What’s the most attractive course?
Let’s be honest it’s probably Computer Science
In every course there is a base level of physical attractiveness which binds us all, a defining aesthetic which only the outsiders (idiots on other courses) can appreciate. But which is the fittest? Read these and decide.
One thing you have to say about Accountants, always very well dressed. Baby’s first Zara or Burton’s suit, that kind of aesthetic. They’ve got a real slate grey, mysterious, Don Draper type vibe. They’re not exactly mainstream fit, but they’re fit in a put together way. You can tell they’ve got up a little bit earlier, packed their bags very carefully, carried their coffee all the way to class. They’re beautiful in an “I’ve made an effort” kind of way but at the end of the day it’s a bit “where is the chase and how can I cut to it”.
There’s just something a bit Freddie Prinze Jr in She’s All That about them.
There’s something so chill and misled about them that you just want to take them and guide them into your bed. Remove their patchwork jacket, slide their camo pants down. Relax.
With zero degree prospects, they’re carefree, which is the most attractive thing about them. Even better than that Indiana Jones thing.
There’s something strangely attractive about the diamonds in the rough who study Architecture. Tall, disheveled and from South Africa, you can catch them in the library, sketchpad in hand and a cheeky grin on their face. They’re nerdy but in a cute way: the type of boy or girl you’d be happy to take home to meet your fam.
You know bodies very well, now show me yours.
Ed knows how to do business in both the boardroom and the bedroom, and the only things more secure than his financial future are his large, well-manicured hands. Put aside the fear that he may be a sociopath who murders homeless people, and go with the flow. After all, who needs a conscience when you’re sleeping on a bed of money.
The sweet spot where moneyed public school meets fleeces, sandals and non-ironic male ponytails. Lottie, Helen and Jamie are aloof like slightly statue until you whisper sweet Catullus bars into their ears. Just make sure you don’t go after anyone who can read Ancient Greek, they can be a bit beta.
I’m not going to sit here and lie to you guys. I won’t pretend. Is Computer Science studied by the snappy dressers, the sculpted and worked out, the well groomed, the irresistibly fuckable? No, no it’s not. It’s studied by ginger boys with scaly cheeks and papery hands, by boys who drink Monster in the AM, by boys who have LAN parties on Friday night. If it doesn’t have a wifi connection they don’t want to know. They snack on white bread without buttering it. They only own one pair of jeans. They can pass for amusing online but in real life they won’t look into your eyes. If there were automatic weapons on sale in this country you’d have thought maybe Andy will do the next Virginia Tech. But Andy didn’t and now he’s at a prestigious university, without a girlfriend, without the prospect of one either. I’ll tell you this though: Andy’s horizon ought to be less girlfriend-less. Andy, with his love of real ale and his Scrapheap Challenge addiction is the biggest catch in halls. Seriously. In five years time Andy will have sold his unicorn (google “unicorn” + “finance” mate) to some branch of Bank of America, he’ll be living a West Coast penthouse, he’ll have mastered yoga and society princesses will be queuing up to be taken to the Met Gala by him.
It’s not about having sex with Xavier, it’s about making love. From his carefully windswept hair to the dark glasses and that ironic overcoat, he has cultivated a very particular aesthetic. The attraction isn’t to physical perfection, it’s knowing that a night round his won’t be Netflix and chill (half an episode of Narcos and a handjob), it’s an evening of £6.75 red wine, films with subtitles and gentle yet firm lovemaking. Afterwards he’ll read aloud his poems from the moleskine notebook he keeps beside the bed. The ink is still wet. He is describing a girl who is not you.
Is it just me or is there just something a bit arousing about knowing if they killed you they would know exactly why they did it, why you were attracted to them in the first place, and where they could hide your body.
Confidence is sexy, and Lisa has confidence oozing from her every pore. She has that inimitable skill of keeping all eyes on her in the bar, and it’s not just because she is gesticulating a lot while she talks about the symbolism in Les Mis. She is the reason you are suddenly watching it on a shit streaming website on a Sunday night. She’s probably not going to show you her inner thigh tattoo of Javier, but it’s worth it, for the chance, for the very chance.
Plus she might be famous one day.
Excellent teeth, white and shiny. Imagine how they’ll look as they smile at your mum. Lovely.
There’s something Patrick Bateman-esque about Economic students. They’re incredibly ambitious, driven by money and material things. They’re ruthless and attractive in that chiselled serial killer kind of way. It sets them up perfectly for when they become a suit and start working in the city. If they get any hate it’s because everyone is jealous of your great hair and sharp jaw.
