I went on a date the other week with a pair of hot Swedish volleyball players with galactic hoots and bodies so taut that quarters bounce off bellies. These buxom hotties could easily have graced the pages of Brodawg Magazine, posing in the rain, wearing only leather belts. As they were putting on their heels to join me in the champagne jacuzzi, it occurred to me that these phantasmagorical sirens weren’t doing it for me. Then I woke up with both of my arms in my pant legs. Cursed margaritas, so tequila-y and delicious.Women with curves make my junk bark. There is something so shockingly vulnerable, feminine, and grounded about a woman with back, hips, a lil’ paunch.
I am not going to hate on our collective notions of beauty. Does Megan Fox cause my eyes to pop out of their sockets, cartoon-style? Sure. But it’s an almost Pavlovian response. There is a profound disconnect between what we’re told to think is sexy, and what it is that we actually think is sexy, between glamour groupthink and the sanctity of the individual perversion. Not all dudes want to go home with vampy, bikini-dipped beauty queens. In fact, most men will probably agree with me that what satisfies their touch and tongue cannot be communicated in two dimensions. That while the pack howls for sexpots built to factory specifications, we’re all still lone wolves hunting our lust’s lonely prey. The difference between a boy and a man is simple: A man knows what he wants and doesn’t apologize for it. The right “type” is whomever he says it is.
More often than not, I want curves. And if not curves, I want tall, lanky, long legs. I think I have a weird Earth Goddess/Edward Gorey fetish. I have dated all types of women, and I don’t judge a potential relationship, or even a sticky, sweet fling, exclusively by physical criteria. But we’re talking desire here, and desire is wholly misunderstood. Desire is an intense fist floating in your pelvis that only unclenches during those fleeting moments when you’re running your nose up her neck, nibbling her lip, sliding fingers under shirts and up spines. Desire is not a Whopper after a morning spent in front of a computer writing blog posts. It’s waffles and ham steak after a monumental hike. What we desire is unique to the individual, and it must be sated. Far too many people lead very unhappy lives, desperate for the mob’s approval. Men dating centerfolds for the applause. Women confusing the car for the driver.
You know what’s really of social value? Happy people. People who valiantly flip the bird to convention and bang it out with whomever happens to turn the roots of every hair on their body into itty-bitty little lightening rods. There is no reason the superficial has to be superficial — every fire needs a spark, and we’re talking about sparks, that initial attractiveness.Women with curves make my junk bark. There is something so shockingly vulnerable, feminine, and grounded about a woman with back, hips, a lil’ paunch.
Oh, and the beanpoles, with their delicate architecture. A tall woman with long legs, who is shyly unaware of her fairy tale regality, likewise turns me back into a sweating, erotically overcharged 15-year-old. It’s almost a narcotic effect, when one of these graceful women wraps their legs around you, holding you close, yielding and demanding surrender at the same time. It’s … sensual? Did I really just type that? Surely, there’s a more testosterone-friendly way of saying “sensual.” Like, “slow boner?” Oh, well. The word “sensual,” like desire, is misunderstood. Sensuality is a time machine that slows things down so you can greedily savor every nanosecond. It is lust on the molecular level; it ‘s knowing that the fingertips are the real eyes of boot-knocking, and to glide them over a curvy woman’s figure, or up and down legs like the horizon is to take in the kind of vista they turn into postcards. I know these things to be true.
The majority of the women I’ve chased, loved, and slept with fall into one of those two categories. The other categories include: book nerds with glasses, tattooed punk rockers, and almost any woman who will watch “The Wire,” “Battlestar Galactica,” or “Northern Exposure” DVDs. Also: dirty talkers. There was a time when maybe I cared too much what the studio audience thought. Pursued and dated women as if I was packing someone else’s penis. Those women deserved a man who was more secure and didn’t need to advertise to the world, “Look Who I Can Bang!” Totally lame. I remember going out with a knockout, so smoking my friends would high-five me whenever her back was turned. She was, and remains, a remarkable woman of depth and awesomeness. Anyway, we were making out, and there just wasn’t that … desire on my part. But she was into it, and her abandon surprised her. It turns out she normally went for the athletic type, with gelled hair, abs, and a superhero jaw. Basically, the anti-moi. But recently, she was really into my type. Which I found out was, more or less, dumpy, sarcastic dork. No wonder I hadn’t met her friends … I was of no value to them. But I was to her, and clearly she was arriving at conclusions I would shortly thereafter share. Life is too few breaths, and it’s wise not to waste them on romantic fool errands. Love the curves, love the legs, own your want. This is what real men do. Not that I wouldn’t return Megan Fox’s phone calls. I’m a nice guy like that.