The Sexuality of Everyday Physical Proficiency

I have just come home from two completely different events connected by one thing: the overwhelming sexuality of men. By "overwhelming," I mean the jaw-dropping, drool-inducing, fantasy-starting kind of overwhelming. The first event was the varsity boys' basketball game at my school. The second was the movie Hairspray. "Huh?" you may ask. I will explain.

There is nothing more appealing than watching a fit man perform something expertly-in this case, basketball. People you had not previously considered attractive (or you had simply not considered them either attractive or unattractive because you didn't consider them at all in a he's-been-my-friend-since-fourth-grade kind of way) suddenly become lithe, powerful, graceful, talented. "Holy crud muffin!" you say. "He's really, really good at this, and I'm suddenly really, really attracted to him." Why, though? Why does the exhibition of physical prowess suddenly send shivers down (our spines) and new contemplations through our brains?

He dribbles, but it's not just dribbling: it's forcing a very movable substance to move exactly where he wants it to go; he controls it and guides it and causes it to soar through the air with exactly the right amount of spin, arch, and speed. It slides through the net without making a sound, and suddenly we're that much closer to winning. He guards his opponent, but it's not just guarding: it's tightening his core abdominal muscles to remain eternally balanced while his feet whip about, anticipating, matching with speed and grace the moves of the enemy; his face stays focused intensely on the location of the ball, always keeping in mind the locations of the one in possession of the ball, that person's teammates, his own. Conditioning pays off, and he steals it, pounding down the court, racing the now-defenders impossibly fast, a half step ahead, and then he stops, pauses midair, to slip the ball over the rim. Every spin, every pass, every shot, every throw, fake, assist, displays corded muscles, glistening skin, savage and determined expressions, strategy, execution, victory. And at the end of the game, the players aren't the only ones panting, trying to catch their breath.

You can admire Michelangelo's David, but it doesn't stir any emotion in you besides an appreciation for beauty; when you see those perfectly-fashioned muscles-the lines and planes of a body-move, that is when art is made flesh, or, flesh is made art. That is when the reaction becomes visceral; appreciative in a baser, less civilized manner. Heck, the reaction is to a bunch of sweaty 18-year-old-guys in a loud, dingy gym; the air is not exactly one of sophistication. So while David may be intricately wrought, proportioned and perfected to the last detail, I will never become breathless looking at it unless it becomes animated and starts displaying some evocative physical movement. An interesting thought: David playing basketball.

After the games were over, I headed over to a friend's house with a bunch of my girl friends to watch the movie Hairspray. We were laughing merrily along to the silly antics of these 60s teens when suddenly there came a song called "Run and Tell That," sung primarily by a character called "Seaweed" who is black and completely comfortable with his body. He sings it primarily to a girl called "Penny" who is white and has never considered the fact that she has a body. Let me explain:

Seaweed is dancing the entire time he's singing. This dancing includes impressive jumps, a mix of different 60s dance moves, and the use of his hips. The thing that ties it all together is Penny-everything he sings, he sings to her, looking at her from under low-lidded eyes, a mischievous smile that starts in the corner of his mouth but spreads across his entire face as his head, neck, shoulders, torso, the heels of his feet, thrust backward, knees, thighs, hips, hands, arching forward, mouth open wide to let escape the passionate and uncontainable climactic note. Every time he turns around, his face whips back to her again, and those eyes that express very clearly his intentions, stare so intensely at poor Penny that at one point in the song she faints. Sitting on the floor of the living room watching him, I was about to as well. "So what?" you ask. "He was dancing and singing to her. Anybody can do that." Well, my friend, you are wrong. His roaming pelvis, knowing grin, and deeply personal gaze were simply many parts to the same promise: I am incredibly talented at controlling my body (dancing, singing), and I find you incredibly attractive, so let me show you what I can do, and let's see if you'd like to see what else I can do. There were six of us girls watching that movie. All twelve eyes were completely captivated by the screen, rapt and enthralled, and all six mouths were hanging open, all six bodies were tense, waiting to see what he'd do next, wishing with a fierceness akin to savagery that they we were Penny, and he was singing his promise to us. Intention. The pulse-altering control of body, the ravenous grin, the low-lidded intense stare were all very, very intentional. He knew exactly what he was saying, and he knew that she'd (we'd) get the message loud and clear.

Physical proficiency-in terms of athleticism or dancing or any other thing where one's body speaks on behalf of one's mouth-will "turn on" almost any woman. If you want to get a woman's attention, show her that you're talented at something physical; that you can expertly control something with your body; that you have at your disposal an elegant corporeal power, and you know it. Self-confidence is alluring, and that coupled with intense physical aptitude will be an irresistible draw; a magnet forcing her to find out why she's so attracted. And the only way she can find that out is if she gets a little bit closer.

All I'm saying, gentleman, is that, as a woman, I got more than a little slobbery over the knowing grin, the intense, intentional look in Seaweed's eye. Any woman would want to be on the other end of that gaze.