Five years ago, I wrote a column titled ‘Husbands and Boyfriends’. In it, I made the distinction between the two categories of straight men that exist. Husbands and Boyfriends — not as single or married designations, but rather, the embodiment of what either group represents. For example: Denzel Washington is a Husband; Will Smith is a Boyfriend. Both men are married, obviously. And, as far as I can tell, happily so. But the point is this: men — married or single — can fall into either group.

Think about it: Husband. Boyfriend.

(This column got me in trouble with some of my Boyfriend male friends… pissed off because their Significant Others, violated by insight after reading the column, started giving them the awkward eye).

To me, a classic Husband is dependable, solid and stable, the kind of guy who calls when he says he will; a Boyfriend, though, all let-the-chips-fall-where-they-may, see-where-the-road-leads-us fun and excitement. A Husband is typically the kind of man who’s not prone to gross flirtation. He’s the kind of man his woman is proud to show up with at the office Christmas party despite all the horny single women there who, enlightened by the liquor, by around midnight realise their lives are empty husks and that they’re fast running out of options. All that subsequent groping and flesh-peddling on the dance floor will not turn the Husband’s head, however. The night will not end in a humiliating incident involving him and one of those single female co-workers behind a car in a dark corner of the parking lot.

The vintage Boyfriend, now, is the kind of man who looks, and is, good enough to eat. A woman looks at him, at how wildly entertaining he is, and regardless of whether he’s already married, loses her ability to think rationally about him. Where the Husband has eyes only for his lady, the Boyfriend makes every woman in the room feel as if she stands a chance. As though if you get him in the right position, you could get him to perform unspeakable acts that you both will regret in the morning.

Denzel has eyes only for his wife, that’s pretty obvious. And one gets the sense that all the tequila in Mexico couldn’t make him drunk enough to end up on the front page of the National Enquirer shacked up with some busty tart all decorated with tattoos. Will, now. Everybody knows he worships Jada, but come on. Would any of us be that surprised if in a moment of weakness certain allegations surfaced? He’s a flirt. A charmer. Remember that interview with Oprah when he stroked her toes? You could argue that it’s a persona. But who knows where persona ends and the real person begins?

Back in February 2005, the news story du jour was Prince Charles and Camilla Parker-Bowles’s engagement, and I, like every other woman alive, had been contemplating the strangeness of love. How was it possible for the prince to have chosen the matronly Camilla over Diana? And what did Camilla see in him to make her want to suffer for love like that, to withstand abuse from a public so infatuated by Diana, I wondered. Why Charles? Charles with the goofy grin, the ears? Really? But as far as we could tell, he’d loved her for a long time. That was when I realised there were two basic kinds of men: Husbands and Boyfriends. And it hit me: she wanted a man who would love and cherish her forever and always; she wanted a Husband. A Denzel.

Wives and Girlfriends, on the other hand. Completely different matter. The distinction doesn’t so much exist on the same metaphorical sense, does it? The categories are literal. A Wife is a woman who’s married; a Girlfriend is a woman who is not. The simple truth is girlfriends are girlfriends until they become wives. That’s it. Girlfriends behave like girlfriends until their biological clocks start ticking. Then they transform themselves into Wives so they can get picked. Then they become wives and start having children and their days of being girlfriends are over. There are more bitter husbands than you can shake a stick at, who’ll tell you about their wives, who once they snagged the diamond, stopped doing the tricks that hooked their men in the first place. I have a male friend who once complained to me about how his wife swore, after they were married, that she never engaged in oral sex at any time in her adult life, with him or anyone else. He was incredulous. “If I’d known her mouth was going to join church,” I remember him saying disgustedly, “I’d have married the girl I was creeping around with while we were going together.”

And even if a wife indulges in the fantasy of acting like a girlfriend — she has an affair, say; rest assured, that party won’t last long. Her obligation to her family will, in all likelihood, win out in the end. Remember Meryl Streep in The Bridges of Madison County?

But back to Husbands and Boyfriends.

A woman needs to know the kind of man she wants. What kind of man do I want? The answer remains the same as it was, five years ago. While the idea of being cherished by a stable, consistent man has its own ragged appeal, I’d still really rather wake up every morning and fall in love all over again with the guy who’ll take me on a roller coaster ride. I want a Boyfriend. A Will. A guy who makes me laugh hard and love harder. You know I’m setting myself up for a lifetime of heartache, right? Nothing wrong with a Husband. But me, I crave the thrill only a Boyfriend can give.

I know, I know. I’m a walking cliché.