Do I look like I'm looking to kick it?

I was walking along today thinking about how dashing Mr. Norton was in that movie yesterday, and really the whole movie around him - it was so warm and yellow with rich, deep reds and blacks, whiteness rendered the color of hay. There's something so painfully alluring about worlds of fiction that are so clean and real (why real? I don't know why I wrote that, but I'll leave it) and carefully put together, where the leading man is quiet and clever and in control of everything. Is this what happens when one leaves the latent stage with John Galt in the mind? Perhaps, but this is getting off topic.

My point is, when I went to select a word for that feeling, the expression of appreciation for such a sight, I fished weakly around in the old vocab and after several tortured and confused seconds (having rejected that growling-in-the-throat sound for it both being not really a word and also something that I've never been able to do, even though I can roll my Rs in Spanish) selected: hubba hubba. Hubba hubba.

What am I, born in 1915, in uniform in a mess hall in 1941, having laid eyes on a busty nurse? What am I, on the Flintstones? (They said that on the Flintstones, right?) What am I, Sideshow Bob? ("Capital knockers, madam.")

Is this part of my vocabulary completely atrophied, or is it true that the only thing a woman can use to express this particular idea isn't even a word?