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(In response to the ever-lovely Sweet Bird of Mischief's blog on lametards)
I have found the most perfect man I have ever had the pleasure of having, purely by accident, that is, by galavanting about in the exactly the same manner as you have with the craptardedest dudes (but having fantastic sex all the while because you and I both know what's how these douchebags really lure us in) and lamenting to the heavens that I have poor taste.
Turns out I don't have poor taste. I just had to weather some bullshit (and fantastic sex) for a while. My god, this boy makes me full of swoon. He's already made me a hand painted mix cd with a picture of a cemetery on the front. He's told me I get more and more beautiful every time he sees me. He puts his hand on my knee when he's driving. He wants to see me as often as possible, but it's not clingy or intense or weird. Our second date was his choice; an art gallery. He sings like an angel. He isn't an alcoholic, has a Lit degree and works with autistic kids in the same job he's had for four years. I could go on and on. It's been nearly a month since our first date and he still shows no sign of being a shitprick even a little bit, nor does he show any sign of boring me even a little bit anytime soon. Plus, he fucks like a champion and has one of the most beautiful dicks I've had the joy of fellating.
In other words, just do what feels right, your various kinks that make you a potentially suck girlfriend will work themselves out as you continue to date retards, and then one day, you'll be sitting at your favourite bar and see a lad so overwhelmingly magnetic to you all you can do is stare at him for two hours. And then, to continue this "theoretical" scenario, you'll see him again two weeks later and stare at him another hour before enough whiskey is in your system to get up the gumption to hand him your number, hastily written on a bar napkin. You'll chuck said napkin at him, tell him you find him attractive, shake hands, then run away, assuming he'll never, ever call you and the only relationship you've got in the future is the complete avoidance of him the next time you see him a month later, both of you knowing he wasn't interested in calling your weird napkin flinging ass. But he'll call. And you'll go on a date to your favourite little dive bar that the hipsters honestly haven't discovered yet, and everything that comes out of his mouth will be kind of like looking at a list of all you've ever wanted, checking items off one by one, to the point that it's like somewhere, there's got to be a manual that was written about you and this dude read it cover to cover. And then when you go outside with him so he can smoke, you'll tell him you want to kiss him because you know that's the last checkmark and you assume he's gonna be an awful or dull kisser or it's just not gonna spark, but it does, and it does in a way that's like crashing planets and Jerry Bruckheimer explosions, and a pleasant little voice in your head will say, "My, you're a goner; you're done for," and you'll give that voice a smirk and a little nod and go home with the boy, absolutely hating that you've got to remove yourself from his embrace to drive the mile to his house, and you'll get to his house and it's an honest to god adult house that he lives in with two other dudes and the place isn't trashed, and he'll take you to his room, and though he's got a twin bed, he makes self-depracating mention of that fact immediately, and then puts on some absolutely lovely music you've never heard. So it stands to reason, then, that he's gonna fuck up somewhere in the making out process, pull some shit you don't like, but he doesn't. In fact, his caresses are heated and passionate but not pawing, he's graceful and purposeful and treats you like you are a woman to be treasured. And then, you've got to assume that no one is this perfect, so he's definitely gonna have a small dick. But shit son, he doesn't! Aw hell. Hell hell hell.
And yes, you'll be a goner too and you'll have nothing for that little voice in your head but a smirk.
His face reminds me of John Frusciante, of Nathan Followill, and of Jesus. Yes, Jesus, and anyone who has known me in any meaningful way over the past fifteen years or so knows I'm kind of in love with the dude. Not the pasty blue-eyed near to blonde Jesus who seems primed to star in some 70s soft-focus porn excursion with a curvaceous, afroed, Nubian goddess (or just a rock opera primed for vocal histrionics), but the more mildly Semitic brand who is a bit wild-eyed and commanding. My Jesus. The one I read about in historical studies and apocryphal texts, the one that used Salome to get John the Baptist's head, who loves Mary Magdalene and wishes her to carry on his teachings, the one that, in a poem by me at age 20, licks my cunt and loves it, whispering between my legs that I had been his thirst all along.
But, that might make it sound as if I've put this man on a pedestal. To the contrary; instead, I find the comparison makes him even more meaty and earthy to the Sarah brain. He has, this man, already demonstrated nuanced humanity. He is strong, but vulnerable. Admirably intelligent, but not intimidating. He listens at length, but also speaks at length. He remembers names, the myriad names I rattle off in any conversation, and he's got them logged and annotated with the appropriate information. He tells tales of his life and puts me into his heart with them when he talks; it is not a distant, removed story he is telling me, it is His Life. When he touches me, he makes me shudder and convulse in the most electric way. Literally, it is as if I feel currents running through me as he strokes my skin. His mouth, when on mine, or upon any other place on my body, makes me remember that sex and sexual intimacy are direct lines to the Godhead.
When he's nervous, or feels out of place, he holds his hand to his mouth, his fingers fluttering against his lips. When he's upset, he rubs his forehead, causing a punk-rock formation of his quite perfectly formed eyebrows, hairs standing tall, at defiant attention. When he looks at me, his expression drifts from something like lovestruck to stricken in the span of seconds. I am afraid of him but not afraid. My fear seems conceptual, seeming to be more that now that I am again aware that love and tender feelings are not beyond me, it would just be silly to do something stupid and lose track of such a worthy human being to explore.
And perhaps I have. I told him I loved him last night. You know, prime third date material. I mean it, however, and I do not regret it. I've pondered this all day. Better to have loved and lost? The eternal question (but not as hard to answer as beaten in vs. sexed in, in my opinion). He did some hearty freaking last night after these words passed my lips. I talked him down from the ledge, but I know what things the brain does in the hours after. I have, in the hours since I dropped him at home this afternoon, come to accept that I may have been too much. But, in an unusual twist, the fact that I've been made aware again that I can feel this way, and maybe even better that there are amazing, beautiful, gritty, sexy, potent people who can make me feel this way, then maybe it's not so bad to have acted on my feelings. That being said, I hope I've not been too much. He is one to fight for.
Shit gets fucked up, yo.
Dudes try and talk to me when I'm enjoying my Kings of Leon, "Why you got a hammer, girl?" People buzz with WTF a little lady like me is doing with a hammer. The counter woman leans over, exclaiming, "Hell, she does have a hammer! I thought you were pulling my leg!" I smile coyly as I choose my milk chocolate Hershey's.
"Sincerely, folks, I was just hanging my art across the street at Caffetto. I'm not here to give anyone a beat down."
But counter woman is flustered, joking with me about my hammer, unable to properly execute the transaction with the lad in front of me purchasing two Powerades (so cute in the face, such terrible clothing, that one), and she winds up inadvertently cancelling his purchase. So he has to come back and do it again. And then she charges him for my Hersey bar. Lol. I wind up handing him a dollar just to keep shit simple.
Don't bring a hammer into the SA, kids. Shit gets fucked up.
