👶 🧸 “The inner child in All Of Us is what survives when everyone stops trying to be cool” 💃🏻 🕺

“You smell nice,” I tell him. “It is Lynx,” he says, proud as if he mixed it himself. Others have said Aramis. Others Chanel Bleu. Each with the same open grin. It is not about the brand. It is the childlike joy of being noticed at all. Some would call them man children. I call them a reprieve.

They forget things. They overshare. A film. A clip on TikTok they swear I have to see. They talk in circles and laugh before I do. They tell me they are nervous and I can actually see and feel it. Some arrive polished with careful hair and perfect shoes. Others look like they dressed in the dark. It does not matter. The enthusiasm underneath is the same. It is oxygen.

They are not the men with checklists or stopwatches. Not the ones who turn praise into currency and silence into punishment. Those belong in “the types” in my blog entry #10: “Don’t Bite the Hand That Feeds You”.

These ones never learned to be cool and somehow that became their charm. They do not try to dominate the room. They try to make me laugh in it. They are not power hungry. They are attention hungry. And in a world full of strategists, a little unfiltered joy is rare air.

Sometimes they will start geeking out. Vintage bikes. Animes. The torque on a 1970s Honda. The perfect ramen shop in Surry Hills. A rare vintage Rolex dive watch they cannot afford but know everything about. The way their whole bodies animate when they talk is the reason I listen. It is the last honest thing left. Forgetting to be cool.

It is not an age thing. I have seen it in men with silver hair describing how they are bringing a vintage motorbike back to life with the same focus a boy gives his first toy. I have seen it in men still figuring life out. Inside every man there is that boy who wants to show you what he built or fixed or found. The boy who believes enthusiasm is its own reward.

And there are the steady ones too. The men who do not giggle or ramble or light up like sparklers, but whose kindness is its own warm hum. I treasure them just as much.

And the truth is simple. There is a girl in me too. Not the kind that causes trouble for landlords. The kind that lights up over small, unnecessary pleasures. Running my hand along an op shop rack until my fingers stop at real cashmere or silk long before my eyes confirm it.

I like to watch when I cut into egg Benedict and the yolk slowly ooze like bright lava on my plate. I like these things. I like the way they remind me that being alive is textured.

Once, a young cross dresser I adore was learning how to remove makeup. I showed him the routine. Oil cleanser first. Gentle circles. I left him alone in the bathroom thinking he would do the rest. While I was outside cleaning up the mess, I heard him yell from the bathroom, “Azura! Look, look!” I already felt something mischievous was happening before I reached the door. He had smeared the eyeliner into full Joker rings, dragged lipstick into a grin, and flexed his biceps. I laughed so hard I had to hold the doorframe. For a few minutes we were just two kids making a glorious mess. He texted later, thanking me for letting him be stupid. He did not need permission. He simply was. And I got to play too.

Travel slips into these moments as well. Once, a client discovered we had both wandered through the same obscure city in Spain. The same crooked streets. The same blue painted restaurant hidden behind the cathedral. Something lights up between us. Those tiny recognitions feel like soft sparks. Proof that the world is smaller than we pretend and that delight travels faster than memory. That is why the playful ones feel familiar. They recognise the spark in me. And suddenly we are not client and companion. We are two people who never quite learned to be bored by the world.

But the good ones stay in that gentle space between chaos and charm. The man who over apologises for nothing. The man who says thank you like it is a small prayer. The man whose nervousness makes him more human, not less. He is not my headache. He is my reminder that not every man is calculating his next move. Some are simply enjoying the moment without ruining it.

The world trains us to be serious about everything. Especially sex. Especially money. Especially where the two sit together. So when someone relaxes enough to play, to be silly, to care too much, I take it as an act of quiet rebellion.

They do not need saving. They do not need schooling. They need a room where joy is not embarrassing. Where nervousness meets patience. Where being a little too much is finally enough. I provide that room. And honestly, they remind me why this job still feels alive.

🫶🏽 ❤️  ** The statue, named  “Joy’”. She stands a few blocks aways from my home, click here to read more**❤️ 🫶