Do I Have a Type? On appetite, leadership, and what actually draws me in

Moving past checklists to the qualities that truly compel me

Photo by iStock

The conversation began before the appetizers arrived. He had read my article, the one on data and dismantling stereotypes, and he wanted me to know it had shifted something in him. Not just his thoughts, but his actions. He spoke carefully, between thoughtful bites of a medium rare steak, the rich scent mingling with the earthy notes of a Cape Town red in his glass. It was a moment of genuine connection, born from a page of text; a testament to the power of a shared idea.

We traversed the global topography of beauty that evening. The celebrated fullness in Lagos, the prized slenderness in Seoul, the impossible hourglass mythos pulsating through certain media channels. He was an engaged student of the world’s contradictory desires. Then, with a curious tilt of his head, he turned the lens. And what about you, he asked. Do you have a type?

The question hung in the air, fragrant with seared meat and aged wine. It deserved an honest answer.

I told him I do not. Well… not in the conventional, catalog sense. My preferences are not a checklist of proportions or a palette of features. They are a collection of sensations, of dynamics, of visceral truths learned through a life lived in motion.

The first is tactile. I have always, always been drawn to hair. On the head, certainly; there is a primal satisfaction in weaving fingers through its texture. But more so on the body. It is topography. It is a map I read by touch, a landscape to be explored. In the confluence of pleasure, when I am adrift in sensation, it becomes everything. My fingers seek purchase, an anchor. They close, instinctively, around what is nearest. It is an act of grounding, a physical tether to the person whose focus brings me to that precipice. A grasp of hair is my body’s wordless thank you for the effort, for the skill, for the presence required to guide me to climax. For the gentleman who is smooth from head to toe, this presents a delightful dilemma. The solution demands creativity, a mutual exploration for new points of anchor, new textures of skin to hold with equal gratitude. It is, in its essence, a problem to be solved. And this leads me directly to the second, deeper current I find most attractive: the mind of a leader and a problem solver.

I am, by circumstance and nature, a perpetual conductor. Eldest daughter, graduate student, part-time intern, and crisis manager for my friends and family. My life is an exercise in nurturing, in logistics, in holding space. The mental load is a familiar weight. What I find irresistibly attractive, therefore, is the man who sees that, and who chooses to lift it from my shoulders for an evening: the one who takes initiative. Who plans the date with consideration, who remembers a note I once shared and weaves it into a thoughtful gift, who reads my etiquette page carefully and follows them not out of obligation, but out of respect for the framework of my peace. This is not about domination; it is about conscious, generous stewardship. It is the ultimate turn on.

This intertwines with the third trait: a genuine, human curiosity. I am attracted to men who are interested in me. Not as an archetype, not solely as a fantasy projection, but as a complete and complicated person. Men who ask questions because they truly want to know the answers. Who ask how my routine dentist appointment went. Who listen to the stories of my upbringing across three continents, my years in a West African boarding school, and understand that these are not just anecdotes, but the forge that shaped my resilience and my deep skepticism of arbitrary rules. This curiosity is the purest form of respect. It says, I see you as a subject worthy of study, not an object designed for consumption.

As for the physical vessel that carries these traits, I am strikingly agnostic. My worldview was shaped in the crucible of teenage cruelty, in all girls dormitories where the hierarchy of beauty shifted with the wind, and in the global transit lounge where yesterday’s standard was tomorrow’s footnote. I have watched diet cultures and workout fads rise and fall like empires, their tyranny revealed as fleeting and pointless. It all felt like a performance for an audience whose taste would change by the next season. I opted out.

I extend that hard worn freedom to men. Your specific arrangement of features, your height, the construct of your build; these are neutral data points to me. They are not the source of my attraction.

However, I do believe in the poetry of care. I do not worship the scale, but I move my body three to five times a week; it is a temple I maintain for strength and grace, not for punishment. I practice the rituals of grooming and hygiene as a love letter to myself. I find this discipline profoundly attractive in a man. It is not about achieving an aesthetic ideal, but about demonstrating a fundamental regard for one’s own existence. A cared for body speaks of a mind that has mastered itself, which circles back beautifully to the leader, the problem solver, the curious mind.

Genetically, I inhabit a body that aligns with one current standard. It is a card I was dealt, not a moral achievement. This luck grants me no superiority, only a deep empathy for those whose bodies move through the world differently, who battle pain or biology in ways I cannot fathom. My attraction has no room for harsh judgment; it has been hollowed out by too much witnessing.

So, to return to the question over the steak and the South African wine. Do I have a type?

My type is the thoughtful man who engages with an idea until it changes him. My type is the tactile presence of a body, in all its varied textures, met with intention. My type is the leader who offers the gift of direction, the curious mind that seeks my depths, and the disciplined spirit that cares for its own vessel. It is a constellation of qualities, not a silhouette. It is dynamic and open, a testament to how exploring different people enriches my life as much as I hope it enriches theirs.

The next chapter of this conversation, of course, is best had in person. Where the theories of attraction meet the practice of connection, where a problem presented is joyfully solved, and where curiosity is satisfied not with words on a page, but with the full, immersive experience of being truly, attentively seen.

I have a feeling we would have much to discuss.