On genres.

There comes a time when it becomes blatantly obvious that there’s no such thing as “having a type” – not really at least. No one simply likes any old blonde or brunette, and just because you like someone’s height or eye color doesn’t mean you’ll like the rest of them. I’d propose that it’s instead more about the total package – the essence of the person, their character coupled with their looks and feel. I don’t have a type, but I definitely have a genre.

Genres are three-dimensional; they have depth and emotions like silly, responsible, and confident. I like someone who evokes salt air and crashing waves, someone who encompasses the smell of fresh laundry, dune grass, and Ralph Lauren Blue. Men who are as comfortable with themselves as I will be in their favorite white linen oxford shirt. I like ones that open doors and put their hand on the small of my back at the right times, the ones that laugh and sparkle with life like the reflections of Fourth of July fireworks on the water.

To say a gentleman enjoys a good sunset, can pick me up, and loves the ocean is far more tangible than a simple description of his style.  The kinds of boys for me are the ones who would appreciate a needlepoint belt that I stitched myself, who will lend me a sweater that they’ve had for years and hand me the right drink without having to ask. They’re cool and sweet, sarcastic and calm, the sound of the bell on top of a buoy, a black sky sharp with stars.


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