I am discussing this stuff *here* so I don't end up letting it affect me out *there*. Please bear with me.
I mentioned what happens to me when I get PMS-y over at Blogzie’s yesterday. Nobody cared; either everyone was too grossed-out to comment (even though “santorum”, the stuff named after Senator Waste-of-Atoms, was brought up), or, more likely, they were distracted by the opportunity to get a look at cutie-pie Drifter. But this is my damn blog, so I’ll recap it here. I get really, really, really, really, um, *eager* for women. I notice men to some extent, but I am far more interested in women. I keep hoping someone will do a study on this with bisexual women. I really, really, really, really notice men when I’m ovulating, and about the only woman I think about that way is my own wife. I am sexually indifferent to everyone, including my usually quite noticeable wife who is also (thankfully) on my track, during periods. (It hurts too damn much!) And then the fourth week, I’m just happily able to notice physically and mentally attractive members of all genders and like the prospect of sex, but it doesn’t rule my life to the extent that I am tempted to pour a Big Gulp down my pants to calm down.
This week, I’m in full-blown PMS. The past couple early evenings have been like an Animal Planet documentary—you know when the lioness catches the zebra? Imagine the zebra being perfectly willing, the lioness only wanting to play, and both of them capable of ordering a late dinner by phone, and you’ve got the idea. (And now I feel like singing: “You and me, baby, ain’t nothin’ but mammals, so let’s do it like they do on the Discovery Channel…”) In real life, I can look at quite a wide range of women--there was this platinum-blonde Russian waitress at our favorite coffeeshop this morning who just redefined "zaftig", in a very good way, and let's face it, I've been conditioned to find Russian accents alluring. (Pavlov was a Russian, you know.) But yesterday I posted a list of links that might give everyone the impression that I have a "type": Asia Argento, lovely nude portrait of Sinead O'Connor (I could as easily have posted a link to her fan site, but then we wouldn't have been treated to those guitar-player glutes!), Gretchen Wilson (complete with sound files), Rachel Kice (that hot painter in Big and Rich videos and concerts, who is actually really talented, too), and Audrey Hepburn, because I appreciate the classics. Delicate-looking women with strong wills and creative intelligence simply rock my world. Also, I looooooooooooove an interesting voice! I don't understand why other women pick women who are physically similar to themselves. I mean, I know many who don't, but I am surprised by the quite-a-few who do. It seems very boring to me.
Then again, in mixed-sex couples, the woman and man tend to be about equal in attractiveness, height, et cetera. Maybe lesbian look-alike couples just work on the same principle. And I found someone who is very physically unlike me, but mentally, is just as weird and curious and contrarian as I am. Ultimately, of course, I don't have to be in any of those couples anyhow.
After indulging in Animal Planet sex yesterday evening (if you've never been attacked by 95 pounds, give or take, of wiry, agile single-mindedness at your front door, I can tell y'all...it's a good thing), we realized that we forgot to eat. Y'all ever do that? And then of course, you really need to eat! We watched Blue Collar TV while eating way too much Italian take-out. L'Ailee is normally puzzled by it, and tends to laugh at *me* laughing at the show. But being what she is and doing what she does, she found last night's episode, in which the guys "learn" gymnastics with a university gymnastics team, hilarious. She couldn't resist getting technical: "We would never make men wear those leotards...Men that age should do yoga or Pilates for grace, not gymnastics...Of course a beginner can't do that floor routine!" But the sight of Larry the Cable Guy flopping onto the horse and taking hits to his (clearly well-protected) groin got to her, too. She had just one question for me: "Now that you've seen that, do you still find him sexy?"
L'Ailee is all-the-way gay, but can tell that some men are handsomer than others. She likens the really handsome ones to statues like Michelangelo's "David": "My eyes like him, I can say he looks good, but my reaction is only in my head. My body has nothing to say about him, the way it does for women." (Being 50/50 bisexual on average as long as I've been any kind of sexual, I find the inability to see anything sexually appealing in another person because of their gender alien to me--as, I suppose, my sexual responses seem alien to any monosexuals reading this--so I had to ask her how she reacted. I'd like to hear from y'all, too, if you don't mind.) She can tell that Larry the Cable Guy is not actually all that good-looking, and is also crude and gross. (But he genuinely enjoys women and sex! And he can get kinky, and he thinks on his feet! How hot is *that*?!) She can tell that Drew Carey should only be liked for his mind, which I happen to find extremely sexy. Liam Neeson just gets to me, but he's "all right for an old guy" to her. (That voice, though! Those eyes!) Tony Stewart is much easier for her to comprehend, but she still sees that other drivers are better-looking. "Why not Jeff Gordon or Jimmie Johnson?" she asked. "Um, because they're whiny, boring, and so slick and polished a woman would slide right off?" I retorted. Whereas Tony Stewart has those big, soulful brown eyes and that determined attitude and even *drives* sexy.
Perhaps I can say more about that in a couple weeks, but I can try it now. I like men to have intelligence and a sense of humor and a temper. I like them bigger than me. I know it's stupid, because my wife is itty-bitty and has survived, but I still hate the feeling that I can snap a skinny man in half. It just wouldn't be fun if they didn't at least *look* good and sturdy. I don't like them too pretty, either. I should be the one obsessing over my skin and body hair, not them. If I wanted to share a mirror and a bottle of Nair with someone, I'd be with a woman...and guess *what*? I *am*!
Maybe it's just that "I'm a product of my raisin'", as that hottie Gretchen Wilson put it.
Now if y'all will excuse me, I need a Big Gulp.