come hither

I have a crush on a gal at the gym. Do I know her name? No. Have I ever even spoken one word to her? No. Do I know anything about her other than her workout regimen? No. Do I ever let her see me leering at her? No. Is there anything more than pure projection involved in this fixation of mine? No. Do I think she knows that I have a crush on her? Yes. Why do I think this if I haven't ever spoken to her and pretend to ignore her? Because when this kind of thing happens to me - and it happens to me all the time - my face tends to turn beet red when I'm in the presence of the object of my obsession. How could a woman not notice that, and how could it not turn her off, knowing that some silent weirdo is sweet on her? But if I don't know anything about her, how could I be fixated to such a degree? I'm not all that clear on this one. There's something about her that trips a live wire in the sector of my brain where intense emotions are stored. It's kind of like when I hear The Night Was So Young. The impact on me is not rational. It's light and airy and crackling with potential, but it's somehow also tinged with melancholy, an expectation that in the end I won't get what I want. When it comes to romance I never get what I want, quite possibly because I engage in such baseless projection, which forces me to do everything I can to make reality conform to the ideal I've created.

For all I know, this gal is a mean and cruel bitch. There's at least as much likelihood of her being a mean and cruel bitch as there is of her being the wonderful, smart, witty, kind lady I want her to be. (Are you digging my usage of gal and lady as much as I am?) Would it destroy my fixation if I knew for a fact that she is a mean and cruel bitch? No. I would rationalize it away. I would make excuses for her. She's a mean and cruel bitch to everyone else, but everyone else misunderstands her. She's misunderstood, and so am I. I like to think of myself as being misunderstood. It eases the pain... So we're perfect for each other. The two of us could be so happy together, understanding one another, understanding that we're each misunderstood, feeling superior to everybody else because they fail to understand us. We would love one another in our mutual feelings of superiority.

There's something about the way she looks and the way she carries herself, this gal at the gym. She's not hot. Not at all. She's very plain looking. I'm attracted to unadorned women. I've often pointed out gals on the street to my male friends and said something like, 'look how pretty she is,' only to have them tell me that they would never have looked twice at someone so ordinary looking. A guy I know recently said to me, 'It must be great being you. You think every girl is hot.' Actually, dude, it's not so great being me, and your tiny little peanut of a brain is missing the point. Hot doesn't do it for me. Young doesn't do it for me. I have nothing in common with young, hot people. They don't think the way I do. They don't want the same things I want. They don't like the things I like. They don't speak the way I speak... Am I generalizing? Yes. Does the fact that it's a geralization make it any less true? No. I hold the hot youth of today in contempt. I dated a younger woman for a few months earlier this year. She made me miserable. Our world views were completely different in a way that had everything to do with age. She had a great body...and I couldn't even get it up for her because there was no mutual understanding between us. I tried Viagra. I tried 36-hour Cialis. Nothing. My dick receded into my balls, like a turtle taking cover. I was so very happy and relieved when she broke off communication with me without warning. I felt as free as a bird... I like a woman with a little bit of age on her. I'm not interested in dating women under 40. Most of the time I'm not interested in dating women at all, but when the urge flares up, or when I feel like I should be doing it in order to conform to some received conception of normality, I like my ladies to be at least 40. When I look at porn, my favorite niches are 'mature' and 'MILF.' Porn search engines these days allow guys like me to be very precise in our choices of what to look at. Just type in the keywords: 'mature, glasses, redhead, thick, pretty, natural, POV, handjob, tease, no ink, on top... and presto, there she is, the ideal woman, without me ever having to leave the bedroom, without me ever having to deal with the humiliation of dating and making conversation with someone who will never understand where I've been, where I am, where I'm going, who I am, what I like, what I don't like. And then when I've beat off to the streaming video a few times, I can just re-type the same keywords again and there'll be millions of other streams for me to watch. So why bother putting myself out there? I get all the love I need from my two beautiful cats, and they don't need anything from me except affection, a clean shit box, and food. But I'm thinking that this girl at the gym doesn't require much more than this either. She seems very self-sufficient when she's on the Stairmaster. She seems like she doesn't need anybody. She's got no rock on her finger. She doesn't wear gym hottie clothing, just a pair of beat up sweats and a ragged t-shirt. She looks fantastic in that get up, but it's obvious that she doesn't need men to stare at her. I like that. I dig her short hair, too. It's dirty blonde. I've always liked short hair on women. I bet she lives in some cool downtown loft. She's probably an artist. Or she works at a museum, or a library. She doesn't make a lot of money, but that's because she doesn't need a lot of things. She doesn't need people, and she doesn't need things. Just enough to survive in relative comfort. That's about the best we can hope for in this world these days. If you're surviving in relative comfort, and you're reasonably self-sufficient, then you're doing ok. ...She doesn't work out with an iPod. Does this mean she doesn't like music? No. I refuse to believe she doesn't like music. I refuse to believe that someone who looks and acts the way she does has no room for music in her life.

