“Strength lies in differences, not in similarities.” – Stephen Covey
When I stumble across–or, more likely into a potential mating option and the pre-insertion interview process ensues, I often wonder why things must follow a certain script. The woman interviewing me typically seeks answers to the following important (to her, at this particular moment) questions:
- Is he dating someone else or married?
- Is he a player?
- Does he have any children or roommates?
- Does he have a good job?
- Does he believe in the same god?
- What pets does he have?
- Is he a good kisser?
- Can I mold him?
Seems most women are looking for similarities in mates. True, an occasional woman looks for similarities to her father or ex, and often she’s unaware that she’s doing it. Yet, most want to hear me answer as if they are interviewing themselves. How fucking boring!
I don’t want to date me with tits and a vagina.
I’d bore the crap out of me. Sure, nobody knows how to touch me as well as I do, but as long as she’s trainable, I’m fine with it. I want to date a woman who adds something to the relationship: a different perspective or skill, perhaps. This will improve my life by exposing me to new things. (The insides of most vaginas feel remarkably similar. It’s unrealistic to expect something new there.)
Now, I’m not about to hit church on Sunday, in search of a tall, highly religious, dog-owning Republican who smokes, runs marathons, and enjoys peeing in the shower. Be reasonable. I’m seeking something different, not opposite. As I grow older, parts of me are less pliable. As long as she understands that, and appreciates the fact that I’m willing to try something new, there’s potential. The other thing to keep in mind is my pliability is directly proportional to how attractive she is. Yes, that’s shallow; so be it.
This past weekend, I met a lovely pair of Colombian women. Naturally, my first thoughts were, are they desperately seeking citizenship, and how desperately? Alas, I once again misapplied a stereotype.
“We are artists. We’ve just come from a gallery where my friend here sold her first painting.”
“Wow! Very cool. We’re both artists. We’d probably parent the next Michelangelo.”
“Um, no. I write books. That’s art too, you know.”
“What do you write?”
“Ah, that’s unimportant. Say, do you like wine?”
“Yes, obviously. I’m drinking wine.”
“Fuck, I can’t believe how much we have in common. It’s seren … serendip … um, uncanny?”
“What is uncanny?”
“Have any kids, my sweet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Same here. Jesus, I feel like I may have just met my soul mate.”
This is where my eagerness causes skepticism in my target, but her friend is on a mission to get her friend laid (for reasons I can only speculate), so she begins to plead my case.
“You should take her out. She’s a very talented artist; well-known. Isn’t she beautiful.”
“I would be honored,” I respond and bow.
My target hesitates, and redirects the questioning, seeing if I could potentially unlock her chained-up heart.
“Are you Christian?”
“No, I’m Phil … remember?”
“I mean the religion.”
“I’m a recovering cath-aholic.”
“What does that mean?”
“No imaginary beings in my life, darling.”
“Oh, too bad. I only date Christians.”
“Sorry, that was supposed to be my inside-my-head voice. Tell you what. I propose a compromise: You can read scripture to me …”
“… as long as you do it naked.”
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