In the cobblestoned lanes of Rome, I discover a city carelessly in love with love. Carelessness over coffees, over stolen kisses next to abandoned fountains, over half-naked men escaping married women’s hatches, and the occasional over excited old man letting loose a sultry string of words at a woman walking by. They take their cappuccino standing up here, and they start drinking before the sun bids them goodbye. At no point do their oddities seem contrarian; just reckless and hopelessly stylish. Almost like a bunch of stuff tossed up in Rome, falling all over, but instead of creating a mess, looking carelessly sexy, like bed head or smeared mascara or the teasing trespass of a concealed love bite.
I soon realise it is this imprecise exactness that makes them so irresistibly sexy. Imperfect perfection. Style, in clothes, in mannerisms, in the lilt of the hand as it twiddles the cigarette, in the poise of the lips, in the languish of the legs, in the tuck of the shirt that is almost perfect, but for that wrinkled infilare just above the butt, and those sunglasses protecting against moonshine and streetlights; style that looks so casual that it looks careless like everything else here. But it most definitely isn’t. The Italians have a word for it. They call it sprezzatura—a studied, or meticulously arrived at carelessness. I call it styling for sex appeal.
Sprezzatura might be an Italian word, but it is merely the naming of a characteristic that the sexiest men and women in the world are wrapped in. To put an Indian context to it, think of the sexiest Indian men—Amitabh Bachchan, Milind Soman, Shah Rukh Khan. They are certainly not the best looking of their contemporaries, but have that innate sprezzatura. Shah Rukh’s careless mop of hair, Bachchan’s grey beard paired with black hair, Milind Soman, with his languid effeminacy, still channelling more macho than a testosterone factory—these are but the tips of their sprezzatura iceberg.
Priyanka Chopra’s splendidly husky voice is anything but feminine, but my heaven on earth would be to hear her moan with pleasure. The king of Indian celebrity sprezzatura, however, would have to be Jackie Shroff. That man in his prime had women in my locality in Ibiza giggling and squirming whenever he would pop up on TV. I scored one of my proudest dates sporting the speckled batik scarf on a black shirt, a look I’d caught off Jackie on a paparazzi shot. If you think all these folks get the careless streak in their style statements purely by accident, think again. Being sexy is hard work, amigos.
So how do you brand this stylishness into yourself? Scrap the slogan T-shirts. Those words of cheap wit are like eight lever chastity locks on your dick. Pair shoes the right way, and always make sure they are looked after. Converses can be cute if you can pair them with class all over. You might like to look like a teenager, but trust me; teenagers do a better job of looking themselves than you ever will. And the men shall drive by and give you change for cub scout cookies. Buy a good pair of Oxford or Chelsea boots if you can’t figure out your style, and take good care of them.
Pay more attention to the tailoring of your clothes than their print. If they fit well they will look good. Sprinkle some of your individuality onto it. If you identify yourself with a wild streak, leave a few buttons undone, (but know the difference between, hello chest hair, and WTF! Pubes!?). Splurge on class, and then leave a brick of skin showing where soft wool could have been—show gloveless ankles. Wear precision ties with formals, but roll up them sleeves, or go formal with a suit replaced by a fitted V-neck pullover.
Groom yourself well, but remember that perfectly slicked hair looks even better when a strand dangles off it carelessly. You like it in women, and trust me, they like that bit of carelessness in you. Accessorise. Slip a tattoo. Be proud of your greys. Surprise, surprise, is that a piercing that titillates her eyes?
Style yourself for sex. In all aspects. At any time, imagine yourself as someone who is being looked at by the girl of your wildest dreams. What would you have her know, while she watches you, waiting for a friend, sipping coffee at a table, standing by an elevator, eating fruit on the go. Do you like to get messy? Lick the dribble of orange juice off your thumb? Or mop it tidy with a piece of folded tissue paper. Do you lean while typing messages against the wall, or do you stand still. Do you squint with the sun on your face, or do you like the breeze to slither through your hair? At any of these points, “all that you need to do,” says Lindsay—who you don’t need to know because she is a bad, bad girl—“is to feel like someone that the person you crave, wants to make love to. All the time. Sprezzatura will come easy after that.”
Adios, amigos. It’s time for me to lick gelato off a pair of waiting lips.
