No accounting for taste

My taste in men seems to be undergoing something of a strange transformation. If you’d asked me a few months ago who my ultimate crushes were, I would have responded without a second thought: Noel Gallagher (who I have loved blindly since the ascent of Britpop back in 1995), Caleb Followhill (the sweating, growling, and utterly captivating front man of Kings of Leon), and Joaquin Phoenix (the epitome of ugly-sexy). I think it’s the slightly tortured artist thing they’ve all got going on, coupled with that insouciant ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude that gets me every time.

But in the last few months, odd schoolgirl crushes seem to be popping into my repertoire. First came the clean-shaven, smooth-skinned, singing, dancing teen sensation Zac Efron of High School Musical fame (insider tip - he’s even hotter in Hairspray), then I found myself strangely attracted to one of the cutest members of X-factor boy band JLS (yes, really), and literally five minutes ago I heard myself utter the following shocking words: “Considering Gary Barlow used to be the fat one who couldn’t dance from Take That, he’s looking pretty handsome these days.” (Yes, I am ashamed but it’s true.)

Generally the reaction to any confession of these strange fancies has prompted a look of utter incredulity, followed by total disgust. “You are kidding, right?” said Vickie. “Um, no…”
“You are a strange, strange girl Ms Mitchell.”

But is it really that strange? What’s wrong with being attracted to nice guys? When did every red-blooded woman in the world decide that the only man to capture her heart (or loins) would have to be a bad guy – a rebel without a cause who couldn’t articulate any emotion, and just stomped around looking sulky with a fag dangling out of his pouting lips. While this image is still undoubtedly sexy, I think I have bad-boy fatigue.

After years of falling hopelessly in love with the most arrogant, selfish, and cold-hearted man in any room, I think I just want someone to be nice to me. After all, there’s a lot to be said for a nice guy. Just look at Reese Witherspoon – she went from tousle-haired lothario Ryan Phillipe who cheated on her and broke her heart, to puppy-dog Jake Gyllenhaal who looks after the kids, takes her for long walks on the beach and holds her hand. Not too shabby. Then there’s London’s favourite supermodel Kate Moss who has finally moved on from a self-destructive relationship with drug addled Pete Doherty to the woolly-scarf wearing Jamie Hince, who just wants to whisk her off to the country and look after her.

If cosy nights in front of the fire, romantic walks, and hand holding is what’s on offer, I’m jumping on their bandwagon. I’ve kissed goodbye to my gorgeous but terribly vain toyboy (even valiantly resisting his parting offer of a final romp). I’ve given up on a potential liason with a fellow ‘Leither in London’ when it became patently clear, he was only after one thing. And I’ve stopped frequenting the indie bars of Camden, which are essentially wall-to-wall bad boys.

And guess what, no sooner do I make my vow, than I’ve stumbled across a potential nice guy right under my nose. There I am fighting through a crowded bar at my friend’s birthday party when a young man with a lovely face (and those puppy dog eyes) brushes past. “Cute’ I think. ‘Hi Carrie,’ he says. Eh, hold up how does he know my name? Then I realise I’ve actually met this guy at least twice before and dismissed any potential flirtation because he was…yes, you guessed it…too nice. Well not anymore – bring on the niceness I say.

So we trundle outside for a cigarette together, and something wonderful happens. He holds the door, tells some drunk bloke off for bumping into me, then leans over to light my cigarette before his own. Ladies and gentleman, I think I have found myself a gent. Now I wonder if he has Zac Efron’s moves….