Those who talk about it the most, do it the least, right?
Okay. So, I haven’t had any for nearly a year now. A YEAR. Well, ten months, but feels like a year. Feels like ten years. And I’m a big fan, believe me. I’m all about the boot-knockin’.
So, why don’t I just go out and get me some? A little cheap, drunken, one-night-stand stuff? I don’t know. I just can’t. It’s just not in me (no pun intended, but it came out funny, didn’t it?). Sometimes I think that’s what I want, but it’s not.
What I miss is the intimacy, the vulnerability, and the physical closeness. One begets the other. I’m a Romantic, yes I am, believe it or not. The World’s Most Cynical Romantic. I’m starting to think that what I want doesn’t actually exist.
See, I want the whole thing. I want the sex, AND the company. I want the intelligent discourse, and the dirty talk. I want the passion and the caring. Yeah, baby, I want you to respect me in the morning, and ring my bell tonight.
I don’t think my expectations are out of line with my feminism, either. I don’t hate men, quite the opposite. I like them. Maybe too much. I just wish I could find one I can relate to on the same level I can with my close female friends. Not a chick in a dude-body, but someone who thinks like I do.
I’m such a weirdo. I’m a full-fledged, body-mind-spirit weirdo, too. If you’re an incredibly beautiful weirdo, you can usually get away with it, I think. But we don’t get to choose to be incredibly beautiful. We get what we’re dealt. I’m not complaining, mind you, I just am what I yam. I’m just an across-the-board all-purpose weirdo.
This could take a while, kids.