Because I’ve been single for almost two years, and it’s steadily creeping towards summer, my body clock is ticking. Loudly. Not for babies. But for…male inspired fun.
The problem with being a single woman, especially an almost 30 year old single woman, especially when I own cats and definitely especially when I have a brain and good looks, is that men become suspicious. The old joke about women is that you can pick two of the following list:
It’s the same with men, by the way, you can have two:
Sadly, I am intelligent. This is not a boast, or a bad thing. I’m also suspicious, which means everyone who talks to me, trying to drag me into an in-depth conversation about whatever-the-hell, generally, but not always, swiftly finds themselves out of their depth and drowning in a sea of frantic intelligent conversation. The problem with working with the public is that you must constantly adjust your mental gear to suit your current customer. This occasionally leads you to either overshoot and have to climb up a level or two or, more often than not, makes you realise you must drop again and again until you reach the level of “Can I try these contact lenses on?”
I’m also really rather easy on the eye. Again, not a boast or a complaint. I’m six feet tall, size 10 in the waist, size 12-14 on the hips and size 14-16 on the chest. With high cheek bones, naturally long wavy hair and legs that are longer than half my height (my legs are 3’4″ from foot to hip). I am well proportioned, and as such, have taken years to realise that I’m not a freakish example of excessitude. I’m now getting toned and gently muscular from my pole-dancing.
I’m also drastically sane. To the point of approaching insanity from the other side. In a good way. I’m proud of being a geek, a tattooed, deep thinking, comic reading, console game playing gamer girl and to add to that I read, to excess. Intelligent (without being arrogant), gorgeous (without being vain), has hobbies, my own interests and job, with a mind that wants to understand everything and a pole dancer to boot. Get in!
But, that intimidates men. Terry Pratchett put it best with his explanation of ‘Jerk Syndrome’. When men meet a pretty woman, they admire but tend to think that the woman is way out of league, so they don’t even bother asking her out. Eventually, after years of watching all her friends go on dates, get married, get divorced, have kids or not and die together or apart, she starts to think there’s something wrong with her. So when some socially aesthetically challenged guy comes along, someone who’s used to being rejected, he figures why the hell not and asks her out, she’s so relieved she’s not a total freak that she accepts. Which is why the internet is full of pictures is aesthetically challenged people who are dating/married to socially gorgeous people. And loads of people screaming “How? What the hell? They must be brilliant in the bed/kitchen/garden, cos they’re a fugly son of a bitch, with a body like a dropped bag of mashed potato.” It could also be, just a thought, that they’re actually really lovely people.
The upside to being, apparently, tragically single is that I can starfish in my bed whenever I like, I don’t have to share the bathroom and I can watch an entire series of Hannibal, American Horror Story, Buffy or Heroes without anyone getting the arse. I can watch Futurama at 3am, and no one bitches at me. I can also aimlessly perv over the occasional celebrity without anyone getting jealous. Except the cats, but they’re not likely to cheat on me because I drooled over a picture of Jason Mamoa.
Oooooh, now there’s a guy you can picture giving the throw down. Throwing you round the bedroom like a ragdoll, but he’d have to be quick, I would ruin that man like a fat guy ruins a weight watchers chocolate éclair. In fact, with that in mind, I feel I can present to you a list of desirable celebrities, because you’re all so lovely as to read my blog. Welcome into a little bit of my head, you may never escape.
Hugh Jackman, built like a truck and I would ride him over several borders of mental control. I would ruin him faster than Yoko ruined the Beatles.
Manu Bennett, wow, yes, I think I’d struggle to say no if I found him in my bed. But not too hard, in case he got bored and went away. I would gobble him like Anna Nicole Smith gobbled her pride.
Jason Mamoa, yessir, he can plunge through my Stargate anytime. I’d even find new universes to ruin him in those too. In a good way.
Robert Downey Jr, oh my yes, no words needed. Most women with eyes would probably agree.
Chris Hemsworth, I wouldn’t even mind if he left me feeling Thor. Ha ha. Ahem.
Anthony Hopkins, sorry, Sir Anthony, mainly because I think it would be civilised, polite and done with such finesse.
Tom Hiddleston, I’d stay up all night to get Loki.
Now, here’s a thing, I’m a little scared of sleeping with anyone at the moment, because I truly believe I would be his end. Admittedly they’d have to build a coffin 5 miles wide to fit the grin he died with in, but he’d be dead all the same. Women have only really gained the freedom of sexual expression in the last 50 years or so. And boy, are we enjoying it now.
But here’s an important thing. If I were a male, saying this about women, there’d be uproar. There’s be chaos, shouts and abuse along the lines of “sexist pig, disgusting, sexual deviant” but with a woman saying it, there’s not really any outcry. Because we’re finally allowed to say it. We’re finally allowed to say “You know what, I really like doggy style” and “Spank me and put some stank on it”. We’ve finally gained the freedom to say what we want in the bedroom, or any other room or garden, for that matter.
I argued this case with a male friend a while back, he said everyone was equal, but that I couldn’t say things like that. His version of equal apparently meant that I couldn’t say in public that I like chains and kisses, silk and leather. And I pointed out where else we need to understand equality. Men and women. Not man hating feminism, but equality.
You don’t get lessons in school on men getting the vote, you don’t get lessons on white history and you don’t get shells when you’re in first place in Mario Kart. Because you are already in first. You are already privileged, now shut the hell up and let me enjoy my steadily growing privileges.