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What makes a man sexy?

People magazine attempts to validate this very question each year with it's Sexiest Man of The Year issue. Always predictable, always safe, the popular magazine for mommies and mongoloids usually never strays too far from clichéd sexiness in choosing its cover boy -- Brad Pitt, Sean Connery, Johnny Depp, John F. Kennedy, Jr, etc.

Yawn. Honestly, who would want to bang those guys? Brad Pitt has back acne. Sean Connery smacks his wife around. Johnny Depp lives in France. And John F. Kennedy, Jr. is a terrible pilot.

Our ladies shirked rugged, handsome, wealthy, pretty boys and let us know their own personal x-factors in determining whether a guy is boneable or not. Perk up, loser lads -- one of these ladies could possibly be holding your next ticket to paradise.


Erin Schulte Digs Mennen's Original Scent Speed Stick

I find this whole "metrosexual" thing kind of a load of crap. Sure, I like it when a suitor knows how to use eating utensils. However, I still prefer my men to smell like men -- a little musky, a little rangy, a little fierce. While I can clean up pretty and head to the opera, at heart I'm the kind of girl who likes to make out in tents and have someone cook me oatmeal over a little fire in the woods. I am, deep down, a cavewoman.

This is probably dangerous knowledge to impart to the Viagra-supplemented throngs of New York males, but despite my proclivity for sweat, there's still something about a man who coats his pits in Mennen's Original Scent Speed Stick Deodorant (that's the see-through green one) that gets my motor purring.

I had this boyfriend who wore it. I remember laying beside him with his arm around me, nose planted in his armpit, inhaling the sweet scent of Speed Stick underneath a coating of sweat (because, you see, it's only a deodorant, not an antiperspirant) and getting heady. And I don't think it was just all that deep breathing.

After I dumped him -- Speed Stick, after all, can't mask all crimes -- I kept one of his leftover sticks in a drawer by my bed, and I'd occasionally whip it out and sniff deeply, reminiscing about my time with this incredibly eager fellow. For the record, he found my armpit obsession completely weird and eventually his old stick got moldy and I had to toss it.

In my long and vast New York City pit sniff-out, I've found only a handful of men who still use this stuff. I hear that green Speed Stick is the boy's equivalent of a training bra. It's what moms start slipping their randy Randys when they start to smell a bit too ripe and spend too much time locked in the bathroom.

There was always something about my ex -- who I later found out was a virgin, at 26, when I met him -- that carried a whiff of this sexual awakening, this soon-to-be-sullied innocence, this uncomplicated and constant horniness. I guess that's what the smell of Speed Stick still says to me.

Erin Schulte is a writer living in New York. She also has a thing for guys with athlete's foot and chronic gas. Must be a stink thing.


Jennie Dorris Digs Spatulate Hands

At around 14-years-old I tried to augment my alternative status by learning how to read palms. After an hour session with a thin book ("How to read palms today!") I was quickly the most popular girl in school as I doled out advice about life lines and love lines and health lines. This phase didn't last long, but I did learn one important thing that changed my idea of ideal men forever.

I learned about the significance of the shape of fingers. If you have round, chubby fingers, it usually leads to boring, predictable futures. Skinny, flat fingers had futures of uncertainty. But there was always one category of finger-shape that eluded me -- spatulate hands. These people had good luck, good fortune, and good lives.

I had never seen these spatulate fingers, until my first boyfriend on our first date reached over to hold my hand. To be clear, I love boys' hands. I love dry skin, cracked nails, and cuticles that are growing like foreskin. But above having just plain ol' leathery man-hands, there is just nothing hotter than if the fingers flatten out noticeably at the ends. No chubby roundness that implies a day of idle online chit-chat. I've fallen in love with fingers that begin nice and round and then flatten out like little flippers that could shuffle over and flip my pancakes (no metaphor implied). While noses are nice, rumpled hair is cute, and soccer legs are dead-on hot, hands that look like the ends were recently run over by a truck are the most beautiful boy-thing of all.

