#17 - On being attracted to the only REAL man in the universe, Aragorn son of Arathorn.
a treatise on A Snack.
Recently, The Cut did a story about the only two types of people in the world: those who were attracted to Legolas, who is a tree elf, or a wood elf, or some shit like that, and those people attracted to Aragorn II, Heir to Isildur and Ranger in the North. AKA, people who like men, and you know, people who don’t.
Because it’s indisputable that Aragorn, Strider, Elessar, whatever you want to call him, is the ultimate snack. Look at those cheekbones. Look at that jawline, sporting that semi-permanent splatter of gristle. (Man probably shaves twice a day, in a vain effort to keep his face visible, but that manly-ass beard just sprouts in blatant defiance of whatever Dollar Shave Club they have in Middle Earth.) Look at the steely determination in his eyes. Whether he’s fighting off wraiths for his hobbit friends, or declaring his undying love for Arwen, or silently shouldering the burden of his kingly heritage, this man here is the real fuckin’ deal.
I knew that, at age 14, sitting in the library with my best friend Alexandra, composing odes to Viggo Mortensen-as-Aragorn’s shoulders. I had memorized the specific way Aragorn’s cloak hung from his neck, I dreamt steamy dreams about the mop of ratty, blood-and-sweat-soaked tresses that hung from Aragorn’s brow, which I now acknowledge as a wig.
Rugged doesn’t even begin to describe this man or his semi-immortal jawline. Defying aging stereotypes for white men, Aragorn, at a sprightly 87 years old during the events of the Lord of the Rings, outshines everyone around him, in nobility, bravery, and in uninhibited, raw intensity.
Other girls, like my best friend Shae, preferred Legolas, the skinny elf played by Orlando Bloom. There was something “exquisitely, effeminately beautiful” about Legolas, according to Sangeeta Singh-Kurtz, writing in The Cut. “He has long, silver-blonde hair, China-blue eyes, and a lithe, slim body.” Shae, who, it’s important to note, is now a lesbian, loved Legolas so much she had a cardboard cutout of him in her (heh) closet.
There are many reasons to be a Legolas girl. A frankly hilarious number of queer women I know were Legolas girls, Shae being only one of them. (It turns out that I too am queer, as I finally came to terms when when I turned 24. But the women I tend to be into have much more of a visceral Aragorn-esque energy to them, too.) Maybe Legolas, who really is quite beautiful, helped other queer women get closer to the idea of loving a woman, a femme. Or maybe they just really were attracted to the idea of being with a man so dainty he didn’t leave footprints when he walked.
One of my twitter followers, Chelsea, put it this way:
And that was just the thing. Legolas didn’t do it for me, because he was so damn unreal. Nothing was off about him, to an extent that seemed otherworldly. His gorgeous blonde hair remained perfectly tied back no matter what he did. Even his rough and tumble scenes, like when he killed an oliphant in Return of the King, even when him and Gimli the dwarf counted off their kills in the battle of Helm’s Deep, he was too precious, too perfect, too put-together.
My dream man, at the tender age of fourteen, was someone who was gritty and earthy, who wasn’t afraid to get down in the dirty mud, someone whose hair would get soiled and sweaty if he worked hard. I wanted the challenge of a real person. I wanted someone who flew into fits of rage, who did things like petulantly behead Sauron’s orc messenger if he didn’t hear what he wanted from him. I wanted to wrestle with the emotionality of an adult, I wanted to throw myself at a man and prove that I, myself, a fourteen year old skinny brown girl with braces and glasses, could take him, that was I was woman enough for a man like that.
I recognize, now, how silly that sounds. Thinking I was up to the challenge of a man like Aragorn — well, no kid is ready for that. No kid should have to be up for that. I’m damn lucky I didn’t find some older man to destroy my life at that age; for all my posturing and bluffing, I was quite hesitant to touch anything involving actual risk.
But the only thing I wanted, when I was younger, was to be a grownup. The only thing I ever wanted out of life was to be older, more mature, sophisticated. If you had asked me in high school what I wanted to be when I grew up, I couldn’t tell you anything. I would have no answers for you, other than glimpses at a vision of who I wanted to be. I’d be tall, curvy. I’d wear black, high heeled boots whenever I’d get a chance. I’d have swinging long, loose black hair cascading down my back. I’d have my own place, preferably in the city — which city, didn’t matter — have some sort of job that would allow me to hold a deep and interesting social life. I’d be the life of the party. I’d snap my fingers and men would hop to do my bidding. I wanted power and an aura of sex and even more power on top of that. And I wanted these orthodontics out of my damn face.
In my adult life, I’ve gotten my fill of men who were emotionally disregulated and bursting with malformed masculinity. There was IDF Asshole, as I not-so-affectionately remember him. He, who had been an American volunteer with the Israeli Army, was violent, possessive, deeply jealous and eventually dropped me like a stone the second he grew bored of me. There was the ex-fiance from when I lived in India, who accused me of cheating on him when I was assaulted at a party. There was the Australian guy who wanted me to join his polycule, who ghosted me after six months and multiple I-love-yous.
I wanted to wrestle with masculinity. I wanted to take on the challenge of a real man, grapple with his ego, bring it under my helm, win the war that was raging inside of me. But instead of a passionate Aragorn, I just got macho douchebag after macho douchebag.
But, then again, there was also my college boyfriend, a boy I dated for six years, who was one of the most gentle people I’ve ever met; who grew into a man who steadfastly supported me emotionally through some of the hardest years of my life. There was the med student, who touched me so sweetly I still want to cry, when I think about him. And of course, there’s Alex. Alex, the man I’m with now; Alex, who is steady and sweet and loving and doesn’t hesitate to push back against me when I am being silly or obstinate.
Would Alex be worthy of reforging the shards of Narsil and reclaiming his rightful heritage as High King of both Gondor and Arnor?
I mean, no. No one can do that, because none of that is real. Aragorn the man, he doesn’t exist. No man I’ve ever met has ever matched the otherworldly intensity and purity of spirit that Aragorn wields, and maybe that’s okay. Maybe I didn’t need to go up against someone like that, because maybe I wasn’t as perfect as I wanted myself to be either.
Maybe what I needed, in a partner, was a real human being, not a king.