I don’t have a type. I was never picky or demanding, my collection of girlfriends was truly eclectic: all shapes, sizes, ages, and Caucasian colors. They just had to have the right proportions, a golden ratio in their stride. Ears sticking out, chubby belly, cigarette smell, if it harmonized with the rest, I liked.
I leaned toward the taller, bustier genre, on the cheap side: revealing attire, things spilling out the front and from underneath the back. Even though SCREWY HOOEY was nothing like that, she was smart casual, both in dress and demeanor. She wore exclusively jeans and pants without back pockets and she didn’t wear a handbag. I don’t know where she put her stuff. She was an unmitigated original and I told her so: “I was born with your body shape burned in my retina, and when I saw you, it superimposed perfectly.” She laughed.
But I never consciously looked for her copy in other women, and none of them were. As time went by, my idea of a woman became more concrete: I prefer submissive, docile (I’ve had enough excitement for three lives), but not infinitely accomodating, she can bring something on, I’ll deal with it. For example, if she says she wants to go to a music festival, I’ll throw her out.
And now, at 45 years old, I’m finally able to distill the one thing that I must have. I like a woman with a dumb and displeased look on her face. Not the basic bitch gaze, no aggressiveness, no snide remarks, just confusion and frustration.
I saw a woman like that the other day in a coffeeshop. She was impeccably dressed, had long, lush, freshly washed dirty blonde hair, but then she took a can out of the fridge, read the contents and something was wrong. She made a face that sent electricity down my whole body. I had to bite my lip and probably looked dumber than she did.
It’s comforting to know what one wants.