Jennie Dorris publishes until August 6, when she will move on to bigger and better things. If you want a shot at flipping her pancakes with your mangled hands, you should read it.


Claire Zulkey Digs Premature Gray Hair

Not long ago, some jerky fiend of mine send me a practical online joke quiz, wherein one unwittingly reveals some of one's more embarrassing personal preferences towards members of the opposite (or same) sex. In the spot where the form asked, "What physical attribute do you notice first?" I thought for a second. A great smile? Broad shoulders? Twinkling eyes? Then I realized that this was a quiz just for me, and I could be as shallow as I wanted. "Face," I wrote. Ha ha. Guess what. Everyone now knows I notice good-looking faces above all else. Shut up. So do you. You're not going to say, "He has the face of the Elephant Man, but his smile gets me hot!"

I do have another, shallow turn on, though and that is good hair. "Good hair" is difficult to explain, but usually it should be shiny, springy and look cute with little maintenance. I was attracted to the hair of my first high school boyfriend maybe even before his face; it was dark brown and thick and sprung healthily from that hatchet-straight mid-nineties part that most guys wore their hair in.

I have developed a quirk in the hair department over the years, though. Only one thing can make good hair great and that's premature gray. "Premature" is pretty hard to define, but I'd guess loosely it'd look like a guy's genes had failed him before his life has. He has gray but based on the lack of stress on his face, you can tell that he has yet to acquire needy family, an overbearing job, a dead body in the basement and so on.

Even though the gray has to be premature, it is the contrast that's adorable. The trappings of a worried older man next to a carefree, young guy is cute to me. Maybe I'd find it adorable to see a teenager with a walker, who knows.

Claire Zulkey zulks it daily at and her first book "Girls! Girls! Girls!" can be purchased here.


Jami Attenberg Digs Dudes Wearing Aprons

I'm high up in the mountains in California for the summer, living sex-free for the most part unless you count masturbation as sex, which, unless someone else is watching while it happens, I don't. As far as I can tell most men down in town seem to be in their mid-40s, favor button-down sports shirts tucked neatly into khakis, and have eyes tinted yellow from too much chardonnay, (There's nothing that gets a girl off more than a wine-soaked paunch.) So I turned my wandering eye elsewhere, and it has landed on the adorable checkout guys at the Glen Ellen Market. They're like Jake Gyllenhaal in The Good Girl, only totally not psycho. Most are around 18, clean cut, and have to wear these dorky green aprons featuring the store logo. And they never ID me, but they don't call me ma'am either. I kind of love them.

The apron is what really gets me hot. It's like a Catholic school uniform, but for the service industry. No hip hop baggy bullshit, no post-punk pre-washed torn tees, no stiff but tailored suit coats with pencil thin pinstripes. Just an apron that covers a mystery underneath. I think about their relationship with their aprons as I stand in the ten items or less line, and then swipe my HSBC card and ask for forty back. Do they wear it with pride? Do they bitch about it to their manager at the beginning of each and every shift? Do they feel like Superman when they take it off at the end of the night?

And after their last day of work, (they're off to college in the fall, naturally. Berkeley. Engineering.) will they take that apron, casually roll it up into a ball, and then shove it into the dumpster behind the market? Or will they set it on fire on a beach somewhere, in a pit next to three six packs they skimmed from the market's cooler? I'd like to think they'd lovingly fold it and store it in a box with their high school yearbook, an old skateboard, and a love note from the second smartest girl in their English class who waited until the last day of school to say how she felt. But I'm just that weird lady who buys all that wine and keeps staring, so what do I know anyway?

Jami Attenberg was recently banned from the Glen Allen Market for accosting the checkout boys. She can still be seen at


Rachel Kramer Bussel Digs Big Bellies

While it's certainly not a necessity, nothing gets me hotter than a nice, big belly, perhaps not so surprising since I consider James Gandolfini and Monica Lewinsky both people I'd fuck in a heartbeat. Actually, it doesn't have to be all that big, but the belly (and never "stomach" because that word just kills my libido right there) is so soft and curvy, reminiscent of the ass or a breast but softer and more sensitive, like the inner thigh. The belly is a totally under appreciated erogenous zone, and is also perfectly poised between the nipples and genitals so you can linger there, licking and teasing, making someone wonder what exactly you're going to do next. The belly is also a perfect sexual barometer, and keeping a hand on a lover's belly while doing other arousing things to them can give you a sense of their arousal level, not to mention help you speed things along, with women, by pressing against their belly to help further G-spot stimulation.

