Cindy from Dubuque, Iowa wrote me the other day...
"Taylor, I'm a big fan of your writing. Funny guys really turn me on! I was wondering...what do you look for in a woman besides a cock?"
Haha, Cindy, very funny. That's a great question and the answers are seemingly endless. I look for many different qualities in a woman. Since I don't have to quantify my brilliance--it just radiates all around us. I thought I'd let you in on some of the qualities I look for in a woman. As I grow older and my perspectives are refined, I have a deeper appreciation for the little things a woman says and does. How they flip their hair, or smile, or how their haunhes bounce when they walk. I remember when I was little, my daddy propped me up on his knee and said, "Son, in this world you got to be a tit man or an ass man." I'm a self-admitted ass man to the end. A leg and ass man, man. I hate to see you go, baby, but I love to watch you leave.
The barista who made my iced coffee today, Olga, (she had a name tag) was a beautiful young lady with an Eastern European accent. I could listen to her talk all day. Suppose I unzipped my pants right here in Timothy's Coffee of the World and jerked it while I had her say different words, like 'Phantasmagoria' or 'Babylon'? Instead, Olga smiled and handed me the change, her mouth revealing a dental graveyard--jagged pearls going in all directions. Looked like an IED went off in there. Like some jagged wind swept cliffs in Newfoundland. Now, I'm exaggerating slightly here, she wasn't Shane McGowan, but it was bad. And you can talk Women's Lib all day but a guy can get away with it. But here's the thing: This is no criticism--I think it's hot. Maybe she wants to fix her teeth but can't afford it. Poor girls are attractive, it's that I can give you a better life angle. Her eyes would light up with love when I buy her new teeth on our first anniversary. But maybe she has the money to fix them and accepts her genetic fate, values money, spends it wisely...education, health, little brother. It makes her real and I want to flick her damaged teeth with my tongue, locked in an embrace.
Vomiting is so fucking hot. Nothing better than a girl that drinks too much, or is in opiate withdrawal. I remember some washed up model on Celebrity Rehab a couple years ago who was splayed out in the hallway with a barf bucket in the grips of withdrawal. I didn't even know I liked a vomiting woman until then. I never thought about it before. I do now (but not really). Come on, I'm not one of those sickos who likes to get vomited ON (definitely not Ontario), I just like to observe a woman who's vomiting. I'm attracted to the reason behind her vomiting, not the vomit itself per se. It was her utter and total powerlessness that grabbed me. She was a woman struggling to make it through. I like the capacity in a woman to be so far gone off the grid; her essence is screaming it's a crazy assbackwards world out there, we're chained down to it, and we all have to pull in our own little direction, so what can you do? Speaking of women caught up in the struggle, I do like single mothers. When we're fucking, late at night, after little Timmy has gone to bed, we have to be so careful not to make a sound, so I give it to you extra hard, trying to make you moan louder and louder. Also, I must clarify that I don't like to see a woman in pain; vomiting is a sign of imperfection and I like damaged women. Beautiful and damaged. Not physically damaged.
I went to high school with this girl, Tahnee, and she had no arms or legs. Aside from that she was rather attractive. Nice complexion, perky breasts. I pictured us on a date at the Exhibition and we'd go on all the rides, Tahlee resting safely, hugged tight to my body in a baby carrier, her little nubs barely poking through the leg holes. Then later, after a successful night at the fair, we're driving home and she has a giant stuffed alligator on her lap. Looked like it was going to eat her right up. Boy, she wouldn't stand a chance if she fell into the Amazon. But she's got a shot at my place, I'm not quite as ugly as an alligator and the way she's looking at me, I'd say she's the maneater. So I bring her back to my place (as if she had a choice!) and we share a bottle of red wine. I was out of breath from lugging her motorized scooter up the two flights of stairs to my apartment. This dame was making me work for it. I sensed a break in the conversation and made a move. I hesitated for a second or two and then just dove in the way one does when presented with jumping into a pool full of beetle dung. No point dipping in the toes. Just go for it. There's no half going for it. She can't get half pregnant.