The reason she doesn't work out with an iPod is because she hasn't transitioned yet from LPs. She probably has a great collection of LPs, all the things you'd expect a girl to have in her record collection. Joni Mitchell. X. Bowie. Roxy Music. Neil Young. Nick Drake... And I just know she's open to hearing stuff she hasn't heard before, and that she likes to make love with the stereo on. I'd be able to keep my cock hard if I was making love to her with Bryter Layter wafting out of the speakers, the words sung in a near-whisper, as if the guy is doing an intimate performance for just this occasion. I would worship her naked, overripe body. She wouldn't be selfish. She'd do the things I like having done to me, even if I'm not all that clear on what those things are. She'd explore that question with me, and she'd show me what I need to do to please her. She'd teach me. I need a teacher in the bedroom. I need patience. I don't have a lot of good experiences to draw from. She'd find my sexual ineptitude attractive. I'm not like all those other guys she's been with who are so cocky because they know exactly what to do. She'd sing while I was inside her, and squeal, and moan, and scream. And she'd announce it to the world when she was about to come. The neighbors would know that she was about to come. And I'd love that the neighbors know that I'm schtuping a 40-something woman in my bedroom, and that I have the chops to make her come. I'd act all cool about it when I saw them in the next morning as I made my way to my car, parked in front of the house. They'd look at me admiringly, those fucking neighbors with their sprinklers that leave permanent hard water spots on my Mustang. You made that gal come last night, they'd think to themselves. You made her scream and squeal and moan. And then she came! We heard it! You must be quite the stallion 'cause the noise she made shattered our fine china. Who the hell does she think she is, Ella fucking Fitzgerald?

I don't let this gal see me looking at her at the gym. I think I mentioned that already. I act indifferent. Yet I know she knows that I'm thinking about screwing her with the stereo on. You might be wondering why I don't approach her and strike up a conversation, you know, like a normal guy might do. After you've thought about eating a gal's pussy and making her come, it's kind of hard to avoid stumbling over your words. Some guys can do it. Some guys can't. I'm one of those guys who can't. There's also a fear of getting shot down. I'll do anything to avoid getting shot down. Again, some guys get shot down and then they just dust themselves off, strap on their helmets a little tighter, and try to find someone else who'll be more receptive to their advances. When I get shot down, it takes me about two years to recover whatever thimble full of confidence I had. Rejection, and especially rejection from women, confirms every feeling I have about myself. It underscores for me that the only thing more powerful than my seething misanthropy is my seething self loathing. It confirms for me that I'm better off typing the keywords into the porn search engine. Nothing cures romantic longing better than masturbation. When I clean out my balls, I clean out my head as well and see the world as it really is, not as it appears to be when I'm longing for someone or something I can't have.

This has turned into quite a rant, eh? I'm thinking that maybe I should try a breaching experiment. I studied a sociologist named Harold Garfinkel when I was in graduate school. He invented these types of experiments where an ethnographer will purposely breach the norms of a given everyday circumstance in order to observe how people deal with and reconstitute those norms on the fly. The idea is to see how the normative status quo is restored and perpetuated in the course of everyday interactions. So maybe I should try a breaching experiment at the gym, with this gal. I could approach her and tell her that I would really like for her to sit on my face so I can make her come... OK, so that might not be such a great idea. I might get kicked out of the gym if I did that, and then I'd have no place to
work out, no place to keep myself lean and chiseled in the event that I'm ever in a position again to have a woman sit on my face. Maybe a less severe breaching experiment would be a better idea... I really like the way you work out on that there stair master. No wonder you look so fit... Maybe I should keep the part about being fit out of it, because any intelligent lady will be able to translate that into what it really means: I would really like to eat your pussy and make you come. ...I need to think more about this breaching experiment. I've got nothing to lose. I'm like a ball club that's 10 games out of first place with five games left to play.