“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.




God’s Gift

Last Season at Edinburg Stadium

I never understood my fellow man’s constant need of hitting on women. In high school, while most of my friends were trying to get laid, I spent my time perfecting my humanistic qualities. That’s not to say, I didn’t notice girls my age. I did. They were remarkable creatures filled with so much emotion that it made it hard for me not to notice them. That’s not to say guys aren’t emotional creatures – they are; society, however, instructs them otherwise.

A guy who attempts on expressing emotion is often labeled queer, gay, a faggot, a homo, a sissy, etc. They’re mocked and bashed for it. And while I’ll never understand why – often time, the only emotion I truly grasp is confusion – society functions better this way. Still, I don’t understand guys’ constant need of hitting on women.

Late last week, two of my morning crew members decided to up and quit. They disagreed with how we were running things – i.e. their pay. Both were replaced by a newbie. While this new guy is a great worker, his priorities are skewed. If a pretty girl were – say – appear underneath a tree by the bar, typing away on her laptop while her son was out on the field with a university baseball player, he will drop his responsibilities and focus all his attention on picking her up. Of course, assuming that is her son out on the field with the university baseball player, and that ring on her finger is her wedding band, we can draw to the conclusion that, rather than being – possibly – flattered by his verbal assault of what he’d like to do with her, she’ll probably find him – well – annoying.

The same thing happened when he first came to us and the blonde in spandex pants – I’m not really sure if they were spandex, but was told they were (and it makes the story slightly more interesting, don’t you think?) – appeared in the exact spot laptop girl appeared today. He spent about an hour sweeping the same spot, I kid you not. Yesterday, a receptionist was present in the front office when they were signing him out. It caused me to state, “No flirting with the receptionist, please.” And today, A. also fell victim – if you can call it victimization – to his pathetic attempt of flirtatiousness.

I gotta say, though, if I understood the need to pick up as many women as possible, I’d probably attempt it myself (but humans – for the most part – disgust me, so this could never truly work out).

Another thing I realized I’m terrible at is talking about women around guys. I’m terrible. When they’re going on about how great certain assets of a female’s body are, I’m the person who comments on her hair – which, if you’re not the person commenting on the hair comes off as either homosexual (sorry for the stereotype here, gays guys) or a serial killer (yup, again, sorry).  And I always fear that, when talking with the fairer sex, my communication will come off as flirting – which it has been mistaken for in the past. (Let me break off here in order to note that I do flirt, but not because I want to bag some “fine ass honey.” Flirting, I’ve noticed, isn’t just a way to get into somebody’s pants, it’s also a way to get something you need – in a nonsexual way, of course. People who feel flattered are more inclined to listen, to provide services – again, nonsexual – or get you free stuff.)

Okay, before people start calling on my bullshit – I do happen to notice when a woman is – for the lack of a better phrase – well-endowed, beautiful, drop-dead gorgeous, fine, stunning, sexy…well, you get the point. After all, I am human. But all those “assets” hold a time-limit. Sooner or later, gravity will do its work and not matter how advance cosmetic surgery is, it will never win the battle against nature, so give it up. What matters to me is a woman’s ability to keep me interested in what she has to say. Because life bores me. This world is filled with superficial beauty that it irks me. I love communication, arts – in short, a woman with a brain.

Well, that and an ability to make me feel – well – normal. Lucky I’ve already found that someone, hu?