Sometimes you meet a man and feel him before you know it. Not in your heart. Not really in your mind. Not in any profound or meaningful way that you can tell. Yet at just first glance his image sparks a certain fire that heats up your blood sending it rushing through your body pooling densely in just the right places and you’re sprung into stupefied action. I met a man like that last spring. I had no idea what was happening. It initially felt like hate. Such overwhelming magnetic hate that I had to point him out to my friends, make a snide judgment, then approach him unprovoked with the cheap insult. He hadn’t so much as looked at me prior, at least not to my knowledge. His appropriately bitchy response to my terribly bitchy challenge turned me on more. Though I’m not sure it was the attitude I was drawn to, it was more the tone of that powerful voice. His towering height, expressive face, his clean shaven and strong jaw which is so rare to come by these days - all of it was working without even my slightest knowledge. What I thought was an attraction to the psyche of a total fucking asshole was nothing but pure unbridled physical lust. He eventually sat down next to me, I’m sure by my uncharacteristically drunken state he felt more than invited, bought me a gin and ginger, and I rambled on like an idiot for the rest of our evening together hopping bars through Logan Square getting closer and closer to making it into my apartment, ass grabs and plenty of public groping not at all helping to uphold the claim I had made after last season that I was done with One Night Stands.
I didn’t sleep with him that night. By some otherworldly force of self-control all I gave up was a passionate makeout session and clumsy fondling between his legs in the cab, followed by another 20 minutes of semi-conscious typo-ridden texting. He was fun. I was into this guy. That close-up picture of a barely noticeable puncture wound on his thigh caused by a trip on the stairs came off as a really unsuccessful attempt at sending a Dickpic and I found myself, contrary to all moral objections, wishing he had been sober enough to hold his phone steady. What was going on? Since when do I want to see a dick? Get my hand on one?? Those things are for sucking and fucking, I know where I stand, I’m a woman of Principle. Being such a new and specific inconsistency I quickly brushed aside this unfounded penis appeal. Eagerly accepted an invitation for a drink the next evening. Pretended I didn’t fuck on first dates then waited for him to return from the bathroom posed in his room wearing nothing but a black lace bra and trixie. It was so lame. Was I suddenly 18 again? Was I even that insecure at 18? How could a mere man I didn’t even know make me so incredibly nervous? I’m a goddam pro! I’m a Scorpion Woman, aren’t I??
I must say, the fucking was pretty great. He didn’t bring any new acts to the show or inflict pain that was even close to what I’m accustomed to, he didn’t cause me any pain at all. What he brought to bed was himself. Frankly I was a little stunned at the level of pleasure I felt from sex that approached no extremes of my preferences as a true Sub. So while this was by far the most erotically I had reacted to a new lover, felt in more places in my body more intensely than in an entire history of dicks, licks, and finger tricks, all I could credit was his size and strength as the perfect form for power play and domination, just the way I like it. He’s tall. That’s it. His giant dick? I don’t care about dicks. Right? Why do I keep talking about his dick. It’s not like I want to see it. Or touch it. Or really acknowledge it. Maybe if it’s on my mind so much I can just bring it up in a negative way so that I’m still in control. Yeah. I don’t need that shit. His Dick, His Problem. Fuck that guy. Fuck that guy and his big beautiful dick. Did I say dick again? Is he here? Do I get to see it? FUCK!
Why did I not get it? Why didn’t I understand how attracted I was to this man? Is it because after growing warm to the looks of my ex after three months of friendship and the slap heard ‘round the world that sparked a long run of rough and wild sex I thought I had a thing for tattoos and facial hair? I didn’t. I don’t. I never have. Come on, I’ve never seen a man on the street and thought Oh damn let me see what’s under that black t-shirt and dirty jeans. Maybe I can get my hands up on his whiskey gut, run my fingers through that smelly beard. Fuck no. I loved my ex boyfriend. When I love someone he could wear cargo shorts, drive a Subaru, and walk around in Merrill Jungle Mocs and I’d still want to fuck him 3 times a day. Types are thrown out the window once you feel feelings. But lust. Physical Lust. That comes from a different place. This tall motherfucker. He was a sexual fantasy.
I never thought I had a type. Most who know me would raise quite the eyebrow to that statement. All those preppies in Lincoln Park for years and years, Caroline??? Your favorite game of Novelty Fucks??? Yes yes of course, the Lincoln Park Years. I had a thing. But everyone has a Thing at some point. I don’t know if I was suddenly nostalgic for the high school boys I never liked, trying to conquer them, conquer my dad, or if as I claimed all along the sex always delivered, was constantly available, and I never had to face the burden of cutting an unwanted string. I killed in Lincoln Park. Murdered ass on a regular basis. With my short blonde bob, red lips, tattoos, and daring black wardrobe I was a novelty fuck too. We all got what we wanted, until I got better at sex and they stabilized. Back to your Basic Bitches, Bros. This Lady’s got bigger dicks to fry. Thanks for the facials. All of you. You’re all like, really into cumming on a lady’s face. Good luck on that one with the next chick you meet at Stanley’s. Godspeed.
I hesitate to call a man in a buttoned up checkered shirt, fleece vest, khaki chinos, and boat shoes an image that could really have the power to get me hard though. If so it’s purely psychological. It’s about the symbolism, the history, or the potential future fucks. I never felt like I was objectifying those men for being pretty, really they all looked quite ridiculous, I sought them out as being such easily identifiable targets of exactly what I was looking for sexually. Simple to provoke into the perfect night of aggressive fucking and no expectations. Really the only way that I objectified anyone was in reading how they were going to objectify me. And though I did have an instantaneous reaction to the very sight of these men, the appeal was in the implications of that wardrobe, I’m not sure I remember what anyone actually looked like. It's not uncommon to typecast our attraction this way, falling victim to Image Lust more than the person underneath all that prepping. We tend to define a good physical impression by how we present ourselves stylistically instead of our real live humanness. I more often hear women comment on a man’s look than his actual looks. But attractiveness isn’t about a costume or a haircut. It’s bone structure and body shape. Eyes, nose, lips, teeth, and voice. Mannerisms, movement, and intonation. It’s physicality in form and at work. And it's different in each of us, including our fantasies.
