The first night I met Tony, which incidentally was also the first night I slept with him, he told me he wasn’t like other guys.
I knew that he believed what he’d said, but I also knew that he was full of shit. And even though I was fully aware and cognizant of the performance that was his personality, of his persona of charming overconfident showman, as I sat on the wooden bench turned sliding cushioned sofa in his outdoor, semi-walled kitchen, I couldn’t be bothered to resist the allure of my current role as passive audience member.
I was mesmerized by the spectacle, by the light he shone upon himself, by the accent and the dimple, the chipped tooth, the literal cockiness with which his head spun and titled about his neck. His act and his attention was both flattering and intriguing.
I love to get a man alone and watch him act out for me
To listen to him pour out his stories, almost uncontrollably. It’s like I like being lied to. It’s the dreamer in me, the creative who adores creation. I am a storyteller who lives for a good story, an artist as a sponge, a thief who wants to capture truth, but who will absorb the lie for the sake of the tale. I welcome all narratives, and I suffer fools by choice.
I maintain I knew he was full of shit from the beginning.
But the irresistible fun for a writer like me, in spending time with people with so many layers and projections, is trying to decipher and penetrate their core.
How do they behave in less favorable situations? When the fanfare diminishes? Where are their pain points? What threatens their fabrication the most? How much can they lie? How much will they lie? Where and when does the lie end, and where begins their real personality beneath the costume?
This is my favorite pastime (or was) : Gravitating toward, and observing characters at the most comfortable and easily maintained proximity possible. I want to know what other people are made of, and the more difficult they appear to pin, or the more faceted they appear to be, the more emotionally fractured, or potentially illusive the more I am absolutely enthralled. I can acknowledge how creepy this sort of uninvited inspection can appear. My attention can seem aggressive, my interest invasive.
I don’t care to alter my curious nature.
People’s reaction to my examination of them only intensifies my occupation with them. There is nothing more fascinating to me than other people who are complicated, and either unaware of their complexities or disinterested in addressing them. These are my favorite people, the people I most want to spend time with, and if I happen to get fingered by, or blow and fuck them in the process so be it.
It comes off like I’m desperate for a man, and I suppose in some ways I am.
I want a God.
I want a Hero.
I want a virile, handsome, intimidating man who elicits immediate respect from lesser men.
I want someone so disgustingly sexy that I, by proxy, elicit envy in other women. I want an accidental guru and shaman, a magic man full of intelligence and wisdom, with a soft and warm heart and a fundamentally kind nature, but who is still capable of spearing someone to death with his eyes and words, and possibly killing another human with his fists, should the dystopia arrive sooner than expected.
And naturally, I want a man with a huge dick, and a gentle stroke that can still, and often will go jack hammer on my pussy and glaze me like a Krispy Kreme donut while he grips me in place and pins my trembling body beneath his.
Sure, I want to be dominated, but also pleasured, loved, held, admired and respected.
I want this nearly impossible dream of a man who is good by choice, and only because he knows his own potential for evil but does not lean into it.
Yet, he understands and accepts that potential inside of all of us. I want a man who is evolved because he has already cycled through his base. I want a man I can believe is more intelligent than me, and thus deserving of my submission.
I don’t know if that man exists. But I don’t mind exploring the composition and design of other, lesser men until I meet my Hercules, whether or not I ever do.
Like, I’m not going to not have sex just because my Hercules may not be real.
There is no amount of imagination or prose wherein Tony could ever be compared to the image of my ideal man.
By his own admission – and the shared opinion of even those closest to him – Tony is, by choice, Peter Pan. He is the eternal man child, the lost boy who never grows up.
It’s all fun and games and pixie dust and flying high on happy thoughts in Neverland with him. And in Neverland, a man-child cannot be held accountable for his actions because he cannot be expected to consider either their consequences or implications.
He is always innocent under the guise that everything he does is intended for humor, fun, and unfettered joy.
This is not a Hero. This is a clown. This is a diversion in the plot. This is a secondary character, with limited depth.
And I need a Hero.
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Tell me what you think before we both die