Fashion Writer Sweats Sleazy Look 2016-2017
Time for a confession: I love a guy with a sleazy look. I swoon for their louche, sweaty style. I’m enamored with the singer Pitbull, and his Havana shirts and tight, white trousers. I unironically praise velour tracksuits. I have a crush on DJ Khaled, with his man jewelry and smoking robes.
I blush at sharply edged facial hair. I am hypnotized by heinous, shiny dress shoes that are paired with faded jeans. When the cab driver who dropped me off to work this morning flashed me a smile, revealing a gold canine tooth, I felt something close to infatuation. My heart regularly skips a beat at a good turtleneck and sport jacket ensemble; Extra points for a thin gold chain strung around the neck. I’m not sure how or why this happened, I just know the reactions that come along with it. My coworkers make gagging faces and roll their eyes, friends pray for me, and though my mother likes Don Johnson in Miami Vice from time to time, she openly cringes at my (many) admissions. But I have long held a candle for this type of man, and barring chemical interference or a lobotomy, that’s not going to change any time soon. So I figured I’d better try to understand it. And here’s what I found: There is something strangely alluring about a man with unforgivable style. These men are the ones to shirk trends in lieu of their own seedy look, however deeply dated. They proudly perspire in Bee Gees–era pastel button-ups, time-warped and stinking of cologne in Huckapoo shirts, or wafting of stale cigarettes below their Kangol newsboy caps.
There’s no adherence here to the oversize hoodies of Vetements, nary a Supreme tee in sight, and neither Yeezy or Brioni fits into their closet vocabulary. For these men, there is no need to skew toward mass trends or consistent classics, no interest in copping the latest It piece. Instead, they find luxury as well as self-satisfying comfort in their own sleazy selves, their utter lack of irony, and their absolute confidence.