If you have a fetish for gap hoodies and trackies, then the engineering lecture hall is a watering hole of potential partners – loud breathing becomes irrelevant when you’re in a room surrounded by people with the steadiest hands and fastest brains at university. Ed can wield a protractor with the precision of an artist, running his fingers along the smooth edge like he would the curve of your spine, eyes boring into your soul like he’s solving a differential equation. With no time to go out, Ed makes up for it in other areas, and no student knows their way around their own bedroom quite as well as engineering students do. It takes no time to pull a hoodie off over your head, if you know what I mean.
Emma has that air of quiet confidence. She is well-read and smart, whilst also being whimsical and just the right amount of serious. English girls always tend to look like they have stepped right out of the Renaissance period. They always dress in a way that you would be proud if they came for lunch with your family. Boys who study English are just so utterly in touch with their emotions.
Chiselled cheekbones, flawless drapery, eating tiny little pieces of cheese every time she thinks she’s going to faint: there’s just something really ethereal about Miranda. She’s so beautiful you almost forget that she’s wearing last season’s Balmain.
Fashion girls, and the inevitable fashion boy companions, are other-worldly. They speak another language, a language of pining after £400 shoes and knowing the exact shade of cerulian blue that’s in this season and how to cut fabric like a motherfucker. And you, lowly Humanities student, you watch them float onto campus impeccably dressed at 9am, and imagine how you would snort together ironically watching the Devil Wears Prada, but it will never be.
I live in a private accommodation building near the city centre on the third floor. My name is Paul. I am 18-years-old. I believe in taking care of myself. I enjoy a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise regime. In the morning I put an ice pack on my face if it’s feeling a little puffy and do stomach crunches. I can do 1,000 now. In the shower I use a water activated gel-cleanser and a coconut body scrub. For breakfast I take imported Gyokuro Asahi Green Tea and two sides of wholemeal bread made with spelt and dehydrated honey, buttered with imported quince jam. There is an idea of Paul, there is an abstraction, something glittering but not there; not a real me but an illusion. Though I hide my cold gaze and you can grasp my hand and feel flesh and blood, and perhaps even sense that our lifestyles are comparable. I simply am not here.
The way you hold a crayon gets me so hot and bothered.
Most of you aren’t much to look at, but you’ll occasionally find a geologist who rocks your world: a hard-hat and fleece wearing hunk of chiselled marble with a stony jaw and a forehead like a granite counter. He’ll have a sturdy name like Rhys or Adam, and he’ll make your heart flutter every time he gets out his magnifying glass to inspect soil samples.
Rufus and Tarquin look like Gant models, all checked shirts and pastel pocket squares. They enjoy the finest thing in life, and ensure their red chinos match their magnum of Merlot. Argumentative, domineering and suave, these guys know a lot about the past but might just hold the ticket to a bright future in Finance, Parliament or on TV. Just hope they’re more Dan Snow than Boris Johnson.
Anyone that knows how to fix a Macbook is sexy. Don’t you just put it in rice? No, no you don’t, because Nick is going to take out the fucking motherboard and then he’s going to lick you out.
Andrew has taken to the stage. His hands are trembling. He counters the tremors by grasping the lectern until his knuckles turn whiter than the UN logo blown up on the wall behind him. A single bead of sweat rolls from his forehead to his chin before crashing onto a tailored lapel. If he doesn’t get this resolution past the Security Council everything will, quite literally, be fucked. The US and France are waiting excitedly to press the big red button that sends F-35 after F-35 over Syria, how on Earth are you going to stop them? Well I’m sorry Mr Obama but you don’t know the words written on the piece of paper Andrew has brought to the lectern with him. You don’t know the order they’re going to be said in and you most certainly don’t know the emotion and gravitas with which Andrew is going to emboss those words as he delivers the most significant political oration in modern times.
Andrew was never asked to work part-time Saturdays in Hollister while taking his A levels, but he made damn sure that he put those eight hours stints to good use. Reading Enoch Powell and Tony Benn over and over. He’s not a looker, but subtly handsome. His beauty is in his intelligence and, more importantly, his power. The ultimate aphrodisiac. Sure this is only the MUN, but you’ll remember that humanities seminar room speech when you two bump into each other on the Union’s dancefloor next Wednesday.
Multi-tasking is not a word normally associated with sexual attraction but believe me. When you’ve seen a man chime into a conversation to offer his Spark Notes Lite insight into Michael Fassbender’s portrayal of Macbeth before returning to telling you about his six months studying in Turin for his Italian modules, you won’t be able to stop yourself.
French is the language of love. No, German is. Nope, Spanish. Well actually, it doesn’t matter, because Elena speaks them all and you fall in love with her a little more every time she breathes “Donde esta la biblioteca” against your sweaty neck.