Bellies are sexy to me because they are so soft and sensual, tender and juicy, they make me want to touch and taste them, and if there were a contest for giving belly blowjobs, I'm sure I would win. Washboard stomachs make me want to run screaming; flat stomachs are like flat chests to me, they just do nothing for me. But curvy, pillowy bellies that I can lay my head on, that I can rub up against, tease and tickle and bite and lick, tweak gently when I'm busy doing something else, get me every time.

Rachel Kramer Bussel is the editor of Up All Night: Adventures in Lesbian Sex, as well as several forthcoming smut books including Glamour Girls: Femme/Femme Erotica and Naughty Spanking Stories from A to Z. You can read her blog here and visit her website here.


Deidre Woollard Digs Comic Book Nerds

Do you have the reading habits of a fifteen year-old boy? Can you name three of the X-men? If so, you could be my boyfriend. I have a fetish for comic book geeks. Comic book guy on The Simpsons is probably my dream date. Why? I could say that it is because they are creative types but I suspect that it is really because they seem to imagine me as some sort of goddess because I sleep with them. Maybe I just like being the only girl in the comic book store waiting patiently as my man picks up his weekly subscription to Spawn.

I have slept in a room decorated with collectible toys (still in their original packaging of course) pinned to the walls. I have listened to more debates than I can count about who was the best Batman (apparently George Clooney nearly doomed the franchise and hopefully Christian Bale can save it). I have learned that the worst thing to say is "hey, have you ever thought about getting rid of all these old issues?"

Date me and I will help you lovingly place your old comics in plastic bags with cardboard backing. I will believe you when you tell me that they are valuable and will be worth a fortune someday even though I know you will never sell them. I will listen attentively when you explain why Neil Gaiman is a genius and Stan Lee is a sellout. I won't sneer at your secret desire for adamantium claws because you are my Wolverine and I am your Jean Grey.

Deidre Woollard writes the sexual astrology column for This results in no actual sex for her and therefore is truly for entertainment purposes only.


Meg Franz Digs Fundamentalist Christians

I'm going to let you in on a little secret: nothing gets me hotter than a Fundamentalist Christian. You know the type: they don't drink, don't smoke, and they're always talking about Jesus. These guys make me so hot. Seriously, just whisper "true love waits" and I'm wetter than a pond full of Truth Fish. Mention the Religious Right and I'm thinking "a religious experience right here on the couch before dinner."

You're probably wondering, "What's the appeal? Aren't those the kids who listen to Jars of Clay and shop at Lifeway? Don't they picket outside abortion clinics? Because I'm sorry, but that is so not sexy."

No, you're right. Those things are not sexy. Especially not Jars of Clay. But don't we always overlook some things when hooking up? I myself have ignored a night light, twin bed, and living with parents if the guy was cool enough. Besides, Fundamentalist Christians offer some positive qualities. First of all they're cute. Take away the W.W.J.D. bracelet and the abstinence ring and they look just like any other punk kid. Plus they have to get up early so they never want to stay over on Saturday night. More sleep for me! And most importantly, there's the challenge factor. These guys aren't just handing it out at the bar like every other guy. You usually have to have like, actual conversation and stuff. They make you want it.

Enjoy it while you can, but what do you do when the inevitable occurs and your plaything tries to convert you? The best part is these flings are notoriously easy to break off. Simply tell him you prayed on it and it just isn't in God's plan. Who can argue with God's plan? But just think -- while it lasts you always have a designated driver!

Meg Franz lives in Nashville where she has her pick of Fundamentalist Christians. She writes at but will probably burn in hell.


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