My Type

A fine little piece of writing:

Real women do not have curves. Real women do not look like just one thing.

(…)

Real women have armpit hair and leg hair and pubic hair and facial hair and chest hair and sexy moustaches and full, luxuriant beards. Real women have none of these things, spontaneously or as the result of intentional change. Real women are bald as eggs, by chance and by choice and by chemo. Real women have hair so long they can sit on it. Real women wear wigs and weaves and extensions and kufi and do-rags and hairnets and hijab and headscarves and hats and yarmulkes and textured rubber swim caps with the plastic flowers on the sides.

Preach! I also have a related hangup about the idea that you have a “type”, which I recently discussed with a friend. “She’s not my type”, I hear people say. “I like blondes / curves/ redheads / atheists / punks / southeners / younger / city girls / country girls older /  tits / ass / legs / lips / cheekbones / etc”. And then I headbutt them and walk away.

I recognise that you fetishise certain things, and everyone is constrained by certain attributes in potential partners. Definitely age and gender (I myself have yet to be turned seriously on by men or women over or under a certain age). But if you aren’t at the very least open to falling for or even fucking someone who looks exactly nothing like who you think you’re attracted to, you’re doing yourself a disservice. You’re excluding great people, wonderful people, amazing sex — all because you prefer women with blonder hair, people with different tastes in music or men without beards or whatever.

Culture teaches us to fetishize certain ideals. Our preferences seem to generate around ideals floating through popular culture, and we end up excluding difference. People with othered bodies, even the slightest undisciplined aspects of them are punished. I still remember a US friend being shocked at an attractive European woman his age with hairy armpits. He said: “in my town back home, she would never get laid.” So I headbutted him.

And through all this, we somehow fail to recognize that connection happens on deeper levels than the surface. It’s much more alchemical, subsurface, attached to personality and the shape of your deeper preferences.

Sexuality is more malleable and fluid than we think. The person I’m spending my life with looks exactly nothing like the person I thought I would be spending my life with. (And thank God for that, because she looks/is awesome.) You should be interested in people. Start from there. My type is people. I like people. People turn me on.

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