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I must
tell
him how hot he is,
for surely he has no idea.
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Metrosexuals can suck my hairy twat.
Back in high school and college, my best friends were gay men. They
were
spirited, they loved to gossip, they always complemented me, they were
the
best cuddlers, and they had an uncanny ability to make me feel better
about
myself by putting others down yet remaining friendly and non-judgmental.
But when it came to romance, the only boys that got my blood boiling
were
those with a bit more machismo. Their muscles bulged and their armpit
hair
peeked out of their flannel shirts with the sleeves ripped off. Their
stone-washed
jeans had rows and rows of stringy holes. Tufts of soft, curly hair
stood
between their chests and their tight, black Def Leppard and Skid Row
t-shirts.
Their calloused, yellow-stained fingers flicked Montclair Menthols in
between
tweaks of various parts of their shiny Mach 1’s with the black racing
stripes,
air shocks and scooped hoods. They smelled like men, they looked like
men,
they acted like men, and I--being a heterosexual woman--was always
turned
on by them.
After spending most of the late 90’s with one of these men, I found
myself
single upon the dawn of a new century. After I got through all the
textbook
break-up phases (denial, anger, depression, bitterness, casual sex with
strangers,
and an “oops, sorry, I guess I DON’T love you” rebound), I was eager to
find
my next main squeeze. But slowly, I started to realize that the men had
changed.
Where had all my strong and silent, hard-rock listening, muscle car
driving,
mullet-sporting, chest hair-donning suitors gone?
They had all turned gay!
Suddenly, every time I was on a date in a man’s apartment and excused
myself
to the bathroom, rather than being surrounded by a bottle of cologne
and
a micro-chip sized bar of soap with a pubic hair on it, I would see all
this
extra equipment. If I forgot my moisturizer, I could use his. Hair out
of
place? What luck! Johnny has some pomade! Pesky back hair? Why, it’s my
lucky
day…here’s a razor rubber-banded to a ruler! Perfect!
I just love cuddling up to these new-century men on a chilly evening.
The
way they wrap their shiny, silky-soft arms around me and stab me all
over
my back with their stubbly, two-day grown-in chest hair…I get the
chills
just thinking about it. And they smell like rose gardens! They never
get
sweaty! And when they take off their pants, there’s none of that awful,
dirty
pubic hair. Nope, it’s ALL shaved off. Every...last...bit of it. So all
that’s
left is soft, pink, shiny, prepubescent-like skin.
YUCK! Why are you doing this to me, men??? Why
are you all turning gay? I’m a heterosexual woman, and I want a MAN! I
am a feminine being; I need to be the yin for your yang! I’m a grown
woman
looking for a grown man, not one that looks like a hairless little boy!
I miss your smell! I miss running my fingers through the curls of your
chest
hair! I miss your ego being so inflated that you didn’t dare cry in
front
of me, let alone behind my back. I miss you getting all greasy from
working
on your car, which wasn’t really broken in the first place. Ok, I don’t
miss
your belches or your farts, but it really is immature to see who can
make
them louder or make the dog leave the room first.
I once had to break up with a man because I walked in on him in the
bathroom and never got over what I witnessed. It wasn’t a 10-inch dump
in the toilet. He wasn’t clutching the latest copy of “Tranny Trist”
magazine in one hand and himself in the other. It was just him, holding
a razor, gracefully balancing on one leg, the other leg up on the ledge
of the bathtub, shaving his toned, tanned calves. I can feel my vagina
losing moisture and shriveling now just thinking about it.
Another dumped me because I stopped giving him head. I didn’t want to,
but
my lips became so cut up and sore from all the stubble on his shaft
that
I just couldn’t do it anymore! And when I tried to use my hand, it felt
like
I was stroking wood--literally--and getting splinters!
Men, do you really have to be so gay now? Do you really have to smell
SO
fresh? Do you really have to have skin so soft, supple and pink? I
liked
you fine when you let your natural testosterone reign over your body.
Please,
leave the shaving below the neck to us women. I know you hate feeling
stubble
on our legs when we haven’t shaved in a few days; how do you think it
would
feel if that stubble was covering your chests while we tried to lay on
top
of you? I’ll tell you how it feels. IT FRIGGING ITCHES!
Are you doing this because you really hate cuddling THAT much? Well
it’s
working!
When, between 1989 and today, did body hair suddenly become so dirty
and
revolting? Aren’t we all showering? Now every new guy I meet boasts
with
a sexy grin that he keeps himself “clean and trimmed,” then waits for
me
to pounce on him at the mere vision. Well I’m turned off already!
Shaving
it DOESN’T make it look bigger! To me, it just makes it look like a
little,
slimy, pink, pre-pubescent, wiggle worm. It makes you look twelve. It
makes
you look girly. The hair doesn’t bother me. I’ll take the hair over a
pink,
pre-pubescent, or porcupine ANY day.
I’m sorry you had to listen to me swoon about how “Gay Gavin” would
make
a better boyfriend than you because he really listens and doesn’t mind
holding
my purse while I try on jeans. I’m sorry I asked you to shower because
your
underarms smelled like “guinea pig vomit.” I’m sorry I cried and
accused
you of loving your ‘76 Chevy Nova more than me. I want the old you
back.
Why are you all so homophobic, yet you shun, wax, shave, and scrub off
everything
that is anti- ‘mo about yourself? Why, when you KNOW it’s true that you
look
better with age and character, do you avoid letting your natural
handsome
features speak for themselves? Why are you all turning into the
high-maintenance,
self-absorbed women you used to get so annoyed by? Why do you claim to
hate
insecure chicks, yet now you have to change everything about your body?
It
isn’t a lie that for most girls, personality is more important than
looks.
My aforementioned late 1990’s ex was a sexy, balding, hairy-backed
beast
with a killer sense of humor. And no, he wasn’t rich!
Please men, just be yourself. Butch lesbians are more manly than most
of
you these days, and unfortunately, they just don’t do it for me.
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