I chatted online late Friday into early Saturday morning with a man married for a decade+ years, who loved his wife, loved sex with his wife and who, sadly, had his heart broken when she left him. He’d not been with another for months nearing double digits. We related stories of lust and longing into the night, at times verging on innuendo. We chatted via keyboard about fear and rejection. Someone committed to the same someone for an extended period cannot fully understand the fear of taking your shirt off for the first time. A single woman, a single woman who enjoys regularly scheduled companionship, undertakes this heart-beating ritual often. He wanted to take me to bed. But he wanted his wife. She is his “type” and she’s the only game in town.
What is “type”? In the context of dating, relating and mating, we pigeon hole by “type”. Whether choosing a companion based on religious doctrine, societal mandate or silicone injected measurement, we type what we like. Join any online dating service and prepare to pen-and-ink a mate; Body type? Education? Smoker? Serial killer? Order up a potential forever as simply as choosing steamed or fried rice.
Type is about what suits us. Tall for a girl at a bit over 5’8, I prefer a taller man. Like the deep, oversized chair in the living room, being held by a taller gent envelopes you. I like looking up. Type fills desire. My work and my passion are words; proper spelling gets me hot. I appreciate and am drawn to creative types, those in possession of talent that eludes others. Usually musicians. The ladies like guitar players because the shape of the instrument is sexy, with curves like a woman’s body. We imagine having done to us what’s being done to it as it’s strummed and stroked. And there’s the occasional glimpse of “O” face. Singers dance, move their hips, use hands to emote. Drummers bang hard.
Type is physical. From the time I discovered boys, Mr. Cusack became and remains my primary celebrity crush. Tall, dark hair and eyes, talented, comical yet edgy. My love affair with the pale skinned-dark-haired Irish lad Bono continues as his middle age spreads. I even dream about the hair-so-black-it's blue, scruffy boys.
The only boy to ever break my heart? Blonde.