Why I Love Hairy Men
I once slept with a Greek guy.
There are two things you can expect when you go to bed with a Hellenic dude. First, his mother is going to hate you. Second, when he’s naked, he’s still going to be wearing a wiry suit of hair.
So when I straddled Mr. Greek and started unbuttoning his shirt, I expected to see a chest full of thick curlies—a sexy field of black, twisted grass for me to scratch my nails through and bury my face in. But instead I found his hair-forest razed and a patchy, two-week growth in its place.
I tried not to express my disappointment as we kissed and dry humped, but as I ran my hands across his chest, it felt strange and coarse.
“I shaved my chest,” he said quite proudly. I don’t think he noticed my dismay as he continued to kiss my neck.
“Oh yeah,” I said, “Do you do that often?”
“Yeah, do you like it?”
There’s only one way to lie to a man—and that’s with your tits out. I reached around and unhooked my bra and told him, “Yes, yes I do.”
The feeling of his shaved chest just about ruined the evening for me, even after he put on a condom, took my panties off, and proceeded to do that jackrabbit thing that, apparently, feels good for guys.
I was only 18 at the time, and even then, in a high school daze of dolphin-chested, pubescent boys, it struck me as unnecessary and bizarre. In retrospect, I understand the insecurities that would come with being a hairy Greek teenager (I was one too), and I don’t mean to be judgmental about Regrowth Chest Guy because he, like everyone at some point, felt different and was trying to be the same.
Coming from a Greek family, most of the men I’m related to are covered in a thick mat of hair, so plentiful hair on men has always seemed both necessary and normal to me. I really, really love a hairy man, possibly more than I love any other kind of man. I want a man that’s so hairy he looks like he’d be slow in water.
Just this year I was dating a lovely, amazing guy, who also happened to be a hairy oaf. I loved feeling the friction of his chest rubbing against mine, and lying beside him and runing my fingers through it until I got horny enough to have sex again.
I know, not every man is blessed with a thicket of beautiful curly black chest hair, and I’m not trying to come down on guys who are genetically hairless. All I’m saying is if you’ve got it, flaunt it. There’s nothing sexier than a forest of chest hair rubbing against my face mid-coitus and nothing worse than a wasteland of stubble.
Excerpt from the Novel ‘Family Life’
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