response. Conditioned. There is a profound disconnect between what we’re told to think is sexy, and what it is that we actually think is sexy, between glamorous groupthink and the sanctity of the individual kink. Our blush-worthy little perversions are too often hijacked by flesh merchants and the noise of the hive. Not all dudes want to go home with vampy, bikini-clad beauty queens. In fact, most men will probably agree with me that what satisfies their touch and tongue cannot be communicated in two dimensions. That while the pack howls for sexpots built to factory specifications, we’re all still lone wolves hunting our lust’s lonely prey. The difference between a boy and a man is simple: a man knows what he wants and doesn’t apologize for it. The right “type” is whoever he says it is. He owns it and rolls hard.
So what really turns a man on? It’s probably not what anyone
thinks. Because it’s specific to the man, provided he’s come to grips with one simple fact: he’s man enough to ignore the clamor and chase the women of his dreams, not the focus group–tested dreams he’s bullied into having. It is said that confidence is sexy. If a man is not confident about his carnal hungers, what turns him on doesn’t matter. Because chances are, he’s never really had space-time continuum–warping sex. But a man who rocks his inner freak without apology is a happy man, and one worth trying to turn on.
My secret is not a secret anymore: I want curves. And if not curves, I want tall, lanky, long legs. I think I have a weird Earth Goddess/Edward Gorey fetish. Hell, both at once! I like the word curvy. I mean, you could use the word chubby if you wanted to. I’m a lil’ chubby. There’s a reason my nickname in fourth grade was “Puddin’.” But I’m also a galloping sex centaur. Whatever the word you prefer, I need a woman with a little bounce to her. A woman with a big ol’ badonkadonk. But that’s just me. I’d like to take a moment to also mention that not all men love huge boobs. Many of us, and by “us,” I mean “John DeVore,” like them small, perky, the kind that say “Why, hello.” Like peaches. A mouthful.
I have dated all types of women, and I don’t judge a potential relationship, or even a sticky, sweet fling, exclusively by physical criteria. But we’re talking desire here, and desire is wholly misunderstood. Desire is an intense fist floating in your pelvis that only unclenches during those fleeting moments when you’re running your nose up her neck, nibbling her lip, sliding fingers under shirts and up spines. Desire is not a Whopper after a morning spent in front of a computer writing blog posts. It is waffles and ham steak after a monumental hike. It’s nipples like lit fuses, red claw marks crisscrossing shoulder blades, balled-up bedsheets that
need to be laundered. What we desire is unique to the individual, and must be sated. Far too many people lead very unhappy lives, desperate for the mob’s approval. Men dating centerfolds for the applause. Women confusing the car for the driver.
You know what’s really of social value? Happy people. People who valiantly flip the bird to convention and bang it out with whoever happens to turn the roots of every hair on their body into itty-bitty lightning rods. Want fearlessly; when you’re dead you’ll regret not having gone to bed with those people who haunted your dirtiest dreams.
Women with curves make my junk bark. There is something so shockingly vulnerable, feminine, and grounded about a woman with back, hips, a lil’ paunch. Oh, and the beanpoles, with their delicate architecture. A tall woman with long legs, who is shyly unaware of her fairy-tale regality, likewise turns me back into a sweating, erotically overcharged fifteen-year-old. It’s almost a narcotic effect, when one of these graceful women wraps her legs around you, holding you close, yielding and demanding surrender at the same time. It’s…sensual? Did I
So what really turns a man on? It’s probably not what anyone
thinks. Because it’s specific to the man, provided he’s come to grips with one simple fact: he’s man enough to ignore the clamor and chase the women of his dreams, not the focus group–tested dreams he’s bullied into having. It is said that confidence is sexy. If a man is not confident about his carnal hungers, what turns him on doesn’t matter. Because chances are, he’s never really had space-time continuum–warping sex. But a man who rocks his inner freak without apology is a happy man, and one worth trying to turn on.
My secret is not a secret anymore: I want curves. And if not curves, I want tall, lanky, long legs. I think I have a weird Earth Goddess/Edward Gorey fetish. Hell, both at once! I like the word curvy. I mean, you could use the word chubby if you wanted to. I’m a lil’ chubby. There’s a reason my nickname in fourth grade was “Puddin’.” But I’m also a galloping sex centaur. Whatever the word you prefer, I need a woman with a little bounce to her. A woman with a big ol’ badonkadonk. But that’s just me. I’d like to take a moment to also mention that not all men love huge boobs. Many of us, and by “us,” I mean “John DeVore,” like them small, perky, the kind that say “Why, hello.” Like peaches. A mouthful.
I have dated all types of women, and I don’t judge a potential relationship, or even a sticky, sweet fling, exclusively by physical criteria. But we’re talking desire here, and desire is wholly misunderstood. Desire is an intense fist floating in your pelvis that only unclenches during those fleeting moments when you’re running your nose up her neck, nibbling her lip, sliding fingers under shirts and up spines. Desire is not a Whopper after a morning spent in front of a computer writing blog posts. It is waffles and ham steak after a monumental hike. It’s nipples like lit fuses, red claw marks crisscrossing shoulder blades, balled-up bedsheets that
need to be laundered. What we desire is unique to the individual, and must be sated. Far too many people lead very unhappy lives, desperate for the mob’s approval. Men dating centerfolds for the applause. Women confusing the car for the driver.
You know what’s really of social value? Happy people. People who valiantly flip the bird to convention and bang it out with whoever happens to turn the roots of every hair on their body into itty-bitty lightning rods. Want fearlessly; when you’re dead you’ll regret not having gone to bed with those people who haunted your dirtiest dreams.
Women with curves make my junk bark. There is something so shockingly vulnerable, feminine, and grounded about a woman with back, hips, a lil’ paunch. Oh, and the beanpoles, with their delicate architecture. A tall woman with long legs, who is shyly unaware of her fairy-tale regality, likewise turns me back into a sweating, erotically overcharged fifteen-year-old. It’s almost a narcotic effect, when one of these graceful women wraps her legs around you, holding you close, yielding and demanding surrender at the same time. It’s…sensual? Did I
Similar Books
