Men in uniforms. Police officers, fire fighters (I watched Quarantine last night and fell in love with the tight, gorgeous Spanish lead guy whose death in the movie actually made me scream and cover my face...moving, I know), marines, cowboys, fighter pilots, army fatigue, construction workers. Or um...just eating a popsicle.
Men with pets. Dogs and cats, believe it or not. Especially when they cuddle their pets. In bed. I recently met a guy who sleeps with his pussy. I was a smitten kitten, to say the least.
Men who can cook. Culinary skills can make up for lack of looks, as in the case of Gordon Ramsay and Bobby Flay (sorry, redheads will never do it for me). Bonus points if he can make a mean puttanesca, candied bacon and mashed potatoes with two different types of potatoes to balance the starch content. Naked.
Men with sexy voices. I don't care what you look like, if you can get my engine revving with the sound of your voice, you can talk about whatever you want, wherever you want all day long and I'll be your sex slave. If you're ugly, I'll provide the paper bag and you can be my slave.
I recently met up with an old coworker who was, up until last week, merely a voice on the phone. But I don't mean just any voice, but a REALLY orgasmic, sensual $50 an hour plus $9.95 service charge, voice on the phone. The kind of voice that makes you lay in bed and wonder what type of face could go with it (among all the other things you could be doing in bed, of course).
A year later, I settled on the loin-quiver inducing Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Everytime I had to talk to this coworker, I pictured Mr. Meyers on the other end, dressed in his King Henry VIII costume or as Elvis Presley, with his full lips, short brown hair and his sexually taunting eyes.
And then, three years later, slated to meet my Jonathan Rhys Meyers at a local bar while I waited for him in anticipation, I felt like I was about to claim my Lotto 649 ticket, the one in which I had five out of six numbers matched, and when he finally showed up, I realized that I had actually matched my Lotto 649 ticket numbers to the BC49 numbers.
"Hello there", came the expensive phone sex voice. Inebriated for an Asian but still concious, I decided at the point that I still would've paid the fifty plus service charge, though maybe I should've asked for a paper bag, just in case the four shots of Jager and yam fries wouldn't stay down.
Speechless with shock but needing to utter something in response so as not to look like an idiot, I think I managed a "Hi how's it going" and we took to a booth with more booze to converse. Which turned out to be more of his doing than mine (the conversing bit anyway).
The whole time, I felt like my 15-year-old self sitting there watching Sunset Boulevard live and wondering why I chose the one and only night to show up when Rex Smith's understudy was working (I ended up going to this musical five times in total just to get my fix of Rex Smith...strange crush to have for a teenager I've been told).
In any case, the we-just-made-wild-passionate-love-and-i-want-more-but-i-need-a-quick-breather-because-it-was-so-amazing-you-wore-me-out look that I was so looking forward to never manifested and I went home gravely disappointed. I even asked for a wholesome rendition of Goldilocks and the Three Bears or Little Red Riding Hood, and I got nothing.
At least Jonathan Rhys Meyers would've told me a bedtime story...
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