There are days when I think I must be ovulating because I become fixated on a detail that leads me to consider a man in my proximity and whether or not he'd be a good shag. The other day it was the loop on a man's pants for holding a hammer. You know the kind---painter's pants, with the pockets for brushes that became a fashion hit in the 80's. Then I noticed the man walking beside the painter was wearing exactly the same pants in that same golden rugged canvas fabric from Mark's WW. Hmmm, two painters are better than one.
I once saw a man with wild hair and a completely paint-spattered set of overalls at the Glasgow School of Art which declared, "I am Painting Man, hear me roar," which would have been lovely if he wouldn't have appeared seriously pretentious. About a quarter of my wardrobe is spattered with paint and oddly enough I don't feel particularly sexy when wearing those clothes because I usually am in work mode. When someone like Daniel Craig wears builder's clothes (see The Mother), that's something else entirely. (Even better when he's in worker disabille.) There's something about the costumes of physical labor that triggers pheramone-driven fantasies, perhaps literally because work clothes contain sweat, the smell of sex, as long as it's not layers of stale perspiration from bad hygiene. No, it must be soap, a bit of sweat, and those funny little textural details.
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