‘His dress told her nothing, but his face told her things which she was glad to know.’
– A.A. Milne, Once on a Time

Although I resisted the idea for a long time, I definitely have a type. Although there are exceptions to every rule, I have a short list of superficial attributes that are guaranteed to set my pulse racing. Most of my recent crushes have matched at least 3 of these 5 factors, and even celebrity crushes are on type, because nothing quite makes my stomach jump and my cunt twitch like a man who is older than me, taller than me, smarter than me, blue eyed, and bearded. Ungh…

I am disproportionately impressed by good facial hair. As a skill that I am biologically incapable of attempting without a pathological hormonal imbalance, I am fascinated by it – how some men just can’t grow a good beard, how the colour might not match their hair colour, how having a beard or moustache or, ideally, both can change the shape and age of their face. I love the details of beard care, from the amazing historical paraphernalia of beard combs and moustache sieves, to the fact that a particularly hairy friend of mine has to routinely decide where his beard ends and where his chest hair starts when trimming.

Like all fashion choices, facial hair can reveal hints of personality. Is it a hugely sculptured beard that would require a lot of grooming to maintain? Is it more scruffy and suggests an unwillingness to regularly shave? Is it big and bushy, reminding me of lumberjacks or wild men? Or maybe a more hipster-style with curled tips to their waxed moustaches?

But the main reason that facial hair appeals me is the simple fact that it’s hot! A good-looking face looks better with a beard, and there aren’t many faces that aren’t improved by a competent beard. It’s also hot because, even when well-groomed, facial hair is feral. My primitive subconscious hears the testosterone flooding through his veins and imagines passion, throwdown, fire, strength…oh, my…

I know full well that it’s a gross generalisation to attribute these characteristics to someone based purely on their fashion choices, but my body disagrees with this logic.

I want to reach out and touch his facial hair, feeling the soft bristles under my fingers and finding the contours of his face underneath them. I love the different textures of different types of hair – running my hands through the delicate, fine strands on his head, or pulling gently (or not so gently) on the more wiry body hair – but facial hair is the best. I love how, a bit like whiskers, the facial hair emphasises the small movements of his face when it’s pressed against mine, and I can feel how he’s smiling even if I can’t see it. I love how his beard teases when he kisses me; the somewhat scratchy, somewhat ticklish sensation sends sparks under my skin and makes me deliciously shivery. Face, back, thighs, anywhere, everywhere…damn, it feels fucking fantastic!

Oh gosh, yes, I’m a big fan…