The Sorrows of Young Werewolf (eyeteeth) wrote,
The Sorrows of Young Werewolf
eyeteeth

First I'd like to caress this rusty kettle

New dating site. This is one of the ones you pay for. Initial observations:

Men just do not care how they look in pictures. I'd estimate about 80 percent of available photos are either thumbnails blown up to fifty times their original size, the evergreen I Cropped Out My Ex (complete with French-manicured fingers on shoulder), or what appear to be stills from a terrorist hostage video. These men are pixelated, shoved way over to one side of the frame, and afraid for their lives, but they want me to know that they hate drama and always try to live life to the fullest. Scroll through a few hundred of these pictures and you start to get kind of angry. Either these guys have somewhere gotten the hilarious notion that women don't care about looks, or the idea of being evaluated as they evaluate us is objectionable to them. It makes me want to walk around with a sign: I LIKE MALE BEAUTY. Because I do, it's one of my very favorite things, and when I've found it I've sometimes remarked upon it. The look a man gets on his face when you call him beautiful is something mingling bewilderment with fear. I've had men argue with me about this. "No, I'm not beautiful." "Sorry, but you are." Sorry, but you can also be subjected to the regard of another. Sorry, but women have had eyes this whole time, what did you think we were using them for?

Or maybe it's just being called beautiful by me that makes men nervous. This brings me back to a problem I've mentioned before, that I think I might come across as scary. So that when I say the b-word it makes a man think Oh God this weird woman finds me appealing, she's going to embalm me and display me in her wax museum now like Vincent Price. Which I promise I have never tried to do to anyone. Honestly, I don't see how I could scare any sensible person, I am so obviously a nice law-abiding square. It's possible I go for the high-strung Kafka type, though, which would be just another funny joke played on me by God, like making me a horny introvert with too many feelings to have casual sex. The Frenchman taught me that last part. He was beautiful, and I told him so. Maybe that's where I went wrong, there or when I did the Salad Fingers voice or when I said I wanted to feed Kaylee from Firefly headfirst into a stump grinder or when I admitted I'd been celibate for thirteen years or when I let him read my novel or when I told him I could get used to him, if only he'd stick around.

In retrospect, maybe the high-strung-Kafka-type problem has been apparent since college, since that time in college when I was finally making out with the guy I'd had a desperate crush on for months, and I gave him a nice little nibble and he cried, "You bit me!" I couldn't contradict him, of course. I could say only, "You noticed." In the interest of full disclosure, it was on the neck that I bit him, and he did know I had a thing for vampires. But I didn't bite hard. Just normally. Most of what I do seems normal to me, and perhaps this is the problem, or one of the problems. The main one being that the guys on these dating sites DON'T EVEN CARE THAT THEY LOOK LIKE ASS WHAT'S EVEN UP WITH THAT
Tags: dating, franz kafka, i'mheretoenquireaboutyourspoons, it'sfunnybecausei'mgoingtodiealone, sex
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