Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Mancandy Tuesday: Silas Weir Mitchell

For a start, just check out that name. It sounds like he's from a fantasy world where no one's allowed to be called something normal, like Frank or Bill. It sounds like he's a doctor from the nineteenth century who just invented the vibrator.

And is now going to use that vibrator on me. I have hysteria, okay? I need curing with lots of orgasms, delivered by a guy who looks like this:

Because seriously, who wouldn't want to be cured with lots of orgasms, as given to them by this guy? Look at his face! He’s so hairy and manly. He’s the kind of hairy manliness that I shouldn’t actually experience, cos I’m not adult enough. His beard is the equivalent of a dinner party where everyone talks about political things, only with a savage wolf attack, later on.

He’s the wolf.

After all, that's what he plays on Grimm. And it's fitting, too, because in all my days I don't think I've ever seen anyone who looks more like they could be an actual werewolf, under their man skin. He's not even really wearing man skin! Look at those insane eyes! He barely needs the bad CGI and crappy make up the show regularly slops all over him, with those crazy things staring right out of his head.

And that hair. I have to ask: does he brush it with a fistful of brambles? Can you even call that "bedhead", when you're not sure if he's ever seen the surface of said piece of furniture? I'm pretty sure he slept in a bin last night. Or a rain gutter. He slept inside a bin that fell into a rain gutter, and then got swept away to an enchanted forest where everyone has sex with everything all the time.

Or at least, he did in my head.

He does a lot of things, in my head - and all of them are excerbated by one other important factor:

On the show, they make him wear a lot of cardigans. And as you all probably don't know by now because I haven't blogged in forever and you've all forgotten who I am*, I love nothing better than a raggedy, rugged man who's all covered hair...and has then been wrapped in some sort of twee knitwear.

A sweater vest is best, but in a pinch, a cardigan will do. Or how about these sandy jackets he wears, with the leather patches on the elbows?

They give the same air of a librarian and/or teacher who's secretly a werewolf underneath. Tear off the corduroy and the little glasses, and underneath you'll find something seething with strange lusts - or, as Joy from My Name Is Earl claimed in a episode featuring Mr Mitchell:

A body that looks as though it's been made up of nothing but knees.

Which I think sounds kind of orsum, to be honest. As is the thing his character says to Joy in an effort to seduce her, during that same episode:

I'll wear that bag over my head like before, if you want.

And though I've no idea why secret werewolfism or being a doctor in the nineteenth century excites me, I do at least know why this floats my boat. And I'm now going to reveal that boat floating, even if it exposes me as a total weirdo who should probably be shunned and ostracised for fear of upsetting normal people:

It's because it means he doesn't really care about himself. His own sense of ego and vanity is subsumed by a) his clearly rampant desire for actual sex and b) the sexual needs of someone else.

And let's face it: how often do you see THAT on primetime television? Especially from what is, essentially, a very attractive man. I mean, even if you can't see the attractiveness beneath the layers of rugged, raggedy beard and obvious bestiality (not to mention the questionable age, which could, realistically, be somewhere south of 898), you've got to accept:

That's hot.

No shut up, it totally is. And if you say otherwise, you're just a cardigan hater.

Now ask yourself. Is that really what you want to be?

P.S. Fancy reading my latest novella? It just so happens to feature werewolves. And apocalypses. And forbidden lust. Hooray! You can get it here:


*It's me, Charlotte Stein! To further reacquaint yourself: I like long walks that don't actually take place in parks I can't be bothered to go to, holding hands for hours if by holding hands you actually mean rubbing rude bits together, and all that black stuff that comes after a sunset. I think it's called...night...time?


  1. This is a totally awesome blog post.

  2. Hey, thanks! I think you're a totally orsum person, Anon. Secret-Werewolf lovers of the world unite!

  3. Love, love, love men who wear jackets with patches on them. Especially tweed jackets with suede patches. And glasses. I think it has something to do with imagining what's underneath all that facade of propriety.