pigs I've dated - has always been second nature to me. Although the former would certainly be true for Big Bicep Barry - and somewhat true for my ISO, does that actually typecast me as an indiscriminatory beefeater ( otherwise known as gorgeous gym guy groupie )?

ISO : Actually you do have a type.
Paul : What!
ISO : Gorgeous manly studs.
Paul : Asshole. Yeah, go ahead and fuc ... flatter yourself.
ISO : Never met the guy but I bet Barry's one of those big, brawny bruisers, right?
Paul : Uhh...
ISO : And so am I.
Paul : Bloody hell! In your dreams! You're more a beefed-up chicken.
ISO : So gonna get you for that.

Well, let me tell ya steroid-pumped poultry don't scare me.

Oddly enough I've always imagined that when it comes to men, I don't actually have a preference for height, weight, hair color, race or any of those seemingly inconsequential stuff. Surely the easily-fulfilled criteria I made a while back isn't all that discriminatory. After all, it's not like I'm the reigning belle of the county with dozens of eligible bachelors literally banging down my door to declare their unwavering adoration, so being far too picky certainly wouldn't be healthy - not to mention that it would certainly doom me to lifelong spinsterhood.

Surely it isn't too much to expect that my imagined boyfriend be reasonably healthy, intelligent and gainfully employed with a full head of hair and teeth? Are those precious ingredients that hard to find in the market these days? Big muscles and macho cojones isn't exactly an essential ingredient in the mix - although it's certainly spicy wasabi on the sashimi to have big arms to lean on! - but certain other qualities make the man for me. A touch of intelligence, a dollop of integrity and two spoonfuls of humour would certainly be preferable to a dash of biceps.

Seriously, why stick to beef when sometimes some chicken would go down easier?