The Oxford Male
It’s a quiet Sunday evening and a small figure lays tightly huddled on a bench, hoodie tightly pulled around him. A security guard, chattering into his radio, sidles up to the bench and perches himself gingerly on its edge. The hooded figure swivels around, to gain a better view of his new companion. “It’s cold out here, isn’t it?” says the guard. An idle grunt meets this attempt at conversation. “What are you doing out here, it’s cold you know."
Forced into conversation, the figure answers brusquely: “I’m just waiting for a friend.” Disbelieving furrows appear on the guard’s face and he continues to give supposedly helpful advice about where shelter can be found, water obtained and food procured at minimal cost. At this point I decide to stand up and move on. Waiting for a date who was over an hour late was humiliating enough. Being mistaken for a hobo was the final straw. I shuffled away, feeling disgruntled. And cold.
So off I went and found myself a comfortable spot in County Hall. Huddled by a radiator I considered the misunderstanding which had just taken place. I couldn’t simply dismiss the confusion — this was the second date on which the same mistake had been made (a year ago, waiting outside the Odeon a boyfriend walked right past, ignoring what he thought was just another beggar). But then rationalisation kicked in. I thought about the homeless people I quite fancy.
Apart from NME cover bands, what other group of people has such consistently chiselled cheekbones, fashionably pale skin, sharply defined jawlines, three-day stubble and overly long, slightly floppy hair? Post-Pete Doherty, heroin chic is hugely desirable, and I’m convinced I’m not the only man indulging in surprisingly enthusiastic small talk with the Big Issue vendor.
We go to a university where making eyes at a Brookes student can result in your friends disowning you, a crush at the wrong college can place you on the D-list and a misplaced online poke can be social suicide. Fancying the homeless feels exotic and exciting. When it comes to assessing the sexual ecology of Oxford, most of us are decidedly rubbish.
Our snobberies and preconceptions wipe out vast swathes of potential loves, and I don’t want to make the same mistake with the sexy strangers of the street. Sometimes I feel quite out of kilter with the rest of the world. While The Oxford Studemt is running stories about finding yourself a rich husband, I’m considering whether offering my bed to someone without one is really acceptable. I think this column is going to be quite different to most gay relationship columns.
No slick advice (I’ve sent needy texts within moments of saying goodbye to random pulls), no suggestive sex advice (use of the word ‘perineum’ will be kept to an absolute minimum) and no tiresome use of slack innuendo (ooh-err missus!). In its place, the homely bumbling advice I offer this week is to look for lovely, attractive people in unusual places. Remember that personality and looks are hard to come by, and a body odour makeover is just a hot shower away.
11th May 2006