Villanelle to Men

I was bookfacing and stopped to view a picture of my best friend's little brother (side note: wow, that's a lot of qualifiers). It was a picture of his stepson and daughter.  And he had a serene look on his face and an almost-smile. And it hit me: he is a man. A man. Somehow time has eroded and washed away our supposed to's and left us with who we are. And he is a blue collar worker, an ex-wanna-be rocker, and a father, you know, a man.

I love men. I love when they lose that sleek boyness and become men. I love their scratchy, stubbly chins. I love the crinkles at the corners of their eyes from too many late nights and so many smiles. I love their strength and the feeling of their arms; the sinew and muscle held in check under the surface and their skin. I especially love the feeling of being held in those arms. The feeling of their strength as it enshrouds you and obscures all of your weaknesses. I love that feeling. I imagine that their stalwartness can make the world better, can cure my ills, and can protect me in their everlasting strength.

And yet, they wouldn't have to have everlasting strength. They wouldn't have to be perfect or perfectly strong. I want a partner. That’s all I have ever wanted. And so that means I want to shoulder some of the load. And I want to share. Everything. I want to help make money for the roof over our heads and I want to help make the beds where we lay them. I want to take turns making dinner and washing dishes. I want that man that can lie on top of me or let me take the top in our ever twisting, loving dance.

Where is my lovable rogue, Nathan Fillion? Where is my grown up Luke Wilson? Or Aidan Quinn in Practical Magic (or god help me, Aidan Quinn in Desperately Seeking Susan)?

I know this sounds like urban legend. You know, I heard it from a friend whose friend's cousin says that she has a “Real Man.” But I believe they really exist even though I've never been in the same room with one that looks at me that way.  You know, that way.  The way Ben Stiller looks at Cameron Diaz at the end of There's Something About Mary. That determined look that lets you know you’re in for it. I feel like Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed - but without the hottie, Michael Vartan, to come give me a big wet one at the end and kiss me senseless.

I know this sounds like I live in fantasy - but real men do exist, don't they? They are not unicorns. I've seen my father be devoted to my mother, even when she was less than nice.  I have witnessed my uncles treating their wives with kindness, patience and love. I have heard of the elusive "Victor" who buoys up my beloved Jenny, The Bloggess, even though I haven't met him in person. It is true that one never knows what happens in someone else's relationship behind closed doors but I continue to believe. With all of my strength, I believe.

I love men. Men just don't love me. Not yet, anyway.

But all I need is one. One man, a man -- that's all I need.


**UPDATE** 7/26/13  4:53p

I didn't mention that I have another blog that you don't want to read either that talks about being fat, being unhealthy, being mentally ill and loving The Bloggess. That is where I've introduced The Bloggess and for those who do not know she is a lovely and tremendously funny blogger.  Her website is:  http://thebloggess.com/
And she can be found on Twitter and Facebook, too. So I'm just a fan, a mentally-ill internet semi-stalker.  Although I *did* meet her at a book signing once.  Also, I have like 3 copies of her book and I would give you one, but buy your own damn copy.

Oh, if for just shits and giggles you want to read my other blog it is: UnComfortableNess.

Yesterday

So I'm having a meal with my father and at the next table, a man sits down followed by a very pregnant woman.  His woman, I assume.  I proceed to eat my meal and notice that for 95% of the time before their food arrives, he plays on his phone.   
Texting. Facebooking.Whatever.
Their food arrives. He looks at food. He looks down and only looks at his food.

I just read somewhere that direct eye-contact might be too much for men, like it's too intimate or something.  What? You've had your                  inside of her. (I am thinking penis, fingers, and tongue are all appropriate for the fill-in-the-blank above.) So let's restate: Sir, you have had, at the very least, your penis inside of her vagina and looking her in the eyes while you speak to her is too much? You can't respect her enough to glance up while you answer any questions or take notice of her hair or outfit?

I don't understand men. I don't understand women who would let this go. Now I know that I've had another post about a guy spending all of his time on the phone while the couple was dining, but they at least were making eye contact from time to time.

I think men need to step it up.  Having a meal with someone is a communal thing: a time for relationship bonding, sharing common interests, telling a joke. And there you are stuck on Twitter? You do want to have sex again sometime, don't you? Maybe the answer is no. I guess it doesn't matter because I won't be having sex with him.

Fact is I'd like to have sex again sometime. But not with anyone I've met recently. Like at all. My boyfriend list is filled with people that are interesting and fun and I've never met. The fact that they already have beautiful partners (probably) and are rich and famous really doesn't matter. I haven't met them, so they have yet to disappoint me.

Yep, I'm never having sex with a partner again. Woo me!