I don’t think I’ve made any secrets of my admiration for the hairier man. It’s not that I don’t also adore the smooth-skinned Adonis – especially ones who have just that delicious line of dark hair stretching from their belly button down to their groin. (Trust me, if I could have found a picture to illustrate this, there would have been one.)
But it’s the hairy ones that really touch me to the core.
And yet, I was not always that way. In the callow, precious innocence of my youth, I found what I deemed superfluous male body hair revolting. The very idea made me recoil with repugnance. My friends and I would giggle shrilly at the unpleasantness of such a thought. We wanted the soft epidermal nakedness of boys not the rough prickle of real men.
I remained firmly of this opinion until I reached my 40s and strange things started happening to my mind. The decreasing progesterone levels within me causing a chemical imbalance which allowed my natural testosterone to come to the fore, changing my lusts and desires and even my tastes. I became less compliant and more determined. Foods that I had hitherto rejected were suddenly very appealing. I wanted to take up more dangerous sports in pursuit of an adrenalin high. To exercise until I was hot and sweaty and endorphins were buzzing through my body. As a result of this lifestyle rethink, I came into contact with a similar type of man.
It was around this time that facial stubble started to become very attractive. I knew that it would give me scrum pox if I were to rub my delicate cheeks against it but, suddenly, that no longer mattered.
When I first saw the Bear without his shirt in the gym, I can remember the impact as if it were yesterday. The patina of perspiration on the back of his neck running into the soft pelt covering his muscled shoulders all the way down to his waist. I just wanted to reach out my hand and touch it… and had to restrain myself forcefully. It was a most peculiar transformation from my previous disgust at such a thought.
There was another man that I met recently who caused me to visibly shiver when I saw the hair on the backs of his hands and his knuckles.
Ruf doesn’t have a hairy back. It is confined to his chest but is a thick, crisp and curly darkness that crinkles beneath my fingers as I caress it (a bit like Jeff Fahey’s pictured left). And he becomes stubbly very quickly after shaving. Sometimes, my face can be rubbed red raw by our interactions but, no matter, I continue regardless.
There have been HNTs where hairy men have posted their bared chests and I have come over all peculiar. This one by Mendicatus** springs to mind.
So what is it that caused this abrupt volte face? Is it some prehistoric instinct related to the obvious expression of their virility? Or have I gone into some kind of Faye Wray mode where I long for the overpowering animal to ravish me? I’m sure Mr Gorilla Bananas will have some view on the subject.
**Other hairy-chested bloggers are also available including Mr Southern Sage, Mr Easily Aroused and Mr Tom Allen
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