Wanted: Hot British Men

I'm taking a break from the all the travel intineraries that I've put together this morning. Can't believe it's noon already. Been at work since the early hour of 8:40 a.m.

Okay, I've just taken a little potty break, and also watched the phones, while the other assistant went to get lunch. I've got to say that the bathrooms here at Barclay are outstanding. They are clean, almost like hotel or restaurant bathrooms. I've never seen anything like it at an investment bank. The bathrooms at Morgan Stanley were particularly skanky. Hardly ever clean, and people would forget to flush, because they were the automatic flushing kind. But you still have to flush, if they didn't automatically, otherwise, the person after you might get a nasty surprise.

Anyway, what does this have to do with Hot British Guys? Absolutely nothing. Just making use of my observational skills, like noticing that my nipples were on alert, because of the air conditioning.

Marianne Mancusi over at Cosmos and Chat is the one who started the discussion on Hot British guys after seeing Alfie with Jude Law over the weekend. I've always had a thing for Hot British Guys, in fact that could be theme of my life: In Search of Hot British Guys. Imagine me in the role of Jim, Marlon Perkins trusty sidekick on Wild Kingdom.

What is it about British men that makes them so attractive? Is just the accent? I don't know. You have to admit they can make even an insult so exceedinly charming. It's certainly not their bodies. American men are in way better shape than most Brits. Maybe it's their intelligence, and the ability not take themselves seriously, unless you're discussing the fall of the British Empire. They're a nation of eccentrics, loveable and not so loveable, they even erect statues to them. They care about their history. Plus, most of the great literature and poetry of the past 400 years is British. That can't be sneezed at. They come in all shapes and sizes, from beanpole to beefy. And they use words like surly and churlish in a sentence. I don't think American guys even know what churlish and surly mean, let alone how to use them in sentence.

I blame all the Harlequin Presents that I read as a pre-teen, and teenager. They were full of impossibly handsome British alpha males, dark hair, blue eyes, tall, broad-shouldered. Imagine my surprise, when I went to England for the summer when I was sixteen, and none of these men were to be found. Apart from Prince Andrew (thank god he looks more like Prince Philip than the Queen), most of the guys I met had bad teeth. They looked more like Prince John in The Lion in Winter than Timothy Dalton.

He was another early crush. I think I'm one of only 5 people in the world who liked his interpretation of James Bond. To this day, his Bond movies are the only ones I've seen more than once.

And then there was Malcolm. Not classically handsome, Malcolm looked like a Jewish Paul McCartney. I had such a mad crush on him, as only a sixteen year old who has only had two boyfriends, can have a crush. I'd always liked older men, and Malcom was 22 to my sixteen. He was also an Aries, starting a lifelong addiction to Aries men, that I'm still trying to figure out. Alas it was not to be, but I still find myself wondering what ever happened to him.

The search continued. There had to be a Hot British man who wasn't an actor or a singer, someone more on my level. I mean it's all very well to fantasize about Rupert Everett, Colin Firth, Simon Le Bon and company, but I wanted my own Hot British man.

During my junior semester abroad, the only British men I came in contact with were the Brits, my flatmate dragged home from Punch and Judy in Convent Garden. Literally, she would go out to Punch and Judy on a Saturday night and bring home some guy who lived in the middle of nowhere Kent, and he'd just missed the last train out, and could he spend the night at our place? Luckily, none of them were an axe-murderer. There was Keith, the Anglo-Indian from Goa, Paul the Scot, and Roland, the supposed Prince of Kiev (don't ask, my roommate could b exceptionally gullible). The other Brits that I met were gay, friends of my other flatmate.

Flash forward, I'm studying drama in London. Not one, but two Englishmen on my program. I develop a passionate crush on one of them, Andrew. Again, not classically handsome, but a complete sweetheart, and incredibly sexy, although he would have been hard-pressed to believe it. Half Chilean, he was a bit like the actor, Hugh Laurie, another one of my favorites. Very intelligent, very funny, amazing voice, and very sweet.

Then there was Jonathan, much more along the lines of a romance hero. Dark and brooding, with sensuous lips. Too bad, he was involved with another woman on the program, who I adored. And then my favorite person of all, Philip, blonde, gregarious, quick-witted, an American in a Brit's body. The posh boys, I called them, since all three were classmates at Eton. Again, it was not be, because he and my friend Joanna sort of fell for each other.

A few years later, work permit in hand, I went back to London for four months. Eureka, a bonanza of British guys all at my fingertips. Than I met him, the first love of my life. He was Scottish, from Aberdeen, and knew from the minute I met him, that he was the one. He was romantic, sexy, loved history, good food and wine, and had beautiful blue eyes. Unfortunately, he had an ex-girlfriend he still wasn't over. Despite asking me to move to Hong Kong with him, he threw me over for the ex.

Then back in New York, I met my impossibly handsome British friend. He was everything a Hot British Guy ought to be. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair, hazel eyes, it hurt just to look at him, he was so handsome. Alas, we had no chemistry, except on stage. Granted, we were both involved in other relationships when we met, but even we were both single, no sparks. Wouldn't you know it. I finally find the Harlequin Presents man of my dreams, and I had to settle for just being friends, plus over the years, he's slept with all my friends, so it would be a little creepy if we got together. Still, there are times, when I look at him, and think, god he's gorgeous! You just want to lick him, he's so handsome. Trust me on this, I'd how you a picture but I'm blogger illiterate about the whole picture thing. If you've ever watched Dharma and Greg, he's Greg but with a British accent.

One of my BFF's (best friends forever) was dating an A Hot British Guy or so she said. She described him as a looking like James Bond. I once saw a picture of this guy in a magazine, since at the time she didn't allow any of friends to meet him, or just me actually. All I have to say is she must have been watching Bond films without her contact lenses or she meant the Carry on version, because there was no way he was a Hot British guy.

Hot British Guys don't have birthmarks that look like a hippotamus gave them a hickey!

So, now I've given up on the Hot British guy in real life, confining my dreams to guys like Clive Owen, Sean Bean, James Purefoy, Ioan Gruffud, and Ben Daniels. Every Tuesday night you'll find me in front of my TV watching House with Hugh Laurie, or anything with Colin Firth, hands down the perfect British Guy. Hottest would have to go to Clive Owen.