Pansexual praise of women's exterior loveliness
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Caveat to gay male readers: this entry isn't for you guys.
What follows, depending on your taste, devolves or evolves into an erotic fantasia. It has nothing to do with things as they are or as they should be.
I've often wished I could think of something to say in praise of women as erotic objects. Not women as people. Women are people. They are as variously and as boringly funny, trite, wise, self-absorbed, cunning, na´ve, weak and strong as men. If you hold with the Mars and Venus crap I'd appreciate it if you'd move on to the next weblog.
Perhaps you noticed this weblog is called Pansexual Sodomite. Sodomite because I'm not willing to surrender my status as a male homosexual. Pansexual because regardless of what I once thought I found that women are sexually attractive. Pansexual because it isn't merely genetic males and females but all the subtle shades of gender that sometimes biologically, other times only on the superficies brighten a lucky observant persons day with the variety of their beauty and the variety itself.
I'll own that I may have missed out. Not tragically. Or only in this sense: the more people you can find sexually desirable the more likely you are to discover one who makes a mate, life-partner, wife, husband - whatever terms you'd choose to complete the sentence. Whatever a few foolish folks think romantic love is of the body as well as the heart.
I had a sexually fulfilling youth, freeing me from the crippling diseases of virginity and solitary horniness. When I picture a young sexual frustrate in my mind I envisage an impoverished hunchback on crutches.
I'd like to frankly objectify women for a moment. I'm not a straight man who is baffled by them, wants to use them. I want to express joy in what I've missed. It isn't an instance of injury: how many unknown tastes, smells, lovely objects of divers sorts have I never seen. I want to celebrate something I haven't known because beauty, including carnal beauty, is always worth celebrating. If you don't feel that aesthetic joys are of great moment in their mere existence then you've already read too many paragraphs.
In the conventional world women have a freedom of self-manipulation that is as much a privilege as a burden. If she modifies her hair, nails, lips nobody'll think twice about it. The freedom means she often feels obliged to weigh heavily her footwear, skirt length, the color of her lips.
I've seen women that I was sure manipulated their hemline as a weapon. If I were a woman I imagine I'd have to consider that option. But the women I've seen employing a tactical mini make me feel creepy however nice their surface. Any woman who goes out into cold weather in a short skirt strikes me as either a fool or a female Machiavelli. Winter is cold enough in pants and flannel shirts.
What about women's breasts? The one woman I lived with had plump teats, white, with discrete aureoles. When I fell asleep at night curled up against her I enjoyed cupping one in my hand. Female breasts are amazing in their diversity aren't they? Some barely curve out; others expand with power. Some flow to the side, others assert themselves pertly. No less than a straight man you'd meet in a cheap bar the variation of their architecture is fascinates me.
Hips? This is where I sometimes stumble against womanhood. Women's hips are a bit wide aren't they really? There is the rare small-breasted, broad shouldered female androgynous woman.
Who can't help but melt at the sight of slim waist? I know this seems a slight at more ample women. But, I've also noticed, that the latter women don't meet the rejection of a mildly tubby gay man. Not that full-figured women don't meet rejection. Trust me, it isn't as totally exclusionary as it is in gay life.
Many of these attributes originated in what evolving mankind felt was the mate most likely to produce offspring that would survive. In murky prehistory maybe a slim waist suggested an athleticism that would be able to outpace a predator. I don't pretend to know.
And there are the mysterious female harmonies. Certain breast sizes, hip sizes, waist sizes combine to create erotica power. The seemingly tender slim woman your biology compels you to protect. The broad-hipped, broad shouldered woman that you might either want to kneel before. Narrow her shoulders and you want her to bear your children. I remember the shock I looked at a photograph of a nude woman and what it evoked was the idea of breeding. Not something that I've normally wanted to do.
One of the neatest things I've seen women write about is their pleasure in putting on a certain outfit, dress or pair of shoes because they know it'll excite their boyfriend. A lucky heterosexual man sometimes finds a woman who through the course of a year adopts dozens of seductive variations in her appearance.
Girlish delicacy in a faux-renaissance dress, cheap temptress in a tight miniskirt, playful tomboy in a t-shirt, jeans and sneakers. I've always found thigh-high boots sexy, stiletto heels make a woman's components shift fascinatingly (but if I were her I think I'd rather wear something more comfy).
I like watching women run. Not for the ripple and jiggle. There's just an unexpected brave beauty in watching her shoot fast.
Anyone can build a catalog of girls from high school, starlets, playmates and evoking a series of clothing fetishes. A few years ago I was watching a woman browse through my shop's poetry section. She wore a plain black t-shirt and jeans. About my age she looked a little tired. It was the crease across her forehead, whether from worry or concentration, that I found exciting. I knew that I really do like the way women look.