View from a Wolf

Robert (not his real name) said: “Any guy who says he’s never had a gay experience is lying.”

I looked at him.  “Really.”

“Every straight guy I’ve ever known has either admitted to it, or he’s come on to me.”

I laughed.   “Tell you what, dude.   Any ‘straight’ guy who comes onto you isn’t straight.”   We agreed to disagree.  He let go of my hand, and I wiped his lipstick off of my face and we went our separate ways.

It got me thinking.   What is it about guys who find other dudes attractive?

That train of thought derailed and wiped out all of the villagers, including the town mayor, which was tragic and sad and we’ll miss them even though they’re just metaphors and whoever would miss a metaphor.   But then I thought: what is it about women that I find so attractive?   Why do I like them?

I liked that train better and decided to hop on.

They smell nice.  

They will tell you that this is because they use all of those special oils, and perfumes and emollients and soaps and cream and…uh…we don’t care.  We just know that when they walk on by, they smell like dreams, and erotic promise and good health and cake.

Also, everyone knows that girls just don’t fart.   In fact, it’s like they don’t even know what the word “fart” means even though they wince whenever guys accidentally slip one out.  The word, that is.   They do a lot more than wince when we actually let one go.  They scrunch up their cute little noses, and with a look of disgust exclaim “CAN’T YOU DO THAT OUTSIDE?”    (Or at least, that’s what I’m told, never having farted in a woman’s presence myself.   That night in Tijuana doesn’t count, as neither one of us were in Canada.  Plus I was drunk.  And so was she.  Also it wasn’t me anyway.  It was the donkey.  Donkeys smell.  Did you know that?   Just. Like. Farts. I digress.)

They’re soft.  

So….soft.   They have always been that way too.  We notice that the first time we see one of them.  All soft and giggly and gentle and soft.  Even after working out and winning the Muscle Beach bodybuilding competition, they’re still soft.  They’ll plow you into next Sunday, some of them, if you suggest they’re anything other than hardcore and brutal.  Better to stay silent.  When they inform you that they’re tough and hard and can break a phonebook in two, you nod, knowing full well deep in your heart that they’re soft.

They’re nurturing.

They get so concerned when we get sick, or cut ourselves.  Or even those times when we look off into the distance, thinking about cooking up a barbecue steak, and they get this little frown in their forehead and they look at you and they say “what’s wrong baby?   Let’s talk about it.  You look like you have something serious on your mind.  Was it a bad day for you at work?  Want me to rub your shoulders?   Maybe take you into the bedroom?”   At which point we forget all about the steak, nod resignedly and say “okay.   But I just don’t want to talk about it.  I’m trying to forget.”   Then, ten minutes later, we’re all sweaty and happy again.

They think we’re helpless.

Except around spiders.  And jars that won’t open.  And cars.  One time I hosted a party, and decided I was going to make a pizza and some hors d’oevres.  I stood at the counter, while the music played, and the guests were talking and drinking and laughing.  Two girls were watching me while I stood at the counter, staring off into space.  My ADD had kicked in and so I was  thinking about a scene from Big Bang Theory; where Sheldon had just expressed a heartfelt emotion, and then turned to Leonard and said “Bazinga”.   One girl looked at the other, sighed and said “Men are all the same.  So helpless.”  As she laughed she made a shooing motion with her hand and said “get out of the way.  We got this.”   I thought about protesting but then gave my virtual self a virtual slap upside the head.   “Sure”  I said, pretending to be relieved.  “Thanks – I appreciate it.”   My virtual self smiled.  I would have felt guilty but I know they did a better job than I would have done.   I mean that pizza was *good*.  Why does food always taste so much better when someone else puts it together?

They have curves.

So many curves.  I could get lost in those curves.  Men don’t have them.  Except some of us have protruding upside-down lightbulb curves. Irrepressibly and obstinately ugly.  In fact, I don’t even want to think about it.   Women and their curves just intrigue the hell out of me.   It just never gets old, you know?   I like how my hand can travel down a woman’s back, following her contour, exploring as if for the first time.  It just…… I digress again.  Never mind.

They’re graceful.

I think they practice this at yoga class or something.   When they stretch, they’re catlike.  Methodical, slow, smooth, and – there’s no other word – graceful.   Men stretch abruptly and belch.  Or we yawn, loudly and forcefully.    Women are much more aware of themselves.  I would guess that each physical movement is choreographed and practiced – except that it seems to be instinctive.   Anyway, I like it.

They fit.

When I hold a woman in my arms, I don’t know how it happens, but we just fit, right there.  Perfect.  Like we were made for each other.  She can be the same height as me, or shorter, and it just seems to work.  Even when they have to get up on tiptoes to make out with us.   We’re like a jigsaw puzzle.   So satisfying.   It’s like the universe just *clicks*.  I haven’t been with a taller woman yet, though I’ve been tempted.  The thought of getting up on a stepladder just to kiss her goodnight is a tiny bit off-putting.  What if someone comes along and kicks the ladder out from under me?   What then?

Might be worth trying, just the same.

When they smile or laugh, we fall apart.

Or I fall apart (can’t truly speak for other guys).   Anyway, they sometimes don’t know that they have a special power when they do that.  We just know that they do, and so we work hard at finding funny stuff to say, just so we can see it again.  So worth it.

I once had a passionate make out time with a girl on a dance floor, and she said to me, breathlessly “I have never kissed a boy like that.”    I struggled and blurted out “me neither.”  I paused, then added  “I’ve never kissed a boy like that either.”   I wasn’t trying to be a smartass.  I just wanted to hear her laugh.   She did.

See how that goes?  Attempt.  Reward.   You women just keep encouraging us.

They have a quality.

I haven’t been able to define it yet.  I might not ever, but it’s fun to think about anyway.   I don’t know if it’s in their eyes, or the fact that I’m always trying to figure out exactly what colour they are.  Or maybe it’s that their cheeks are so inviting.  Or even the fact that they’re angry sometimes and you know you’re treading on quicksand if you even ask why they’re angry, and you do anyway because you know it’s a sin to say nothing and they get mad that you asked.   They puzzle me.  And they excite me.  And I can never figure them out, because even when I think I have, they’ll prove I’m wrong again.

Women are like a fascinating ball of yarn, and I’m the world’s most playful cat.   I have no idea where the string goes, or how long it is – but I’ll play with it until I can’t keep my eyes open.

One thing more:  I’ll never, ever, in a million years figure out why they like us.