“Beauty as we feel it is something indescribable; what it is or what it means can never be said.” ― George Santayana

“I’m assuming, Guillermo, that you prefer thin women,” she said. What an assumption, I think. She’s only met the last girlfriend. She doesn’t know the history of my relationships. How the “love of my lifes” have come in many shape and sizes, and it just so happens that this one is thinner, better looking, and wonderful. It’s situations like this, by the way, that make me wish I worked at home. And I can’t take too long to answer this statement because it will only confirm that I do like thin women, and I’m some “gentleman who prefers blondes.”

“I like people,” I muttered. Wait? I like people? Since when? Since when does the greatest misanthrope I know like people? I worded that wrong. Before I can correct myself, the conversation’s moved on.

I’m going to think for a moment. Have I ever liked someone for physical reasons alone? Sure, there have been celebrities who caught my eye. And the occasional porn star in my youth, but these are abstract people. People without personalities. That’s not saying Neve Campbell, Zooey Deschanel, or Jenna Jameson don’t have personalities – well, maybe just the first two – I’m stating that I don’t know them, or the personalities personally. But these people have just been idols of affection, not the actual affection.

There are physical attributes I do find attractive. I’m partial to green eyes. A flock of red locks will turn my head. A potential significant other’s hands must be neater than mine, but not been deprived of actual work. That doesn’t mean I’ll find a woman attractive if she has all these attributes but lacks the ability to form a cognitive thought. That is, no bimbos allowed.

I’ve only been attracted to two girls that met all three attributes, and only dated one. The first girl was in the sixth grade and she dragged me through the mud by using my affection against me. The second was my ex-girlfriend, whose ego matched mine and, for those who don’t know this, that can cause a relationship to implode. This, of course, has led me to think my “preferences” are misguided – at least when combined with redheads.

Whenever I was unfortunate enough to “hang” with the guys, I happened a lot on the typical eye-fucking of random objects of desires. They always commented on that girl’s tits, or that MILF‘s ass, or that one woman’s legs and how their “dick sucking lips” can be seen from space. Most men salivate over big tits like a hungry newborn. I prefer smaller breasts, playfully calling them boobs when I want to act like a child with the woman I love. Mind, I don’t shun busting bosoms should they be attached to something more meaningful, I just don’t “prefer” them. If I had to boil down my animalistic lusts – I am human, after all, and flawed like all men – my eyes will perk up when a sculpted backside waltzes by. Thankfully, my  lusts are usually at bay and I never boast about this perversion of my senses.

Too much time has passed, of course. I couldn’t even bring it up if I wanted to. Someone should write a book. An Introvert’s Guide to Working in the Workplace. And it should contain chapters dealing with those awkward personal conversations that we are all doomed to be a part of. Millions will sell. Instant bestseller. You’re welcome.



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