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It’s not love but…

I’m entranced.  There’s no other word for it.

The swell of those biceps.  That smiling face, half-moon lips, innocent-cunning eyes, that I could look at and into for hours.  And hours.  That lazy-deep voice, with the funny almost-stilted phrasing that I can’t place.  The thick curly hair that I sometimes catch my fingers in by mistake.

There are more cerebral aspects, if you could call them that.  The easy way he shoots the balls down the pockets at pool – pow, bang, snap!  The way he corners the car, as if he was born at the wheel.  The way he sings along to the blues, and stops and blushes when he catches me looking at him.  The funny little things he says, that leave me with no quick answer.  The slow, easy sweetness of him.

And yet, he likes football and cricket, for chrissake.  He thinks black lipstick is sexy (that indefinable look that says ‘roadkill’ like nothing else can!).  He reads two books a year.  This year one of them was mine.  The other was probably on mud bricks.  But hey.

It’s not like I haven’t got choices.  I could choose the man whose intellectual interests match mine like pearls match a twinset, who is kind and emotionally mature, reads more books than I do and writes them too.  That’d be the right thing to do, I guess.  After all, I’m too old for this impulse-shopping shit.  Right?

Oh but this other man, there’s no other word for him but beautiful.  He shines.  I can’t pass that up, not yet.

Screw the six month rule

Read any book on how to develop a lasting relationship and it’ll say, wait till you’ve thoroughly checked him out before you fuck.

Fucking, they say, leads to emotional connection, and you don’t want one of those until you’ve established you are intellectually, spiritually and culturally compatible.  So if you meet a guy you like, give it six months before you do the deed – then you’ll be sure you’re mating with the Right Person.  Right?

WRONG.  I mean, not wrong if you like that sort of thing.  Nothing much is.  But some of us – by which I mean me – like good sex even more than we like good conversation.  So if I meet a guy who presses all the right buttons, conversationally and intellectually speaking, but doesn’t press the one button that counts ‘down there’ as that Shades of Grey chick would say – we will never a great relationship make.

Whereas, if I meet a guy who wows me in bed, and is somewhere between 5 and 10 on the ‘other compatibility’ scale – that is, he may not be utterly brilliant, he may not like to have long conversations about death (my favourite topic), he may not read a hundred books a year, he may not understand the basic rules of Socratic dialogue – but hey, he’s cuddly and delightful – then this is what we call a Real Candidate.

And how do we pick a Real Candidate?  Not from a hundred paces, over coffee, locking gigantic intellects – but from up close, with all our clothes off, in the Scientific Laboratory of Love (otherwise known as bed).

And maybe it doesn’t work out.  Maybe he just pulls too many dumb faces on facebook, or believes in the Great Cosmic Cheese Monster, or likes to listen to Elvis (he does).  But the alternative – two people who like one another very much, stuck in a bedroom together with a micro-penis and a sexual connection that would re-freeze the Antarctic ice-caps – is worse.

When things get complicated….

There once was this woman called Jane

Had her eye on a hippy – called Shane.

They made out, like, twice,

And it was so nice,

She wanted to do it again.

Only thing was, she liked him so much,

It was doing weird things to her brain.

Yeah right, said the voice in her head – you dumb punk,

What the hell makes you think you can pull such a spunk?

When you are some plain looking weird writer chick

And hippie boy’s got such a magnificent, I mean his personality is so fully sick!

Maybe it’s just cause you’re a half decent fuck….

And THEN he invites her to his house – what luck!

But hang on – says brain – does he REALLY want her to come?

Nah probably not, says the brain – which was dumb.

But in its defence, she didn’t have his address,

So she couldn’t have visited Shane – least, unless

He told her.  But he didn’t, which just goes to show

Says her brain – he didn’t really want her to go.

So she stayed home – but then, as the voices died down,

Jane thought, you have stepped in the shit now, you clown.

If you try to explain, you’ll sound like a kook,

There’s nothing you can say to get off this hook!

Your mum always said it was wrong to be rude,

And now you’ve been horribly rude to the dude,

And for what?  Cause you got in a stupid old mood!

Cause he didn’t say ditto when you said he’s sweet,

And he thinks that you’re falling in head over feet,

And you aren’t!  That takes time, but in the meanwhile

You’re a little bit crazy for this guy and his style.

Yeah but hey – this is only some shit in a text!

Sure but Jane is a writer -so she’s easily vexed,

She can sit on a pile of words till she’s hexed!

Anyways, the thing is, what it matters to say,

Is that Jane likes HB and wants him to stay

Around long enough so she knows who he is,

And she doesn’t get into this sort of a tizz,

Which is caused – to be clear – cause she thinks way too much,

And she’s scared, and embarrassed, and lustful, and such

And they all mix around in a horrible stew!

But hey hazel-eyed hippie, I do really dig you!

Author’s note: but not scarily dig. Just like, dig.

 

What does blogging have to do with infatuation?

Not much – but here’s one major link I can’t ignore.

When I’m infatuated, it’s REALLY hard to blog!

He looks like Mr Tumnus out of the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.  I’m still looking for the nubby little horns on his head, in amongst all that curly grey-brown hair.

