cream in my coffee
I've been gabbing lately with my nouveau gal-pal/sex-blogger Elle over at Sex and the Ivy, whom has taken on the Sisyphean task of playing Asian Ivy League yenta for her Harvard girlfriends. At the end of her schpiel for each Crimson co-ed, she implores the rest of us to describe our own tastes in men. We had privately griped about our success (or lack thereof) with Ivy boys, so when she ended with:
"Let’s not get PC here. Be honest. If you don’t dig the white ones, ditto (ahem, Jess). Ready, set, go."
I smiled to myself. Is my dating history that transparent? I thought. Sad story is, it is. Time to unpack.
A laundry list of my laddy loves:
- A Chinese cyberpunk beau
- A Mexican Catholic sweetheart
- A supa-FOB Indian
- A nice Jewish boy
But of course, no one whose last name ends in Smythe or Carbunkle or something more subtle, like Whitelyle McCrackerton the Third. When I ran this laundry list by a male acquaintance of mine, his response cut to the chase:
"Your dating history looks like a United Colors of Benneton ad!"
Question's this: I'm(clearly) an open-minded girl, a progressive libertarian whom has crusaded for gay rights and wants to bring on a sex revolution. WASP-phobic? Me? Is this some sort of internalized affirmative action on my part, some subconscious PC-dom rearing its reverse racist head? Jesse Jackson would be so proud.
It could be guilt -- the whole bi-ethnic complex I've got going on. See, I know I look whiter than a ham and mayonnaise buffet at an Episcopal church picnic, but the truth is I'm half-Cuban. Yet you wouldn't know that from visiting my mother's house, where the garage is rife with my step-father's auto parts, Texas A&M flag, and a 1983 Harley Davidson lying akimbo alongside our all-American barbecue grill. I am half Cuban, but because of the color of my skin in a 95% Hispanic-populated section of South Texas, I grew up nicknamed "Casper," "Bollio" (white bread), "Gringa." "You can't be Cuban," little ol' Southern ladies will hiss, "Look at you!" As if Hispanic denoted skin tone; as if blondes can't be biracial. Perhaps having a brown beau on my arm reassures myself that I have that little bit of ethnic in me; that I'm not really like the rest of the white trash that populates the sleepy fishing town I'm from? I dunno.
There's also this strange (and prejudiced, no doubt) fear I have that an upper-crusty WASP just wouldn't get the vagaries of my bizarre family. I think of my Honduran half-sister's family; their plantain-and-mango orchard in the back of the house, their hog roasts, their gambling by the pier, and I cringe all My Big Fat Greek Wedding style when I think of a John Corbett look-a-like wincing at a plate of tripas and barbacoa. But this isn't fair of me. Who am I to say that John Corbett look-a-like wouldn't feel right at home putting carnitas on the grill? It's certainly not my prerogative.
Or maybe I'm beating myself up about this. Truth is, I think caramel skin and beguiling brown eyes on a boy is just... yummy. Warm. Delectable. My romantic interest in Jerry Maguire wasn't Tom-the-midget, but his show-me-the-money comrade, Cuba Gooding Jr. There is something exciting and sexy and powerful in tangling limbs to observe the contrast, making patterns on patterns on skin. Exciting. Hot.
Yet I'm always repulsed by, say, the acquaintances I know who will "only" date Asian girls. So how am I better? Beats me.
I guess my point is I'm stuck in a bit of a fixed action pattern. I'm choosing, at least unconsciously, who I'm attracted to, and harbor a knee-jerk reaction against rubio Romeos. Is it worth fixing? Time to tell.
el otono sensual
(Photo courtesy of me, www.flickr.com/photos/addien)
A 10 AM query outside my window to determine if today's fashion forecast is a Benneton sweater or an American Apparel tank yields seasonal finality: it is fall, and now I must forever shield myself from the Penn high rises' abominable wind tunnel.
There is a meme among my fellow perverts that summer is the sexiest season. Au contraire, I retort! It is actually fall. If April is the cruelest month, October (at least, an October spent in the delightfully seasonal Northeast) is the most sensual month. I shiver with more than a touch of barely hidden arousal at the prospect of nights spent indoors, with nothing but the staccato of fall rain and the howling wind outside to punctuate other indoor sports... Fall (and winter!) means an excuse to stay in, and the pressing need for a warm body to press against. See what I mean?
"But summer means fewer clothes, and fewer clothes mean sex!" some of you may cry, indignant that I could somehow find something to like in punctuated daylight and layers of wool and the absence of cleavage. But you see, it's that very absence which I find sexiest. Color me Victorian, but the concealed is far, far sexier than the mini-skirted and stiletto displays I see parading around Locust Walk in the ides of August. Confused? I am too. After all, you wouldn't see me parading around in a burqa for fun, so why would I think that the concealed is hotter?
Perhaps this means I'm a fetishist. Or at least, the Dita Von Teese definition of fetishist. Ms. Teese contends in her book Fetish and the Art of the Teese that fetish and burlesque are "two snaps of the same garter" -- for burlesque is about titillating by revealing, and fetish is about titillating by what you keep on. Call me a fetishist, for I find it far sexier to see a naked woman wearing nothing but a smile -- and a pair of six inch Louboutins. It's all about the artifice, the constructed beauty, the enhanced.
And fall presents nothing for women if not artifice. While summer's tank tops and camisoles do little for creating mystery, fall presents nothing if not intrigue: sexy silk stockings to rub and clasp a lass's creamy stems, femme fatale-esque rouged lips, patent stilettos to take one's mind on anything but the boardroom, cashmere sweaters which sensually hint at what's underneath. This fall's trend of tights in a cornucopia of colors is no accident, I say. For who can resist a girl sashaying down the street with her legs maddeningly enhanced by swaths of silky black?
Or perhaps I'm just a snob. Finding sexuality in the summer months is easy -- one merely need to walk out one's front door to find women dressed as if going on vacation in Hedonism, Jamaica. Sexy in fall is a challenge -- for every delightfully coy vixen wearing crimson lips and seamed stockings, there is another dressed in a veritable burlap sack and a frown. It's a puzzle, a game. In the game of seasonal sex, one can't check her brain at the door.
And why would you want to, anyway? For the best sex I've had, dear readers, has always been cerebral.
my first outside reference!
Karl from Philly Future deemed my write-up about the Amish to be noteworthy enough to appear on Philly Future's front page! Thanks, Karl!And thank you to everyone for your kudos and support on this blog venture. I really appreciate it. Thanks again!
of fluffers and cake frosting