He had it. He had it all. What was so dumbfounding is that it was nothing like anyone I’d ever been with. I thought I was supposed to like that dark and dirty burly man with the piercing eyes and black hair, some kind of broodiness with a sweet edge. Generically handsome. Undeniably handsome. Men that would impress my mom and my sister. Fuck those bitches. I found what I wanted. How did I not immediately know that he was exactly what I wanted. That he is a tall smoking hot sexyass motherfucker. Because he doesn’t look like John Hamm? No. You know who he was? He was the perfect mix of Jeff Goldblum and Jemaine from Flight of the Concords. And THAT is what I’m into. Those motherfuckers. Staring at the TV hoping this scene will last and last. Yes keep talking, keep fucking talking about whatever the fuck you’re talking about just don’t move out of the shot. We all know that Flight of the Concords got really annoying there at the end. But I watched it every week anyway to stare at that idiot’s face. Think about kissing that big mouth, maybe sitting on it for a little bit. His stupid glasses and his big sideburns. That dirty goddam adorable face. Don’t even get me started on Jurassic Park and Independence Day. Young girls really know what they like. By the time Life Aquatic rolled around I was even kind of willing to find animal abuse hilarious because of the beautiful man striking that poor three-legged dog. Fuck. Why was I so unwilling to admit that I had found an off-screen version of my dream guy? What was so hard about acknowledging that I finally saw someone I had to have and it wasn’t only because he was over 6 feet? Did I know what I’d also have to acknowledge as a result? I probably did. And I just wasn’t prepared.
I’m used to being the pretty one, ok? And I’m outspoken about the worldly power all women have as sexual objects. That we need to embrace this and use it to our advantage. That men are made fools in the presence of the female form. But I can’t have it both ways. I became socially incompetent around this guy. I didn’t know how to talk to him. We’d get together and words, sentences, thoughts, wouldn’t even form in my head nonetheless come out coherently enough to contribute to a conversation. Frustrated and confused I spent hours and hours writing about the matter trying to understand what the fucking problem was. I decided that he was brilliant. And that I was intimidated. Because in my masked misogyny I was more comfortable with a man having intellectual superiority, making me nervous, kind of shy, and resting assured in the fact that I’d still be able to maintain control simply by being sexually desirable. Because sex wins. Beauty wins. Lust conquers all. And I was still on top because of my badass female lady of the universe self that just wanted the dick you're not allowed to judge me fuck your male bullshit take off your clothes. Not only am I ravenous and I need to be respected for it but you still don't matter, thing that I am so desperate for. In reality the man just wasn’t putting out. Not one bit. It was all I was after, and he said whether or not I was going to get it. Who actually has the power in that dynamic?? Who was the one incapacitated by her own lechery? For the entire relationship after he ended up being not so brilliant I positioned and tried to manipulate, punishing him for expectations I never cared about, accusing him of Male Positioning, spitting insults and righteous feminist hate on his ass. Instead of telling him how much I thought about that perfect dick I mentioned he may have a complex about it. My complex. Being a slave to his cock and not being able to get a taste. What I did, how I felt, was complete double standard Insecure Alpha Female bullshit. And alas. We fucked 4 times. In 6 months. And I’ll never see his sexy ass again.
I firmly believe in the power of the object. I’ve built an erotic life on exploiting my image and getting fucked every which way as a result. But I was born with a great rack and a pretty face. And really, most men disgust me. It’s easy to balance the scale in my favor. Coming off of a relationship that was based so deeply in love and connection before all else I was not in any way prepared to be confronted with feeling this level of intense physical enchantment. Such overpowering attraction that I was angry about it. That man didn’t deserve what I did to him. But then again - he could have sucked it up and just fucked me. I mean. We weren’t going to date. Could you have just gotten your big perfect body naked and gone down on me with that gorgeous face and then taken me with all that power and then held me in bed while I touch your soft hair for a little bit? I’ll give you some of that mind-blowing head in between sessions. Or like, on a Tuesday afternoon. I may have unfairly compartmentalized him as disposable object instead of so valuable as to keep me from functioning like an adult, but it’s just sex. Doesn’t everyone just want sex? I’ve still got these tits and these eyes and lips. No? Guess it’s just me. Just a horny old perv lusting over the presence of a man so turned on I don’t know how to answer "How was your day?" Something in the Universe had shifted and we all got what we deserved last summer. A view of the other side. And maybe a lesson in goddam compassion.
I hope he’s doing alright now. And getting his fuck on well and often. Because that motherfucker was horny as hell too. The power struggle gets us all. Best to stop thinking about who holds what and just start banging. We all deserve to fuck and get fucked. When you see a beautiful face - go after it. And say something. Because they deserve to hear it. We all deserve to know how beautiful we are. I’m a bitch. A dumb hot bitch. My tits can’t make up for that. So I’m going to go watch The Fly now and think about myself. Think about how I treat men and how I’m going to do it better next time. What I need to start acknowledging and appreciating instead of expecting everyone to acknowledge and appreciate me. What I’ll try to give instead of constantly needing to take. I’ll think about all that vital shit a self-proclaimed sexually empowered woman is supposed to have figured out already. And you know also. Most definitely. Think about sitting on Jeff Goldblum’s face.