I would’ve dated every character on Outlander.

First, let me say that this is what happens when the hiatus runs long and I’m on medical leave and I end up watching what amounts to 48 straight hours of Comic Con videos and photos and thinking, “Damn. These are some ridiculously attractive people.” A recap of the promo is a bit much for my short bursts of energy as things stand, but this rolled right out, ha ha.

Let me say first that obviously the series is more than the love scenes, and of course the actors on the show are talented, incredibly generous with charities and time spent connecting with the fandom. Absolutely true that the sum of the narrative is about more than physical bodies and the collective gravity-defying sex appeal of the cast. Now that we have established that, I’m just going to talk about the sexy, so if that isn’t your cup of tea, jump ship.

For purposes of this rumination, I am going to stick with the principal S1-S3 characters. The adult ones, or the ones that will be adults by the end of S3. Also, when I refer to “boy-me,” that’s because I am cis hetero. Insert your own gender/orientation as it applies. Or don’t, and taste the rainbow. Live a little.

Fergus Fraser- I have yet to see adult Fergus onscreen, but if the social media reaction is any gauge at all, he’s going to be propelled straight into heaven by giant, gusting sighs. Fergus combines the earnest face of a renaissance angel with the easygoing rough-and-tumble-ness of your favorite boy band member, and 14-year old me would be HERE FOR IT. Tween/early teen me had a short list for the ideal boyfriend: be arguably prettier than me, have an accent and be super into insecure, cantankerous young women. Fergus and I would have been blissfully happy right until I met him in person at my local mall and fainted dead away, ending our brief, blissful love.

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Geillis Duncan- That’s right, I’m giving props all-around, even if I don’t play for that team because LOVE IS LOVE. The series version of Geillis nails the tricky combination of femme fatale and antihero that make the character so compelling to watch. Teenage boy-me would probably be the kind to fill my DeviantArt page with images of a land mermaid with the slinky moves and alluring-yet-potentially-already-over-you eyes of human ocelot Geillis.  IRL, Geillis is the girl that teenage-boy me would brag pushed me aside in a hallway once on her way to the quarterback, but it would still totally be worth it because SHE TOUCHED ME, YOU GUYS.

 

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Brianna Randall/Fraser- This is right around the time that college-age boy-me decides to take a Gender Studies class because it’s probably full of chicks (boy I sound like an ass). Instead, fate delights in yanking my hipster beard by making sure I fall hard for the outspoken redhead with the killer grin that can talk circles around me. Brianna is the kind of girl that a dude would think “she has no idea how beautiful she is” and then discover that no, she knows exactly how beautiful she is, but what does that have to do with anything? Then she would lecture me about stereotypes, the male gaze, and the polar ice caps. College boy-me would ask Bree out to fair-trade, sustainably farmed coffee knowing all the while that even if my massive crush never resulted in a romantic relationship, I would laugh a lot, get superior hugs and some heartfelt, no-bullsh*t advice on how to do better with the next girl. We would never date but I would sign any petition she ever tagged me on without reading it, because trust.

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Jamie Fraser- Jamie is the impossibly hot dude who I talk to all night and into the next morning at my first college party, then gamely assist in the mutual loss of our virginities. The next four years would consist of sharing an apartment, precious little clothing and the most athletic sexperiments of my adult life. We would cook zucchini pasta together and watch The Wire. He would be an excellent liar, a fair brawler, and a terrible singer. Our idyll would be broken only by being woken in the middle of the night to make multiple trips to the ER, my eventual realization that I wasn’t built for the #telenovelalife and my abiding torment in not being as good-looking as my partner. After an amicable breakup, we remain Facebook friends and occasionally, he helps me move.

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Dougal MacKenzie- Dougal is the torrid affair I have at the biker bar where I go to karaoke “The First Cut is the Deepest” in a fruitless effort to get over Jamie. Despite the age gap, Dougal is what Cher Horowitz would refer to as “brutally hot.” Given the recklessness of the getting under-to-get-over School of Relationship Mourning, that’s probably enough fuel for a four-hour rendezvous with someone who is more likely than not to kill me in the morning. The affair sails hopefully (if drunkenly) upon surprisingly rock-hard abs, only to sink the next morning when I stumble upon his home office in my search for the bathroom, and it’s wallpapered with extreme political propaganda. I regretfully set off on my walk of shame after stealing a shirt that smells like him.

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Claire Beauchamp/Randall/Fraser/Randall/Fraser, etc.- Claire is the classy grad student boy-me meets while getting my master’s degree in something really obscure and important-sounding which she delights in mocking. She and I both know that she’s way above my pay grade, but she’s bored and I’m nice enough. As for me, she’s up for doing it in graveyards and can also name all the bones in the body alphabetically so I happily volunteer to help her pass the time. A wise gazelle who won’t hesitate to tell me when I am lapsing into pretentious ennui, our entire relationship is spent taking advantage of the inventiveness of her mind, the agility of her person and on my part, delaying any possible trips to Scotland. After the breakup, no one believes she dated me, and I hate bagpipes forever.

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Roger Wakefield/MacKenzie- Roger’s the blue-eyed dreamboat twenties-me meets at some work mixer and proceeds to date on and off for ten years while I both actively set out to seduce the awkwardness out of him and avoid getting married. He’s old-fashioned, wants a steady marriage like his folks, grows hair like his face is his own personal garden in permanent Springtime, has a brick house tush and is surprisingly funny in moments of extreme tension.  We get a ticket once for doing it in his Volvo, but he pays it like a gentleman. Despite my fear of commitment and having kids in my twenties, I find him impossibly charming and irresistibly steadfast and cuddly. After a while, I start poorly imitating his accent until I annoy him, and that’s when things go downhill. Once I get around to considering his proposals seriously, he gently breaks up with me and proceeds to hook up with a redhead.

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Black Jack Randall- In an alternate universe where I could regenerate appendages, sure. In this one, not so much. I’d love to run my hands through that hair, but I happen to like my fingers where they are.

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Frank Randall- Reserved, self-effacing, thoughtful, quietly witty and thirsty for knowledge and whoopie, Frank would satisfy my need for a Mulder-type without all the tedious sister issues. We’d meet at a fundraiser in my early thirties, both tired of the bullshit and ready to hold down jobs and raise babies. He’d admire my independence and wit. His tweed suit and deadpan humor would be my catnip. His proposal would both make ruthless sense and be crushingly tender. In the evenings, he would read poetry to me while I sat on his lap and admired the wonder of his creases and jawline. We would adopt a boy and a girl, raise them in gender-neutral surroundings and be accepting of all their life choices. Later in life, Frank would become interested the practice of tantric sex, and wouldn’t mind that I never lost the baby weight.

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Murtagh Fraser- After my incredibly long-lived husband passes away during a bout of energetic love making and my kids decide to put senior-me in a home, I will meet fellow resident Murtagh during dance class and plan to break a hip on him. He makes no demands on me but is sure to glower at the punk orderlies trying to short me on the blankets. Everything about him is gruffly affectionate, but never proprietary. Murtagh had one great love, and I wasn’t it. Now in the twilight of our shenanigating days, we’re just in it for the lolz, to piss off our nurses and thumb our noses at the establishment. It doesn’t hurt at all that even in old age, Murtagh is a stealth fox (completely made up Latin name: Quidagis Vulpessexycus), and has aged like the fine whiskey I will allow him to get me drunk on once we both decide it’s on.

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