Him.

You should smell nice, and when I say nice I mean a potent, robust stench of masculinity and not like a field of lavender-lily crossbreeds. You are eloquent, witty and have nothing less than a charming laugh. In fact, you are going to be such a silver-tongued rascal you will talk in semi-colons and everything you say would be in italics. You will, however, not talk in acronyms, e.g. e.g. A good first date would include honesty and alochol. Cooking for me on our second means you’re cheap. You do not request for any form of dairy in low-fat. The idea of a skinny latte is as ridiculous as an anorexic cow. You can have a healthy appetite as long as you’re paying. You ideally stay alone or have parents so liberal they colour code your closet to that of the rainbow flag. If you play an instrument, rack up a few notes and strum me a love song. Holding my hands and kissing me even if we were to stand on the most hetero street ever paved is a have-to. It’s all about passion, be it on bed, snuggled in your sofa in your apartment (notice emphasis on ‘your’) on a rainy Thursday morning, or across a satin tablecloth with pretentious china and food that comes in portions so small you constantly question yourself throughout the meal if anyone ever left the restaurant full. Passion – I crave it and give it, good. You eat the carbs on your plate and the vegetable on mine. You’re intelligent, tender, and audacious with an enduring sense of character. If you prefer white wine over red, you’re an idiot. You’ll also have to be well-versed in Wine 101 in case I suddenly feel the need to be all fancy shmancy and ask for their wine list (which I know shit about). We will not go on dutch on our first, second, third and chances are, the following dates but if we have to, inform me 3 days in advance so I will have ample time to think of a hardly subtle excuse to cancel and make new plans. Despite what you might think of me right now, I do not have caviar dreams and have table manners the equivalent to that of a prehistoric cavaman. Those who cringe at the mention of sexual parts or acts need not apply. You must have knocked your head over a hard object when you were 3 if you think you have an ass of a chance if you have a shiny, glittery, flashing emoticon for every letter of the alphabet in your MSN. You will enjoy lazy afternoons at an al fresco cafe we will frequent so frequent we’d walk in and the waiter will bring us to our favourite table and write down our usual orders but still ask for the sake of politeness. You will read all the most amazing literature ever written, printed, published and cling wrapped on the face of the Earth but will constantly refer to my collection of 3 chick lit novels as a profusely profounding range. You can believe in Christ as long as we never have to talk about it. I do not refer to god as God and I have more faith in Santa Clause than Mr Christ. A man who separates time into before and after his existance obviously has some ego issues. You curse and swear like it went out of style and you do not refer to your penis as Little (Insert Name Here). It should be anything but little. You should smoke, if not light the occasional fag for social’s sake or for the love of Chuck Norris, don’t give me the judgemental you’re-killing-me-slowly look everytime I pull out a cigarette. Tender, romantic sex is good but you should know something is wrong when I start humming to the fuck music that’s on the stereo. Age doesn’t matter but if you have to be 30 and above, at least own a car, a credit card or two and some really good facial scrub. I like to associate myself with television characters. Ok, so maybe television character. One. Meredtih Grey. You’ll have to bear with the whole scary and damaged, dark and twisty act I constantly pull off (very well, I must add) and yes, the world revolves around me and if it has to revolve around you, you’ll get nothing more than 20 seconds. I’m not much of a looker (and the Understatement of the Year award goes to *drumrolls*) neither am I the guy that people fall in love at first sight with. But you’ll be glad to know I have all my limbs and eyebrows intact and I’m not a midget. I do not expect the love of the century that people will talk of in centuries to come – I used to, but life happened and I’ve lowered my expectations. But I expect you to love me, not immediately but at least learn to do so. And I snore, alot and aloud. You have experienced pain in some point of your life. You are real, even if it means a beer belly and a really small penis. No wait, I take back small penis. I don’t do pity fucks, despite having been the receiving end of some. I want to be able to tell you I love you and not insert it in some sort of a blabber in between a conversation about politics. And no, I don’t do politics, favourite colours or your favourite kind of chai. And personally, I find anyone who calls tea ‘chai‘ pretentious as hell. I enjoy heart to heart conversations, long bus rides and songs that make me cry. I will constantly sing my rendition of “Underneath Your Clothes” and it will take your breath away every fucking time. You can sleep with other guys as long as you’re still with me on this relationship. Some might call me insane but you will find it intriguingly sexy. Gay guys cheat, I get it. Ice melts. Britney’s fat. Indians smell. Same theory, I get it.

Still interested? Drop me a hook and pick me up from this shuffled mess.

 

(constantly updated, do watch this space)