My appreciation of Harry Styles, Timothée Chalamet and Bailey Smith isn’t sexual

For women of a certain age, these confident beta males Timothée Chalamet, Harry Styles and Bailey Smith are a joy. Picture: Getty Images/Darcy Hunt

Look, I do not know exactly what I want to do with him. Pinch his cheek. Hug him. Run my finger down a bicep. Gaze? Really not sure. But I categorically do not want to see him naked. Do not want to do anything with him while I am naked. It’s not about that. It’s not sexual. It’s just a very private … joy. An unlocking into a younger self, a reminder of what I once was.

I’m talking Harry. Timothée. Bailey’s in there too, and Mr Luke. For women of a certain age. Do you get my drift? For the uninitiated, that’s Harry Styles, Timothée Chalamet, Bailey Smith and a male primary school teacher from South Australia and yes I’m blushing as I type. An obsession? No. But a lingering, unseemly noticing, yes. Of these beautiful, smiley boys – or I should say, men. An appreciation, I think it is, of their seemingly uncomplicated male glory.

Yes, I follow AFL star Bailey Smith on Instagram and yes, I’m a serious person. This very column won a Walkley Award last year for very serious things; two particular pieces of election commentary in fact. And now, dear reader, we have sunk to the topic of … Harry’s dimples. But really, is this sinking? Shall we stick with enlightening?

Harry Styles. Picture: Getty Images

Timothee Chalamet. Picture: AFP

Honestly, at the recent Harry Styles concerts I swear there should’ve been several stands devoted purely to demented 40- and 50-something women screaming his name. Not one stand, several. Yes, I was there at one concert, dancing like I was 13 years old, with a girlfriend older than myself as no one in my family would accompany me. Because, well, there’s the look. Whenever I talk about Harry or Timothée. It’s the dreamy idiocy on my face, apparently, as the name is said. It’s become a family joke. They gave me a Chalamet cushion for Valentines Day. I kept it.

This is joy. Giggly exhilaration. A reminder of the girl I was before life took over and became serious and weighty. It’s something about a state of sweet masculinity before it all fades and thins. It is appraisal. Approval. At the sheer adorableness of these gorgeous males. May none of us ever, entirely, grow up. Women, we contain multitudes. As of course do men.

Harry is a joyous and beautiful man who seems to display not a jot of toxic masculinity; he’s confident with who he is, comfortable and relaxed in his skin. He spent Christmas with his mum and posted about it; no embarrassment. There’s nothing threatening about him, to a woman, no darkness or edge. He just exists, in sweetest beauty.

AFL player Bailey Smith.

And in this age of Andrew Tate’s toxic darkness, is it too much to exult in the antithesis – the charming, self-deprecating beta males among us like Chalamet? I dream, in fact, of the Confident Beta who’s the role model for our young males, as opposed to the Insecure Alphas of Tate’s or Jordan Peterson’s ilk. Give me someone who’s unthreatened by females; respectful of them, playful and fair-minded. To show our lost boys that there’s another, charming way of being. I married a confident beta – a gift to womanhood and the best type of masculinity in my book.

The sheer joy of these new young males. They’re uncomplicated, fun, polite. They’ll dare to wear a dress. Date an older woman. A woman their own age for goodness’ sake. And the visual delight in gazing at them – which for this woman never dims. I recently gave a girlfriend a calendar of firemen holding kittens and we hooted in hysterics. Will I still be doing this when I’m 80? Most likely.

So now you know the secret pin-up indulgence. No explanation except for sheer, unadulterated joy. Oh, and I could never meet any of my boys. That’s not the point. It would just be one horrendous, never-stopping blush. So there you have it. From a serious person. With a very serious column. Please, no judging.