Trophy hunting

Someone reached out to me on Facebook the other day. Her bio said: Sapiosexual. I accepted her friend request — it was an immediate turn on.  

Since then, I have been going back to that delicious word, and drawing up a list of all the men who have made me all giddy headed and misty eyed, even at my age! The jewel in my crown — Benedict Cumberbatch. I am part of a group that calls itself the Cumberbitches. I receive regular updates about shirtless Cumberbatch, wet-shirt Cumberbatch, Cumberbatch crossing the road. Cumberbatch waving at a stranger. Cumberbatch sipping tea. Cumberbatch in a GIF just turning from left to right… sigh! 

I realised, despite the fact that I am part of the hysteric group of women who fantasise about this oh-so-delectable man, I draw the line the somewhere. Cumberbatch as the dark and mysterious Sherlock knocks it out of the park for me. But as a comic book action character, does not excite me at all.

Complicated men, borderline sociopaths, introverts and men with eclectic tastes — there is a certain sexiness to these characters. Unpredictable. Sometimes plain puzzling and often too self absorbed, they are far more alluring than those who are walking, talking tell-alls. You know, the difference between the billboards along Juhu Tara Road and the cryptic hand-painted signages in Kala Ghoda? Something like that. 

And let me share a secret here. These men, the dark, brooding, mysterious ones with the rare enigmatic smile and a mind as sharp as their features — make perfect trophies for women who can collect them. All of us women secretly envy the ones who walk into a social gathering without their mysterious partner. “He is trailing Snow Leopards in Spiti,” or “he is on the final draft of his second book,” or “He is with his editors, for the final cut of his documentary film,” is far more interesting than the highly sociable beefcake walking in with you, who keeps checking out his reflection on the reflective tiles. Cumberbatch did it with his Sherlock. The dazzling display of a genius mind. 

There are some men who achieve this effect on sapiosexual women simply by the timbre of their voice. I know of a certain radio presenter who rocked Akashvani Kolkata in the 60s. That gent had a kind of voice that drove the sanest of women mad with desire. He received hundreds of fan mails written presumably in blood. Some would cook him his favourite dishes and bring it over, waiting to catch a glimpse of the man whose voice that kept them awake through the long winter nights. It turns out that he was the picture of the Bengali Bhadralok — clad in a white dhoti and khaki kurta most of the time, sporting a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles. You would not give him a second thought had you met him outside the studio. Yet, for his legions of female fans, he was the finest of his species. Erudite, eloquent, with the power to turn on the mind. 

So yes, I am a proud sapiosexual too. Married to a man who prefers the company of meaningful silence than indulge in happy small talk. And who can argue the Devil into submission. He makes for a great trophy.

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