So, I guess it’s not much of a surprise that I’m writing this…. It’s happened again.
I am married. SO VERY Married. Almost 16 years married to an amazing, so very sexy and marvelous man who appreciates me, who enjoys me and who knows every awesome thing to do to make me walk around with a goofy grin. He is my best friend, my business partner and an amazing father.
He is, for me, the perfect man. And all that being said?
I like LOVE manliness. The big, calloused hands. The sweat, the earnest focus on whatever it is he is doing at the moment. I like how men strut when they feel good. I like the strong silent type, the loud goofy type and all the types in between. I just like them.
I like the logical progression of thought. A+B=Shutthehellup I like the boyish satisfaction when they shoot things or blow things up. Even when they are 44. Love that I will not get the question, “Does this make me look fat?” from men. I like it that every thing does boil down to how good it tastes, how good it looks and how good it smells.
I like how men will love me or hate me but won’t bother to figure out a confusing disaster that hovers somewhere in between. This makes me feel safe. I like that men are stronger than I am and that sometimes they get angry and need to physically express that. I like it that my husband, while being much, much, much stronger than I am, can still hold my hand as gently and carefully as he does. That his strength has never been used for anything but as a means to provide for or protect his family and his friends. I love it that he’s so much smarter than me but never mocks me for asking the question again or not understanding the first time.
That’s my man. And I adore him. There are elements of all this expressed in many men and I admire those qualities when I see them. Men are cool. Especially when I see the wild, untamed ones who don’t ask permission but take the risks, run the race and fight the fight.
Even when they fail they are amazing to me. I never feel more empowered as a woman as I do in the times when I have the opportunity to follow the leadership of such men. I know then that I have the freedom to be who I was created to be. Without the falseness of feminisim that tells me to despise myself and try my hardest to be something I’m not.
But this lesbian thing?
I don’t care how flattering or schmucky they are? I still can’t go there with them. Butch haircuts, soft little hands. Overweight, hitting on me like a damn 12 year old.
Friends? Sure. I can do that. If that’s possible.
Just. Don’t. Touch. Me.
Now I need a shower.