what men desire is a virgin who is a whore (otherwise known as: the one in which i use the word ‘variety’ a lot, so i just thought i’d add another in the title for good measure. fuck off.)

When I was young(er than I am now), silly(er than I am now), and infinitely more bitchy in an entirely less fun, entirely more insecure kind of way, I loathe to admit this, but yes, the knowledge that the boy, my boy, liked looking at other women, other bikini clad or movie-star type women, made me… jealous. (And the torture inflicted by trying to divine meaning from the preceding sentence’s repetitive ramblings, lack of coherent structure, and overuse of punctuation, should be an ink and paper clue as to my reticence at admitting I am capable of falling victim to such cliché bullshit).

But I was 18. And a girl.

And while I am still a girl, and have not yet advanced much past the age of chronological adulthood, I can, with full confidence say I am no longer a fool of such fuckery.

Five years, zero therapy sessions, and innumerable strides of maturity later, I am the girlfriend that points out hot chicks both in print and flesh to my male counterpart.  If I, for lack of a less pathetic and guilt-implicating phrase, ‘catch him’ checking out a girl, I whip my head around, not to snark nor assess my competition (again, a pathetic notion), but to ogle alongside him. I buy him Playboy. And Sports Illustrated. I encourage his occasional patronage of strip clubs. I know he thinks my friends are hot.

I do not expect him to stop being a human animal because he has chosen to be with me.

But.

Before I sound like a caricature of a teenage boy’s dream, I must admit I would still be riled by a perhaps unusual specification of the ‘feel free to eye fuck/ rhapsodize about hot chicks’ portion of our relationship.

We’ll just call it the ‘Taylor Swift Clause.’

Full disclosure: the fact that the boy gets glassy eyed while envisioning Rihanna in garter belts, stumbles over words while watching Pink perform, has a thing for the inimitable Gaga, smirks with glee every time Ke$ha says fuck, and seriously gets off on dames with tattoos is INTOXICATING. Among all his other shiny happy attributes, I have procured a specimen of man that loves nothing more than women of the bad ass, take no shit, fully in charge, infinitely capable, baddest bitch in heels variety.

I SWOON.

But I swear to god, if he started getting tongue tied over girls of the Taylor Swift notion, the damsel in distress, all perfect curls, fairy tales, and happily ever after variety:

WE WOULD HAVE A PROBLEM.

I simply refuse to wrap my head around how an XY chromosomed someone could choose nice when naughty is available.

But Taylor Swift is the queen of yesterday, today, and tomorrow, selling eleventy-thousand copies of her highschool-romance-storybook-CD, while Rihanna’s literally rated R album falters.

And the virgin whore dichotomy rages on.

And yes, to each there own.

And blah, blah, blah.

But honestly, there is nothing hotter than a man that not only respects, but lusts after a woman of the badass variety rather than a little girl drowning in her mother’s pearls and just waiting to be saved.

And again I ask, how did I get so fucking lucky?

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~ by rubylocks on March 9, 2010.

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