For some time now, I’ve been thinking about what I want from love.


     It seems increasingly harder to make any sort of list - mental or
     otherwise - of what I want in "a man".


          I’m only thinking in a lunar fashion.


Women

     represent beauty, and soul, an an unceasing devotion to proving:

          Anything.

          It doesn’t matter what.

     Equalization of gender roles;

     Personal wealth to themselves or the outside world;

     To be ruthless,

          and to be lovely,

     and to exist between these extremes in a place most readily described as

... ‘home.’




The ubiquitous ‘home’ that we spend our lives searching for.


     I don’t see men that way. I don’t see them as beautiful, in general, though I acknowledge the possibility exists. But when it hits me, it doesn’t move me the same way a woman’s beauty does.


     Take art, for example.


Depictions of male figures always seem to pale in comparison to

     Botticelli’s Venus, or

     the buxom and robust women of heath so revered during the RenAIssance

     or even Fragonard’s pastel beauties,

       delicately curving with every movement,

                emotion and frenetic energy frozen delightfully in time.


Perhaps I just love art.


     But if my love is so simple in its universality, then why do males painted by my beloved Vermeer aesthetically,

                                  sensually,

     move me less than their female counterparts?

     Perhaps it is because

               I am a woman, and

     am therefore more inclined to

               appreciate those of my ilk.


                              Thinking in circles.


So, what do I

               want?

               In a woman?

I’ve been thinking:


     Physical characteristics are so passé, and yet one can’t help whom they are attracted to.


     All women are physically beautiful, in their own way,

          but I can’t help being specifically attracted to


               blondes.


     Something about the fairness of hair, and skin, that makes my fingers

               itch

     to touch.


               blue

               or

               green eyes

     would be complimentary.




     Size doesn’t matter too much to me -

               height,

               shape,

               presence;

     it’s all relative to

               personality,

     and most women have been delightfully blessed with bodies that compliment their souls, even if, at times, they feel as if the situation were otherwise.




     I want a good girl, and a bad girl -

     one of those girls who fits into that otherworldly

               grey area

     where I find it’s most fun to be.




     I would

               appreciate a woman

     who

               appreciates beauty,

     no matter what the word

               beauty

     means to her.




     A woman who loves

               to dance,

               to spin and twirl outside in the sun;

               who likes to drink

     responsibly,

               and move all night,

                    gyrating,

                    and twisting,

                    and becoming delightfully sweaty.


     

     (And sweat, no matter what anyone says, is sexy.)


     

     A woman who likes to look nice,

     but doesn’t succumb to being

               hyper-aware

     of how they look

               at all times.


     

     A girl who owns

               frilly dresses,

               and torn, ratty jeans,

               and who loves to lay about on weekends in

                    thrift-store essentials.


     

     A woman who likes to shop,

          but not to a fault;




     One who won’t be embarrassed when I poke around at Goodwill

               (Yes, you know who you are, don’t you?)




     One who loves music.

     It doesn’t matter much the genre, as long as it’s not country.

               (What can I say? Some things one just can’t suffer

                 in a lover ... )




     A woman who enjoys rock concerts -

               to become bruised and soaked in sweat;

               to find herself packed,

                    like a sardine,

               in a crowd thousands strong,

               gripping my hand in a palpable mixture of excitement

                    and fear,

               to be tossed thoroughly and utterly about,

                    frightened every moment for her life.

          And when it’s over, she says,

                    "That was fucking awesome.

                     Let’s do it again!"


That’s a pretty big one.


     And then I think, if she were just

                    trustworthy, and honest,

     loved me for me,

          and made me love her for her,

               then I’d be content.


But,

     of course:

the guilt committee butts in.


          You know.

     Those quiet, little voices

               inside your head

          that tell you you’re

               unnatural

          and

               wrong

          and that you

               just wish you were special ...

               just once.

               That’s why;

               It’s so obvious, really.


         You know.

     The ones that make you want to

               gouge your brain out with a spoon.


          No big deal ...


I’m different.


... Maybe I’m different because I’ve spent most of my life in

               quiet appreciation.

Maybe that’s why

               peers have always been cruel to me for

               no definable reason.

Why I’ve grown to fear the

               ‘company’

of others.

Perhaps my longest relationship with a man lasted

               three days

because I have

               intimacy issues

and

               fear rejection.

Perhaps male sex

               frightens me

because I

               fear abuse.

Maybe I’ve

               caught myself checking out other women

               since puberty

because I’ve always had a

               horrible body image

and was

               unhealthily obese

the majority of my childhood,

and I always longed for

               what they had

               that I never could.




     Perhaps not.

     I look

               wonderful

     now.

                    so why do i still stare ... ?

     Perhaps it’s as simple as this:

          I watch women because they’re

               lovely

          and I

               want them:

               emotionally;

               physically;

               mentally.


     I want to

               make them laugh,

               cuddle them when they’re being adorable,

               hold them when they’re frightened,

               and kiss them

                    until they’re

                    weak

                    in the knees.


     I want to

               be with them,

     and

               feel them close to me,

               soft, and

               warm, and

               yielding.


     I want to

               love them

                    all night;

               make them sigh,

               sate them,

     so that they

               look up at me

                    in the morning,

               smiling.


     I want to

               date them.

                    so simply.

     take them to

               plays, and

               movies, and

               art shows.

     Treat them to

               dinner.

     Revel in

               Romanticism.


I don’t think those thoughts,

     those needs,

          those wants,

are "normal",

     heterosexual,

          ones.


                              So maybe I’m a lesbian.