INDIEchouette


ONE LAST THING BEFORE I LEAVE IN THE MORNING
15 August, 2008, 1238 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

Often, I think that I am the only girl who prefers to refer to superficially attractive males as “aesthetically pleasing” or “more than mildly attractive” rather than hot, tasty, yummy, or gorgeous, and often, I am told that my taste is really fucked up or weird. Apparently, though, a lot of girls prefer to refer to superficially unattractive males (who I sometimes find attractive) as “aesthetically displeasing/not aesthetically pleasing” or “only mildly attractive.” I do not understand why they have to be so polite at insulting someone, but they can’t bother to do that when they plan to court someone.  I mean, I know that a lot of women complain about being objectified by men when they’re called hot or bangin’ or fuckable or whatever, but I think that women objectify men a lot, too, and I think that if we expect for men to quit objectifying us and start being more polite and gentle with compliments, then we also need to quit objectifying them.

Also, speaking of Olympic swimmers, what IS it with this obsession with “fit” bodies and ripped abs on males, for the loveofallthatisholy? I remember two years ago when I was a douchebag fifteen-year-old lump of lard, I was obsessed with skinny boys. I’m not talking thin. I’m talking boys who look emaciated and you can pretty much see their ribs and all their little bones. But I have never been obsessed or even so much as mildly turned on by muscles. It’s not that I think they’re gross, but man, I guess you could say the attraction process for me is a little deeper than all that body shit. I like faces. I am a face kind of person. Some people say they could have sex with someone as long as this someone had a pillow over his or her face. You know, they’d have the body. For me, this is not so. If a person does not have a nice face, then I am absolutely turned off, at least superficially. The body hardly comes into the equation. I could put a pillow over the body and have sex with the face or something. I don’t know.  You can tell so much about a person from the layout of their face that you can’t necessarily gather from their body.  Face, hands, and feet.

I guess the fact that the body does come into the equation a little bit is enough, but I don’t care about details all that much.

Here are some things that define eroticism for me.  When someone takes off a sweatshirt and a little bit of his or her belly shows accidentally.  Happy trails and other sorts of male body hair and parts of thighs revealed.  When someone does something particularly delicate and admirable and intricate with his or her fingers, like lifting a piece of paper or writing or making a bracelet or tying a bow.  Back massages with fairy fingers and playing with hair.  Pressing bare feet together.  Knees that accidentally touch and do not apologize or draw back.  Sad half-smiles that make me want to cure melancholy people, or at least to give them something new to be melancholy about.  Getting caught crying.  I like all of these things to some extent.

Now, Sara posted some of her secrets, so I shall proceed to do the same.  I won’t tell you if they’re all true or if they’re all lies or if they’re mine or someone else’s (but I will say that they are all mine, true or not, and they probably are because I am not a secret-spiller), and I will leave people involved anonymous.

1.  The song that most accurately (right down to every word) describes my life is “Happy” by Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins.  I cannot tell people this, though, because those who have not heard it will assume that I am simply extremely content and will not educate themselves any further, and that is not what the song is about.  I am constantly misunderstood in the most dangerous ways.

2.  I used to tell people you were my best friend in Lewisburg as an enthusiastic exaggeration because I would not have considered anyone in Lewisburg to be a best friend, much less you, my ethical opposite.  Now when I tell people you are my best friend in Lewisburg, it is the full truth and I love you for it.

3.  I know you probably want me to quit bugging you with all this attachment shit I’m going through right now, my feelings towards you, et cetera, but I think I’ve been complicating matters because I genuinely care so so much about you and I wish we were both older or closer or more mature and I think that things could have worked out better if we were given so much as a fighting chance, which we weren’t, ever.  Some people would probably say that it was not meant to be.  Fuck them.  You might think I’m being sappy, which I am, but I’m also being completely honest because I’m afraid that if I don’t get this out now, while everything’s just ripe enough, then you will either not care or you will think I am being an annoying cunt, and that would kill me.  And I know you’ll be unresponsive to this message so that we won’t become entangled in any way, but at least I did what I had to.

4.  When I moved here, I considered being the resident lonely unlikely slut, but upon thinking about it, I didn’t really feel like doing all that networking.

5.  I cannot picture myself being absolutely fluent in French, and I cannot picture who I want to be.

6.  I think I’m so afraid of growing old that I won’t let myself grow up.


3 Comments so far
Leave a comment

I like a woman who doesn’t get butthurt over the word cunt. Reading this was worth it just to see you write “annoying cunt”.

Comment by wut?!

I’m afraid of growing old and missing the exciting things and life and instead of doing anything about it, I just worry more.

And I don’t know who I want to be either. We can be in-betweens together.

Comment by swaziprincess

Here are some things that define eroticism for me: When a guy loves kids. When a guy loves his mom. Playing a slow, soft, sometimes sad song on the piano. When a guy enjoys a good book. A heavier guy laughing. Because they can have that deeo-belly laugh that makes everyone else want to laugh that skinny or muscle-y guys can’t do.

And I am in no way turned on by muscles, either. Sometimes in legs. But only when they’re covered by jeans. I hate guys in shorts.

And I was going to say something else…? Oh! Here’s the biggest turn-on:

I was in Boston, in the Subway that’s down the street. It was winter, and it was brutally cold outside. I was in line and this attractive man, probably in his mid- to late-twenties butted in front of me in line and handed his card to the cashier. And said, “Can you charge a large sandwich and a large drink to this, and then make it for the homeless man at the end of the line?”

I about pissed myself. I was so angry at him for getting into line in front of me. (Now that I think about it, it’s not that big of deal if he would have for no reason. In the grand scheme of things, what does that matter?) But he looked like this well-to-do rich city slicker who probably owned $200 jeans and some of those shiny button down dress shirts, and went to clubs on the weekends and had tons of one-night-stands. But still, he took a homeless guy in off the street and bought him a meal.

That is a turn on. Caring for strangers, for people less fortunate. It’s amazing.

Comment by wellwell




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