She’s Not My Type, but She’s Totally My Type
Everyone has a type. The type of person you’re attracted to, seek out, try to sleep with or date or convince to fall in love with you.
I don’t think I have one. If you look at my rogue’s gallery of women, their type is all over the place. Tall, short, brunette, blonde, redhead; petite, curvy, athletic, squishy. I do get closer to a type when you consider the mental and emotional offerings. I like them smart, curious, well-read, clever, empathetic, charitable, outgoing, funny, artistic, adventurous, flexible, kind, helpful, driven. I like someone who makes me feel like I’m as funny as I think I am—as I want to be. But physically, I got nothing.
I’ve long eschewed the benefit of hunting for and sticking to a singular type. I dated one girl for a hot minute who was blonde, athletic, smart, funny enough. But we weren’t vibing enough to turn our dating into anything of any real substance. One night, she was out with friends, and called me up asking to meet her. I obliged. She was already good and toasted. We had our first kiss, initiated by her. (Perhaps it was the booze.) It was a fine kiss. I’ve had better, I’ve had worse. A day or two later, we were chatting on the phone and she said to me, “You’re just not my type.” I replied, “Yeah, well, you’re still single, so how’s your type working out for you?”
It appeals to me that if you’re not flexible enough to date outside your type, you’re only limiting your opportunities for a potential love affair for the ages. And, as stated above, flexibility is one thing I look for and admire in a potential mate, or short-lived lover.
But, recently, it dawned on me…
It had been a long day. A good, productive day.
I was in Washington D.C. for work. Woke up pre-dawn and clocked a 6-mile run up and down the National Mall. Made a stop at the Lincoln Memorial for some reflection on democracy in the dark, quiet solitude. Just me and the Big Guy.
I returned to the hotel to shower and dress, and headed to my gig. When that wrapped, I headed to a public library to get some other work done and burn through the rest of the day before meeting up with friends for dinner and drinks. But before that, after I’d grown tired of the library setting, I headed to a bar for a beer and to finish up some writing.
Halfway through that beer, she walked in.
Based on her outfit—the black yoga pants, sneakers, tight t-shirt—she looked like a bartender. She was with two men and they seemed to be co-workers. This particular bar was a tap house, with hundreds of beers, and I surmised that they were doing research. Maybe she worked for a distributor. Or another bar. She was older. Maybe early fifties. Could have been my age, which, at this point, isn’t far off from early fifties. It was hard to tell because she had that older, hot bartender look. Hell, she may have been thirty-six. I don’t know. And, of course, her voice sounded like cigarettes.
At this point, I was wholly distracted from my work at hand and trying not to stare a hole in the ass of her Lululemons because truth be told, sometimes I’m nothing more than an absolute pervert. As I tried my best to manage this lizard-brain behavior, I built out her character.
She probably has a twenty-something daughter. Her daughter is stupid hot. A spitting image of mom twenty years ago. She was a teen mom. Divorced. Never remarried. Has had the same boyfriend for fifteen years. He’s a UPS driver or a dock worker. She can change a tire but can’t tie a tie. She definitely snuck backstage and blew the Puddle of Mud frontman. She got a butterfly tattoo a week after her dad died because, “life’s transitions.” She loves Adam Sandler films and the poetry of Mary Oliver.
And here’s the thing that struck me. I do have a type. From a perverted, dirty, and curious perspective.
One of the sexiest archetypes is the elder, weathered bar wench. Sure, she’s a saggy, wrinkled remnant of her undoubtedly troubled youth, but she holds it all together well, and there’s still plenty of zest and fire in those dulling eyes and aging heart. Thing is, you could never fuck her. Because she would fuck you.
Ultimately, and with the right amount of healthy perversion, my type is the woman I’m with. The woman who makes me happy to be around. Everything else is unnecessary distraction.
