October 21, 2004

We often get letters from earnest males asking us to explain the mysteries of women to them.  Obviously, this is an ephemeral sort of thing, but one area in which the differences are both subtle and overt is sexual fantasy.

Popular wisdom has it that women are not as visually stimulated as men are, and up to a point that’s true.  I think the real difference is that we don’t necessarily respond to visual clues as consistently as men do.

But we do have our moments. 

Women are generally less vulnerable to popular characterizations of beauty (a quirk for which all men should be grateful), but we certainly aren’t immune.   There are certain archetypes I find magnetic, though whether or not I ever act on them is something else entirely.  While a nice ass in a pair of tight jeans will usually earn a cursory glance, I may not be inclined to let my gaze linger.  Still, I’m weak for a select few – firemen, of course – and guys my friend Becky calls “hot in a “check the oil” kind of way.”

Mea culpa.  I admit it.

One of the most rewarding parts of living in Canada is the understanding broadcasters up here have for their audience.  For example, we have a program on here (on the Outdoor Life Channel) that is called the “All Firemen Strength Challenge”.  This is an hour long show featuring fit, well built, young firefighters from across Canada competing against each other by running around, carrying things, bending and sweating and stuff.  Twice a week, I slither onto my couch in a drooling puddle of lust and find myself glued to the TV for the duration.  I’m sure it’s all meant to encourage bonding through teamwork and other notable Canuck values, but I can’t be sure.  I watch it with the sound off.

Shallow? You betcha.  Pathetic? Duh.  Erotic?  Words fail me.

There is also a reality show called “Strip Search”.  Its premise involves holding auditions all over Canada to find 30 buff hot guys, who are then taken to male stripper boot camp, where they learn to bump and grind and spend most of the hour with their clothes off.  This season- long odyssey continues until the producers whittle the boys down to a squad of nine – who then tour the country.

Now that’s entertainment.  Fuck The West Wing.

Women also differ significantly from men in what they do with their sexual fantasies.  Deep down, every guy really believes that he’s got a shot at that threesome with the nymphomaniacal cheerleaders, but women are much more realistic.  Me and Johnny Depp?  Never going to happen.  But that’s OK – I’m sure the real thing wouldn’t live up to the excruciatingly detailed scenario I have constructed in my head (but then again, maybe not).

In fact, the very survival of the institution of marriage has for centuries depended on the ability of women to have vivid and satisfying sexual fantasies about men they know they’re never going to sleep with.

So I’m content to smirk to myself every time I pass a fire hall rather than to ever act on it.  Anticipation is the sexiest part of attraction – all those uncertainties, all that electricity, all those possibilities.  Many women find that they, not unreasonably, prefer this to the day to day grind of picking up someone else’s sweaty socks. 

It’s all about that visceral jolt of lust so intense that it makes your teeth ache.  I haven’t had one of those in about five years now, but I dimly recall being quite fond of them.

Natalie, who is familiar with my life as a champion of self-denial, has been watching me lately with the same avidity as a vulcanologist at the foot of Mount St. Helens.

“What’s it been now?  Five years?  That’s got to be your outside limit.  You’re only human.  It’s only a matter of time before you cull some young thing from the herd.” She paused. “Maybe we should have a moment of silence for him now.  The poor bastard won’t die quickly or even particularly easily, but when he does, he’ll be smiling.”

Still, I have been accustomed to relegating these urges to the realm of fantasy – it’s so much easier.  And given my admiration for the One Ocean Rule, considerably less expensive.

I like men, but only on my terms.  And I know I’m not ready for a relationship (the very thought makes my blood run cold).  The highs guaranteed by such an involvement would be outweighed by the complications inherent in it.  And I’m still too scared to put myself out there.  The fact that I find anonymous sex to be unpalatable puts a bit of a cramp in my style.

“Well, what do you want?” Natalie has asked in exasperation.  “A boyfriend? A fling?  Because unless you figure that out, I’m afraid it’s spinsterhood for you.”

Hmm…yes – possibly punctuated by the very occasional and regrettable “check the oil” encounter.  God, what a fate.

But you see, I’ve been alone for so long now that I can’t even conceive of having anyone else around.  It could just be laziness but I think the fact that the nuns are always just one step behind me has something to do with it too.

I think the real reason is that I’ve been in a really good relationship before, I’ve known that sweetness and losing it nearly killed me.  Even so many years later, it still gnaws at me.  I’d rather not have it at all than to be sentenced to having only the memory of that sort of alchemy.

So as my girlfriends continue to nod knowingly and check their watches, I think I’m just going to continue doing what I’m (not) doing.

It’s either that or resort to arson.

Till next time,

Morrigan