There’s one benefit to going out with the painfully boring class of human that chooses to study something as dry as law. They have their shit together. There is a precisely zero per cent chance of Frances leaving the house without a perfectly complimenting cable knit, oxford shirt, chino combination. There’s an air of sophistication in the way they dress, you’ll never have to worry about taking them back to meet your parents with a overstretched t-shirt or a nose ring. Some call them boring, but really they’re just your normal mates 10 years into the future, head to toe in well-fitting, but sensible outfits.
What is it about people who study management that makes them so flawless? Is it the few hours of contact, leaving them with the time to fake tan and work out, or the fact that business=money=beauty? Inhabited by bronzed, blonde girls called Grace and cheeky chappies called Charlie, these management kids will manage your heart and not your expectations.
You’d think, with all the hours doctors spend slaving away on the wards, all the decades spent actually finishing their degree, that they wouldn’t have time to worry about their appearance. But why are they all so hench then? You expect them to be like Patch Adams but they’re kind of like that fit angry doctor from Scrubs (not JD). If I had the same amount of contact hours as Medics I wouldn’t have any energy to dress myself, or go to the gym. But they throw that white coat over those chiselled abs and they take themselves off to complain about Jeremy Hunt for hours.
They are inexhaustible: ethically, professionally, hopefully sexually.
Louise has the gentle, careful hands of all midwives. I wish she would deliver me like a baby.
Have you ever had a boy sit you down in a dark room and sing you a song on acoustic guitar? No? Then you will not understand that nothing else matters in that moment. It doesn’t matter that they’re name’s Eugene, that they’re shagging your housemate, that they actually only took this degree because their mum paid for trombone lessons for the last ten years. Musicians have an ability to make you forget everything else and convince you that they’re beautiful in every way just by playing music. At the end of the song reality will come acutely back into focus, and you’ll see all of those things, but while you are thinking of them as a musician, not a person, everything will be fine and they are beautiful.
Anyway here’s Wonderwall.
This degree means that they understand your brain. Understand your thought processes. They can tell you more about yourself than you will ever know. They also wear white coats and spectacles, but aren’t as nerdy or socially awkward as the Chemistry kids.
I’ve been casually shagging you for the last two months in the hope that you would wear your nurse’s outfit just once. Then last week I overslept and caught you leaving for clinic in your scrubs. I realised you don’t have an outfit like that, and I watch too much porn.
No matter where you are going they will be overdressed and you will pale into insignificance like a slug. Hair perfectly coiffed, always inexplicably in bodycon. There are no Pharmacy girls, there are only Pharmacy women.
You’re actually quite fit, but you dress like you wish you weren’t. You wear baggy vintage clothes, grubby shoes and mask your face with a top knot and layers of facial hair. Everything about you is niche – your charity shop clothes, your taste in music (you’ll never listen to an artist someone else has heard of), and you wouldn’t be caught dead in a pub or club that other students have heard of. And I want you.
The laws of attraction are simply Newtonian, so who knows love better than a physics student? A man (they’re nearly always men) who wears a labcoat and goggles that thick on a daily basis has to be relatively confident anyway.
Be the Abbott to my Corbyn, the Lewinsky to my Clinton, the Currie to my Major. There’s a reason why politics is a never-ending whirlwind of sex scandals and ministerial delinquency. As Oscar Wilde/Kevin Spacey once said: “Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power”. And while Politics students may appear like your bang average Humanities undergrad, one day they might have a moderate amount of power, the ultimate aphrodisiac.
If Finance and Philosophy had a Fashion baby, this would be the lovechild. Suave with a hint of alternativism, smart, but with slightly too short (on purpose) trousers with brightly coloured socks – a physical embodiment of intelligence. Multitalented, attractive individuals who don’t need to decide on one topic because they’re so employable. Who wouldn’t want James in their seminar, legs crossed, IQ gleaming from the ankle, to come to their dinner party? He provides stimulating conversation as well as looking good next to you in every club photo.
Generally fine unless you’re secretly in love with your dad.
Sociology students have so much free time, what more is there to do but be ridiculously fun, well-kept and well-dressed. They are also the people that applied for uni not really knowing what they wanted to study but just knew that uni would show them a good time and vice versa. Thus they are excellent for dating.
You will find yourself up at 4am, glass of wine in hand reconsidering everything you’ve ever known. This Theology kid has opened your eyes to the ways of the world and you therefore, obviously, want to pull their clothes off on the spot. Queue the next day when you realise you were right in the first place, but it’s fun to toy with the ideas of Turtullian and Plato with someone called Hugo or Elise, isn’t it?
There’s something a bit George of the Jungle about the way you can perfectly pronounce Humuhumunukunukuapua’a, or how you nurse tiny sick birds back to health, or how you climb me like a palm tree when we’re behind closed doors.
Just leave the cargo shorts at home and everything will be fine.