Oooh, I said it. I’m not sure I mean it, but I’ve planted the seed. It was the moment that I spied Barry Keo-G-han in his tighty whities for Bumble that I realised the brands are just seeking to own our thirstiness now. They’re toying with our objectification of the male species. They’re monetising our reframing of the male gaze to a female point of view.
It’s taken us a long time to reach this point. We’ve had thousands of years of patriarchy. It’s taken five waves of feminism to establish that we don’t have to be ladettes swigging a beer in our bikini for Loaded magazine, we can just make the boys the centerfolds. So, I was hoping to enjoy the pendulum swing of objectification over to men at least until my own old age. But as with all TikTok #aesthetic trends, I feel the end may be nigh in less than 6 months.
Because, while I’ve still got plenty of time for Barry in legwarmers, Paul Mescal running his hands through his artfully scruffy moulet in that slightly unsure manner (while giving us a flash of his pale Irish underarm), or Jeremy Allen White buying the largest bunch of hand-tied flowers at the farmers’ market, clearly unshowered and fresh from bed with Rosalia, I really do not want to then sign up for a dating app/hair product/letterbox florist off the back of it.
The Valentine’s content was real. Masters of the Air has been well, on the air, for a couple of weeks now, but the crafty marketeers saw an opportunity to pull at our heart strings and get our eyes on the gogglebox, when they had the all-male cast (including the aforementioned Barry and professional Elvis/Nic Cage-impersonator Austin Butler read love letters from the Second World War in their dulcet selection of regional accents (personal favourite: Belfast boy Anthony Boyle who can read me a sleep story any time). I’m not going to lie, I nearly shared it on my Insta Stories, but checked myself when I realised I should be adding a #sponcon to my swoony critique.
Similarly, after I sobbed my way through the One Day finale, heart-wrenched by Dexter’s devastation, I happened upon a ‘viral’ video for the show’s stars Leo Woodall and Ambika Mod. The silly quiz concept and click-to-view messaging completely burst the romantic bubble of the love story I’d just immersed myself in. It’s nobody’s fault of course - we've all got to make money somehow. But the transactionality of it all has left me feeling a bit like I’m watching Alan Partridge shouting ‘would you like me to lapdance for you?’ in his argyle sweater and Y-fronts.
It’s the Baftas this weekend, and the ‘he-vage’ will be out in force. It’s moved on a step from the deep-Vs of my youth. Now, the dress code may as well read ‘black tie, leave the shirt at home’. I’m happy that men are playing with fashion and I certainly don’t want to go back to our old, stale ways. But I sort of preferred it when there was just a sprinkling of lewks to really discern who was cool and who definitely isn’t. When we live in a world where even the 8ft Super Bowl Monster Travis Kelce is wearing a sparkly suit out to a party with girlfriend Taylor Swift, we know the world has eaten itself. You only have to look at Travis’ brother, dressed as a horror clown in a gimp mask and red and yellow dungarees to know that this is a stylist’s work and nothing to do with his own natural taste.
Not every celebrity man needs to be a Babygirl. Not every half fanciable guy needs to sell us white pants. Not every actor needs to go on a fake date in front of the cameras to prove their worth. Let’s go back to refined discernment, and allow us to drool in peace.
