WHY DO MEN LIKE BREASTS AND OTHER QUESTIONS
Not because it highlights a fetish - not even close - but because it highlights a level of social confusion.
I don't really have a thing for Asian women. Not enamoured of Japanese women, because so much of what they are and how they think is entirely strange to me. Thai women do not appeal in the slightest - their food is wonderful however, albeit too refined - and Vietnamese women do not have quite the necessary cultural flexibility to fit into my ideas of socializing and friendships. Korean women? Too domineering, and like Mongolian women far too crazy. Philippinas? Admirable, determined, but, erm, manipulative as all git-out and anarchic. Indonesians and Malays speak my language (one of my languages), but good heavens no. Shanghainese are delightful people, but I'm always at a negotiating disadvantage.
So no, not Asian women.
More a specific appreciation of particular Cantonese women, precisely their San Francisco variation.
Along with feisty brunettes, self-confident women, angry women, and just sheer stark raving stubborn women.
Last night I was drinking at a bar next to a Belorussian. I cannot remember what she looked like, but holy handgrenades she was hot. Clearly not because of appearance, given that I cannot describe her, but sweet cheesewhip, because of what came out of her mouth.
She held her own and then some. Wiped the floor with the bartender and a patron.
Brilliant and utterly mad - it's a winning combination.
Don't know if I would find her sexually attractive.......
But I sure hope I run into her crazy self again.
I think she's a brunette, but I'm not sure.
Don't remember her name either. Never asked.
Let's call her Natasha Borisova.
Why do men like younger women? Probably the absence of tattoos and eccentric piercings - the older they are, the more likely they've made bad choices not involving us.
Why do men like blondes? Frankly, I have no idea. Most bad memories of women in my youth -- well, memories of grammar school hotties -- involve blonde girls from north of the three rivers who sneered at Brabanders and our odd locutions. It kind of predisposes one against their type.
Why do men like small women? In one word: huggable. Good luck with that elephant seal from the Midwest.
Why do men like Cantonese women? Short enough to sniff their hair on the bus without being noticed, and fierce enough to make you feel totally safe and comfy in their presence. While nevertheless giving you that warm false feeling of being protective. Go on, fool yourself.
Who do men like keeping the lights on? Because, dear girl, we really do think you look gorgeous. We like seeing you. All of you. You may have a horrible self-image, but we know better. Como se dice "tasty bon bon" in a language you will understand?
Why do men like breasts? Oh please! What kind of question is that?
They're nice! We don't have them, you do. We're wired that way.
Why did I like that teenage Palestinian girl at the angry demonstration at Montgomery and Market four years ago?
Well, who wouldn't? The girl was feisty. Had sheer buckets of feist coming out of the wazoo. Fiery little minx. Or was it 'petite version of Sherman Tank'?
Can't remember, but lordy, hot! First time I ever saw tits beings shaken with insulting intent. That leaves an impression on a man.
I'm scarred now.
Can't remember what she looked like, but I'm fairly certain she wasn't blonde.
Also fairly sure she was no more than five feet tall.
I don't know why that's important.
Point is, what you specifically remember of the women who impress you favourably will necessarily incline you towards that type.
And I hang out in Chinatown a lot.
Given that I speak Cantonese, that shouldn't be surprising.
THE EX GIRLFRIEND
When I first met Savage Kitten -- with whom I have lived for over two decades -- I was not interested in Cantonese girls, as I had a mental bug up my you-know-what about Dutch speakers. I didn't want to lose the language, didn't want to ever have children who would not speak like I did.
Savage Kitten within mere minutes made me forget myself.
Of course, she's always thought that my accent in Cantonese was atrocious. Which it is.
Her ability to speak Dutch is limited to "lekker" and a request for raw herring.
So yes, at present I veer towards Cantonese American women. The combination of fierce stubbornness and hair at the right height to nuzzle and sniff has an immense attraction.
In my own way I am a sensualist.
But it's also completely a moot point. No idea how to go about dating again, not a clue how to meet women, and not devoting any effort at all to such a quest either.
I'm fifty one. In another two months I will be fifty two.
Not exactly the right age to go on a randy hunt.
Quieted down a bit, and realistic.
Not the party-type either.
On weekend evenings I can hear excited girlish squealing from several houses away.
I suspect that the young women in question have tattoos and drink flavoured vodka.
They sound like they're snooty wasps in their late twenties.
I'm sure they would never read my blog, or any other blog.
That, almost automatically, predisposes me against them.
To read is to live. Blogs invite one into a world.
HOT AND BUTTERY NAP TIME
Some of my dreams are disturbingly erotic. So are yours, do not deny it.
But mine involve baked goods.
Last night I dreamt I was eating scones with melted butter and fruit preserves on a bed with a poofy feather comforter and a rambunctious young lady with silken hair. She wore one of my oversize dress shirts. Her bare legs curled under her were the hue of honey.
Mmmm, warm melted butter.
Freshly baked, on an antique porcelain plate. Sunlight coming in through south-west facing windows, so it must have been afternoon right around teatime.
Charming. A necklace accenting her upper chest, above where the shirt was buttoned, the folds of tight-wove cotton emphasizing by what they hid and how they fell all her delightful feminine aspects.
Hot scones. Melted butter. Sweet jam. And strong tea.
I'm fairly sure she was no more than half my age.
I can remember the velvety appearance of her skin, the highlights of her hair.
The taste and steam of the cups of tea, with silver spoons and broad saucers, and the warm inviting glow that the late afternoon sunlight gave to her thighs.
We had probably dozed together since after lunch.
Alas, I cannot remember her face.
But her lips were loveable, and her eyes were kind.
I shall have to research scones. Perhaps find a recipe twixt dense muffin and airy beaten biscuit. Something that welcomes warm butter.
Preserves, I already have.
Being single again is a bitch.
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