My Type Was Never a Six-Pack.

I like big guys.

Not as a statement. Not because I am trying to make a point about representation, or because somebody told me that every kind of body deserves to be called beautiful.

I mean something much simpler than that.

I genuinely fancy them.

Give me weight. Give me body hair. Give me a stomach that looks like a stomach. Give me thighs, an arse, softness and something to actually hold on to.

And confidence changes everything.

There is something incredibly attractive about a man who isn’t constantly apologising for the space his body occupies. Someone who can take his clothes off without immediately trying to find the angle that makes him look smaller, harder, younger or more conventionally desirable.

Attraction isn’t a public vote.

Male bodies are sold to us in remarkably narrow ways. Lean enough. Muscular enough. Defined enough. The right chest, the right waist, the right amount of hair in the right places.

None of that has ever been particularly useful to me.

Because desire doesn’t arrive with a checklist of approved features. You look at somebody and something happens — or it doesn’t.

That’s perhaps the part of body positivity I find more interesting than the slogans. We don’t have to pretend that everybody is attracted to everybody. We don’t even have to agree about what an attractive body looks like.

We just need enough room for people to stop treating one particular body as though it won the argument.

His body didn’t need me to make a case for it.
I fancied him.
That was the case.

And perhaps that is why I like these photographs.

They aren’t polished. There is no studio, no perfect lighting and no attempt to turn an ordinary bedroom into something it wasn’t.

There is simply a man, a body and the confidence to let somebody else look.