Hot butter action
While last weekend was filled with all sorts of good things - music, dancing, friends, sunshine, cream‑teas and quality conversations - what was more apparent to me was what it was missing. It seemed like every breath I took awakened parts of me that called out to be touched: the sight of the brilliant, green grass acting as copper catalyst to my desire. All thoughts led back to one thing, and my body just wasn’t getting any of it.
I think there’s something intrinsically single about my nature - independent, verging on non-compliant - which provides little obvious role for a man to step into; however, there’s one thing that I inevitably miss out on, and at times like this it does my fucking head in. I feel like some kind of lust freak, wandering around happily interacting with all around me, when all the while thoughts are flying through my head providing a complete contrast to the wholesomeness surrounding me. When I feel a small bead of sweat run down the back of my thigh, it only serves to remind me there are better reasons to sweat than sunshine alone.
Of late, though, there’s just been too little lust action. It’s not that I’m some kind of prude, only out to take solace in the arms of one that will lead to love; or that I’m unerringly, and over fastidiously fussy; but I have standards: they have to have something special to hold my attention, whether it be the superficial skin they sit in for trite lust action; a mind that could mesmerize me and hold me in their awe; or something playful that pulls me in. If a man has little more to him than his physicality, then he has to be seriously hot; but if his head is full of finery, the eyes alone can be enough. And rules: single, single, single please; and not looking all vulnerable and as though they’re about to fall unconditionally in love with me before they even know me. I hate causing upset: it upsets me.
So, what’s a girl to do? Most of the men I meet are half of a couple, so not available, whatever they might suggest. Then there’s the boys looking doe eyed and indecisive: well, that’s just not going to do it for me. Or the brain dormant, egos, who invariably kick off with, ‘I love tall women. How tall are you?’ It sounds innocuous, but replace ‘tall’ with ‘black’, ‘big breasted’ or any other physical trait over which we have no control and you can see why it pisses me off. Whether engaged in overt objectification without seeing me, or complete lack of imagination; by uttering that phrase as an opening, I’m sorry, but they are not worthy (unless such undeniable hotness, that I can hardly breathe in their presence and the shape of their words is of no importance, merely the sound of interest in their voice has me melted). Oh god, I sound so trivial and fussy and down on men, but actually, I think many of them are wonderful things, it’s just I don’t meet those ones under suitable circumstances, when single.
I worked it out; the maths of it. Say I find 2 in 10 men possibly appealing (surely that’s not too fussy, though I think it may be less than this) and 2 in 10 men consider I make their grade (while I don’t have universal appeal, I can turn the occasional head); if those are mutually exclusive factors, it means with only 4 in 100 men there’s likely to be mutual attraction. Now factor in that about 70% of men my age are in some kind of serious relationship so unavailable, and it’s down to 1.2% of single men that there’s any chance of mutual chemistry with. Oh and weight it (0.75), because the more appealing men are disproportionately coupled up when in their thirties, so it goes down to less than 1%. And of those single men, let’s not forget I wish to wipe off all arrogant tossers, overly assured by their supposed good looks or wealth as to their value, and just out for a shag in the most disrespectful manner (London has lots of them working in the City, say 15%), and it goes down further. Oh, and then there's sexuality: I'm sure at about one third of the men I meet are gay. So I have to meet, yes, meet - not just catch a glance of on a passing escalator - probably about 200 men to find any chance of action, unless I come up with a less random strategy.
Ho hum. I really should find something more worthwhile to moan about, like the ethics of buying butter: that’s far more dignified.
* I wrote this in the heat of last week, but out of a sense of preserving personal decorum, I decided against posting it. However, both considering my initial journal goal of emotional truth, and some things biascut posted, I decided to go ahead anyway.