My type

Some effort seems to have been taken of late to determine where exactly I align in attraction and roles. I'm not entirely sure who "they" are who have taken such great care to discuss it with others, though I feel compelled to play with the idea myself. What is my type? I mean, I like women, distinctly. To be a smutty shit, pussy is fabulous on the tongue and I do find that as my confidence reigns supreme so does my wandering gaze to women's shirts. Past the grit though, I come to almost worship women, see them infused with a spirituality that is flatly thematic of the gender that feels as though it transcends human flaw. I feel that, even though I may not take them as lovers, men that also have some form of Her in the deep makings of their person have a greater chance of befriending me. Then again, this could all just go back to justifying the grit.

But I've known for long enough how much I like girls, yet this brings me no closer to the answer to my question. "Little and cute" manages to be a theme for me with my past partners, but at the same time soft butches and strong femmes draw me in just as coercively. I'm a switcher, typically fixing myself as a top when I'm single and looking only to inevitably bow down and bottom for whoever hangs on long enough to actually remember my eye color.

I suppose part of the reason I'm curious about this question is because of who posed it: a new acquaintance/soon-to-be friend I ran into in the bar last night as well as her friend that I met. It also didn't free up the possibility for too much honesty since the question of my "type" was framed in the extremely aggressive flirtations of this girl Cassie. My level of "butch-i-tude" was scrutinized (belt width, fingernail clipping status, sturdiness of shoes, lack of over-the-top arrogance) in some weird attempt to communicate what she wanted me to be. I guess despite the hopeless androgyny I provided she still was trying to drag me home with her since she wouldn't stop grabbing my ass and rubbing her tits on me.

Not to say this wasn't fun, trust me, it was. I may not have the cock to be completely at a loss in the situation (and complete under a spell) but she had a great body that would only get nicer with more revealed. She was drunk, granted, though not wasted to not be aware of how I was mutually nervous and into it as far as bar flirtations. But it came as time passed all I could do was back off. It was a circus show, meant to be play and something I really didn't think would escalate that evening. I knew though if I wanted to I could have been at her apartment two blocks away in a heartbeat, and I considered this several times wishing I had the funds available to drink my way to grow a pair. But for all the fun it was, how contrived it was nagged at me, as it always does. She gave me little tidbits about her profession, which seemed respectable, and her interests, which were educated and intriguing. But the presentation still made these just tacked-on details to the attempt at the ghost boner I would never get.

But then something weirdly gave. It was getting towards the end of the night, and there was talk of everyone present to meet up for food today (which, mind you, didn't happen). I was still in a position where if I wanted to go for it, I could, but I really just tensed up and backed off and remained playful without showing any intent to leave with her. So then we're talking about going home, and I mention my intention to walk home, alone, ten minutes away. This created a disproportionate amount of distress in the girl and she insisted I take a cab with my friend, though still kept up a playful tone. Figuring this was a way to get me into her apartment, I commented to my friend that she was freaking out over nothing, and that I would be fine. Then my friend revealed with the girl present that she was shook up because she had the misfortune of being mugged lately and so was being protective.

Then somehow the scene got very dark. The girl's face betrayed something beyond the distress I had seen a moment ago, and she looked to my friend, her friend, only to say that she was not mugged at all, but something far worse, and my gut dropped. The bombshell hit here, in the bar, among all the silly glee and rush of first impression, only to be smoldered upon by something that clearly had not even scarred yet. The upset in her face was controlled, but only enough so you could see it being controlled. My friend was taken aback, apologetic, and so very sorry for not knowing to not touch upon it, for she had heard a more benign version of the story. There was no salvaging the joy of the evening, so through some awkward mutterings and a scramble to get her coat on, she buttoned up, commented to my friend about how she clearly wasn't "my type" which was not a big deal, hugged goodbye and pecked me on the cheek before rushing out the door. My friend was upset with herself for the situation, though it was such a sadly innocent circumstance.

I wondered how she was walking home, if even the brief two blocks back felt monstrously vulnerable for her. I wondered if forever her first impression of me would be the few minutes that ended the night rather than my nervous smiles and weak-handed responses to her advances. And then I realized that the games throughout the night were fun, but only made me awkward, and in my weaker moments suspicious, as they always do with me. And yet, only at the end of the night did I realize how beautiful she was, because she was suddenly real and flawed. And then I wondered how much of a monster I was to take that away from the situation, if my compulsion to protect was going to ever be stronger than my compulsion to worship those above. I really don't feel any need to apologize for my response to it though, because however terrible and extreme this "moment of truth" was, however personal it was and something I should not have been at liberty to be aware of, it was exactly that, finally after hours of games and sex play some insight into a pulpous person that can actually grimace, and clench, and moan.

I guess this basically is the closest I'm going to come to defining my type. Trannies, and soft butches, and metro-sexual dykes, and lipstick femmes and quirky girls are all equally culpable at getting my attention when walking down the street, but nothing really sticks in my head until some gem of the person is revealed, and people who can readily demonstrate this to me in my first interactions are more likely to catch my attention. This probably isn't the response this girl would have wanted, and maybe I myself am not too keen on someone so sexually reliant in public, but an intrigue was fostered from something and I look forward to running into her again.

Kind of confused by the night, and where I stood, and whether or not I was a piece of shit in that moment, I made my way home to jack off wondering if I would always remain focused on the ever-present She and finding her, or if nights like last night are just further examples of a reality I need to face regarding how we find each other. I dreamt of the girl you can never really pin down, the one that looks at you with a wisdom that needs no purity to support it but only a genuineness people are too often scared to share...



...I took the cab home by the way, splitting the ride with my friend.