When you look at Clark Kent when he's working at the Daily Planet, he's a reporter. He doesn't fly through the air in his glasses and his suit. ---Gene Simmons
What’s the old adage? Do girls make passes at—? No, that’s not it. It’s Do guys make passes at girls who wear glasses? Ah, that age-old question.
I mean, when Dorothy Parker’s famous quote hit print in 1937, Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses, it cemented the concern in spectacle-wearing dames from that day forward. Doomed them to a life void of passes from gents. The poor Janes! Cursed for having four eyes!
Why didn’t Parker wonder if girls make passes at guys who wear glasses? Why did she single out girls to be the heiresses of that blight? I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.
But what about men who wear glasses?
Speaking for myself, I’ll tell you in a heartbeat: I find spectacle-wearing men sexy as hell, very much so. What is the allure?
I’ll tell you what attracts me to them, but first let tell you this…
Anyone who knows me knows I’m a big fan of silent films. And right up there with my beloved Rudolph Valentino is Harold Lloyd, the comedic genius of the silent era. His talent is unparalleled. He didn’t need sound to be funny. He didn’t need a voice to jangle my bells, to trip my little ol’ arousal switch. All he needed was that goofy grin, that nice athletic shape and…his glasses.
Yes! His glasses! The horn-rimmed spectacles that stand between me and that hidden tiger. The optical paraphernalia that promises mystery just the other side of those two circles of glass. A terribly handsome, sexy man lurks behind those frames.
If you don’t count Timothy from my second grade classroom—or a boss from days long past who used to ignite my then-twenty-year-old libido when he’d look at me over the rims of his reading glasses—then Harold Lloyd is the object of my first imaginary love affair with a spectacle-wearing fellow. I fell in love with the silent hunk with the manly charisma and boyish good looks the second I laid eyes on him.
Oh, I know what you’re going to say. It’s the Clark Kent syndrome. You’re going to tell me that I think there’s a Superman behind those specs. Nah. It’s not that. Or is it?
You just might be right.
I stumbled across an interesting piece about my silent film hero, and this information would not only interest Superman lovers, but Harold Lloyd fans as well. Seems that the character, Clark Kent, was based partly on Harold Lloyd. Who knew? And I found it even more interesting that Kent’s name was derived from combining the names of two actors, Clark Gable and Kent Taylor. Go figure. Did you know that? I didn’t!
So my darling Harold is a super man after all! Well, sort of.
But still. I couldn’t have known that in second grade, when I daydreamed about Timothy, when I had the most agonizing crush on him. Later, in high school, there was Michael. And Alex. Ricky. And then later, Billy. Bill. Tom, my husband.
To me, there is something so very sensual about a man stopping to take off his glasses when it’s time to make love. There. Oh, geez, I said it. Yes. I admit it. What an exquisite, wonderfully sexy experience. You’re already excited, he’s done his preliminary work by teasing you, driving you crazy with anticipation. You’re ready for the hungry panther to make the kill—with YOU as the target.
He pauses to pull off his glasses and, with that careful deliberation (partly not to break them, of course), folds them shut and sets them on the table. He’s ready for business. The aroused panther is ready to consume his prey, and he’s not letting that Pearl Vision Center prescription get in his way.
Come on, can you sit there and tell me that is not intensely sexy? He’s undressing without undressing. Getting naked without even unfastening his belt. One silent gesture to signal the attack is coming.
Oh, I never entertained sexual thoughts with Timothy in second grade. But maybe, just maybe, I sensed—even at that delicate age—the future allure those pieces of metal or plastic and glass would have on me.
So, yes, in this girl’s book, guys with glasses do get passes. Always have. Always will.
I can hardly cross paths with a man, any man—tall, short, dark hair, light hair, no hair—wearing glasses and NOT wonder who is behind them. Is he shy, retiring, like so many mistakenly assume just because he sports spectacles? IS he a Clark Kent, the classic powerhouse-in-frames? Or just a regular Joe with less-than-perfect vision? It’s that luscious mystery that optics-wearing men offer, a teasing door one must look beyond to find out.
To me, glasses lend a man this touch of something...what is it?...that softens without compromising masculinity. Something so touchable, so warm and comfortable which does not forfeit sex appeal, but heightens it.
So, to my darling Harold. To Timothy, Michael, Alex, Bill, Billy, and Tom—to spectacle-wearing men wherever you are, I salute you! May those who cross your path see your hidden Clark Kent!