He cuddles like a dream.  He doesn’t wear any underpants and has six shirts.  He’s a DUDE, with a dude’s voice, deep and sweet.

He’s worried I only like him for his sex appeal.

This roller coaster is hovering at the top of the curve, with a view of Sydney Harbour and a man-scented breeze tickling my cheek.  Up here, the internet seems very small.

If I start to haunt the net-waves on a daily basis, you’ll know I’m either very dedicated (I am), or I’ve swooped face first into the valley of lost love and sicked-up popcorn.

Making love on Olympos

His tongue is a flame on my skin.  He begins at my ankle, soft and cool at first, tracing the narrow bones, a circlet of silver, and as he moves up the back of my calf, I feel his touch burning, burning.

But I’m strong, my skin is feather-light, hard as diamonds.  He kisses the back of my left knee and I laugh and call out – it tickles and arouses me, both.  His fingers are on my golden thigh, drawing patterns of lust in my skin.  I sink my fingers into his white silk hair, rough, tearing.  Not even a thread comes loose.  He stops, and looks to me.  His eyes are blue-green, deep and cold as a lake.

“Don’t stop.”

But he grins, and skims my hips with his snake tongue, around and about, wavelets that don’t make the tide line.

“I’ll change, just see if I don’t,” I whisper, though he’s driving me to desperation.  Me, an immortal, a goddess – but in this I’m just female, full of desires, weak as a woman.

“Like this?”  His white hair turns tawny, his blue eyes golden, he’s a tiger looking down on my naked body, warm breath at my throat.

“Like this.”  I dissolve beneath him, laughing, and become a river of air, so that he crouches on emptiness.  But empty is what I am, and what I don’t want to be, so I take again the form of a woman, honey-skinned, voluptuous.

He takes me by the throat, softly, and I hear him growl as he enters me.  I close my eyes and cling to his thick, soft fur, feel him purr as I constrict around him.

He comes as a man, and we lie together as male and female, and I kiss the perfect lips and know that we’ve made another, this time.

And that, my little god, is how you were conceived.

The Right Words

What’s the right thing to say when a guy goes limp?

You have GOT to be kidding!

Looks like the battery’s run out.  Time to throw the toyboy away!

I’ll take Viagra with that. No, wait, that’s you isn’t it?

No I promise I’ve NEVER said any of those things.  Instead I always say things like,

“Don’t worry, it’s fine.” and, “Oh well, maybe later then.”

Let me tell you a short story.  Woman meets man.  Woman goes out with man for some weeks, and they eye each other up greedily.  HOWEVER, Man says he doesn’t want to jump into bed too soon.  Woman thinks, ahhh, how sensitive! (and ‘come ON though, my uterus is aching.  Isn’t this sort of thing supposed to cause blood clots?’).  On the sixth date (is that a magic number)  Man and Woman end up in bed.  At the crucial moment, Woman pauses to seek advice about protection.  Man suddenly loses it.  Woman acts casual, kind and unconcerned – but to no avail.  Man disappears, never to be seen again.

So what IS the right thing for a woman to say when a man finds himself unable to do his thing?

More importantly, what’s the right thing for the MAN to say.  Here are some suggestions.

No need to look at the mantelpiece when you’re poking the fire – oops, I looked!

Sorry, the mind is willing but the flesh wants to get the hell out of here!

Looks like I’m just not that into you.

Nah, just joking.

What would you rather have – a real man or a robot?

The other day I got a free android tablet in the post.  Welcome to the 21st century, Rose!!!

I was pretty impressed by this little shiny black thing that pings when you touch it.  BUT –

I got to thinking, how much MORE impressed would I be, if I could have an android sex robot sent to me in the post instead! (or as well, even!)?

bladerunner

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Would I like a sex robot?  Hell yeah!  I don’t mean a sort of plastic shop dummy thing with a big dick that says ‘I love you baby’ when you squeeze its rubber balls.  No.  I mean the next generation of sex robots, the kind that look and talk and feel like a real man, only they’re not a real man.  For instance, when you turn them on (I’m talking buttons, not lingerie) they tune in to your mood and know straight away if you want a little romancin’,  a little hard luvin’,  or you just want the house cleaned up or the dogs walked.  Also, with this mind- reading app, they will also know if you like whatever it is they’re doing to you (or for you) and whether you want it right a little, left a little, harder, slower, or taken to the dry-cleaners – without you even saying a word!

With this man-robot, you will never be wrong.  He’ll give you all the information you need, and then support your decision one hundred percent.  He’ll never say I told you so.  When you take him to a party, you can set him on Flirt, Cling, Socialise or Life Of.  When you’re busy, you can stand him in the closet.   He also does your tax for you.

Some women will probably say at this point, yeah, but I want a real man, with his own opinions, his own life, his own delightful, unpredictable, annoying personality!  Really?  Some men will say, isn’t this just as sexist as wanting a blow-up doll for Christmas instead of a real woman?  To those men I say – yes it is.  But if people could easily buy sex/ companion/romance/friend) robots – would the REAL versions stand a chance?

Cause don’t we all just want a perfect match?