She acquiesced to my advances and things rapidly became pretty hot. In the heat of our-one-and-a- half-person heap of passion I picked Tahlee up--quite easily, I might add--and made my way to the bedroom. She only weighed about forty five lbs, after all. I dropped her onto my bed and she bounced like a watermelon a couple of times and settled. Even though she was armless and legless she had a winning Crest smile. Great kisser, too. I eased down on top of her, she unbuttoned my shirt and I grinded my knee into her crotch. Her little leg nubs were going up and down like a fallen down wind up toy. I replaced my knee with fingers and Tahlee went over the moon. First my index and then both my index and middle fingers probed her insides in a come hither motion while my tongue flicked her clit. She had a huge bush, but that was reasonable considering her situation, therefore it did not bother me in the least. I imagined that if we actually dated and got into an argument, you know, the kind couples get into, I could always rip her right out of that motorized scooter, throw her down on the bed and tickle her senseless and there wouldn't be a goddamn thing she could do about it. Would that constitute domestic violence I wonder?
She unzipped me and gave my cock a few slow loving strokes. There's nothing like the feel of a new set of hands on your cock and balls. I had enough hose to put out a forest fire. I looked her in the eyes and slid it right in au natural. She was screaming like my shooter was the butcher's favourite knife. After we got as much as we could of each other in the missionary position, we agreed on a change of position. On the spot I invented this new move where I picked Tahlee up, held her in a horizontal position, flush with my cock, and thrusted once into her pussy, withdrew, and spun her quickly around and thrusted once into her mouth, withdrew, and spun back to her pussy, withdrew, etc. She was whirling around and around in a circle of lust, going so fast her features blurring together. She'd never been fucked like this before! That much I was sure. I was so good at this technique Tahlee became dizzy and yelled for me to stop! Stop! Stop! At my fastest speed she was just like the ride at the Ex we were on earlier where we're strapped into a saucer, laying flat on your back, clutching handle bars, and then it spins around really fast and you can barely move due to the centrifugal force.
"What's the matter? I told you we'd go on all the rides," I said, as in I-told-you-so.
"Stop it right now or I'm gonna PUKE!" she screamed.
There's nothing more annoying than a Reese Witherspoon type of girl, all prim and proper and serious, on the fast track to winning in life. Perfect teeth and vacations in the Turks and Caicos. I'd just as soon fart in a box and overnight it than give her the time of day. Give me a woman with track marks and too many horrors hidden behind her eyes. There's so much beauty in her it's deafening; it floods my soul. I'm talking about Olga, the barista. So much sad, sad beauty the world will never know. Her blue eye shadow...blue as the ocean. I picture her in the morning, running that marker across her eyes like she's done a hundred times before. And for what? For me to write about it? Fucked if I know.
Reading. I love walking by a woman with her legs crossed and a book in her lap. With her leisure time she prefers to indulge in ripping life away from reality, trying to escape some how, some way. She has the disposition to accept life and let it just go by. A life just hoardes days until there's nothing left except garbage day. If you think anyone can stop the madness well you're bat shit crazy, it just can't happen. The words are entering her brain, whipping synapses into a frenzy, mind and body temporarily mutually exclusive; her body doesn't even exist at this moment. Unaware of the trappings of her supple flesh, of how a man wants to bite into it, grab and shake it as if guessing at a wrapped Christmas present.
Blonde hair and blue eyes. But more so the blonde hair. If she has brown hair and blue eyes that's not as good as blonde hair and brown eyes. The first thing I notice on a woman is her hair; those billowing strands of heaven. Tickle my cheek with your hair, baby, then I'll run my fingers through and let it slip away. Oh! and the smell! What succulent sun dried peach zuccini infused universe is this? I may be wearing eau de Caucasian Deadbeat Drunk, but baby, I'm your man.
I may be contradicting myself here a little (thumbs down to Reese Witherspoon? Thumbs up to blonde hair and blue eyes?), but I'm a complex man with complex desires, as you can see. Some good/bad combinations are imminently more tolerable than others. For instance, I wouldn't care for a woman sans arms and legs even if she was reading, even if she could read. Ah well, one day, you too, could end up on this list, and wouldn't you be so lucky. Here I come, baby...
Comin ta getcha!