I think I might be a stereotype. Even worse, I might be a stereotype having a mid-life crisis. All I need is a wacky job, a crazy mother, and a coffeeshop to hang out in, and my life is an NBC sitcom.
For the last really long time – maybe not as long as I’ve known about sex, as my pre-school thesis was entitled “Dirty Knees, Look at These” – I’ve identified as bisexual. I never really thought of boys and girls differently in the circus of my mind; I just concentrated on what I was attracted to (everything). I’ve loved boys, I’ve loved girls, and I never could figure out why people couldn’t have several of each and be one big happy family. The idea of running away to start a hippie nerd commune of free love and low packet loss has been Plan B amongst my people since our first computer conversations with someone other than Dr. Sbaitso, and it’s still something we bring up on a regular basis: wouldn’t it be awesome, if only?
I digress, though: this isn’t about my recurring daydream of opening a pantless oasis where the ping never goes above 10, it’s about my sexual identity and that I think .. well, I think I might be straight.
Really, really straight. Like, the Superman of straight. A great big old flag-waving Straighty McStraighterson, with the white picket fence and 2.4 kids and a sensible minivan parked in the driveway. Bring on the Grey’s Anatomy and weekend antiquing; apparently that is what I am into now, along with gardening. I love me some mulch.
It’s not that I’m not attracted to women or that I can’t see myself in a relationship with one (although being married is really putting a damper on my plans to date other people), but .. well, that whole dong thing? About how I want 17 of them? Yeah, that’s a predominate thought around these (and other) parts. Can you really claim to still be into girls if all you can think of is cock? It seems as though there might be a rule about that, or perhaps a line in the project charter – Paragraph 19 Item C Line 6 clearly states that you must think about vaginas and penises in equal amount in order to remain a member in good standing of Kappa Beta Bi.
This is a very strange headspace to be in, as I find myself confused about sexuality at my advanced age as opposed to having gotten it out of the way when I was younger. I never gave any thought to this before; stuff just fell into place and now I totally don’t know what the hell (except that more boners please).
There is a whole lot of debate surrounding the idea of a sexual prime and the old theory that men peak at 18 whereas women don’t get going until their mid-30s. I don’t know if there’s any validity to it or if it’s just a convenient way to explain away rampant masturbation and 50 Shades of Crap, but it does seem to mesh well with the filthy things going on in my head. Also, if there IS any truth to it, it’s a terrible joke and totally not fair. I’d really like to avoid being a cougar – I don’t prowl well, and no one takes me seriously. YOU try being sexy when everything is hilarious, and see how far you get. Here’s a hint: not very. I’m far better in words than I am in real life, but I still couldn’t pull sexy off even if I had an entire thesaurus filled with synonyms for “throbbing”.
I suppose I don’t need to figure all this out tonight, or at all. I’ve alway insisted that everyone else accept me exactly as I am, so maybe it would be an interesting science experiment to foist my own expectations on myself: there’s really nothing wrong with any of it, no matter what side of the rainbow I fall on. Maybe next week I’ll be back to all seven colours. Maybe things will continue to bob about comically for the next few years. Maybe when Ed finally snaps and leaves me for Barry, I’ll buy the Indigo Girls discography and a VW van. In the meantime, if I absolutely have to label myself, I could try “heteroflexible” on for size – it’s kind of fun and makes me think of sex gymnastics, which is totally hilarious. I’m not going to rule out women entirely – boobs are fucking awesome – but I could happily lose myself in a sea of wang for a little while or three, and that’s nobody’s business but mine (um and the entire internet that I just told).
Anyone want to make out?
The preceding blog post dealt with mature subject matter and contained sexually explicit material, way too much information, and course language. Viewer discretion was advised.
3 thoughts on “a three-dong circus”
If Ed leaves you for Barry, you and I can start a life together.
I cannot WAIT for our moms to meet!
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