Let me preface this by saying that I think to say "I wish I were gay", is one of the most insulting things you can say - not because there is anything wrong with being gay - but because such a statement shows a complete ignorance of the difficulties that society places on the lives of gay people, of the homophobia they must deal with on a daily basis, sometims latent, sometime explicit. I think this might especially be so in the case of Orthodox Jews. So here I go, unleashing satire - and it is rude, but of course, I would not deign to be funny, seeing as how women were meant to be serious, due to our propensity to pop children out of our vaginas - or so Christopher Hitchens told me in "Vanity Fair". Well, here goes:
You are in a restaurant, and the most exquisite of God's creatures walks in: It is a woman. Her lips are red, and her blond hair falls straight down to her shoulders. The skin on her legs look soft, and you kind of want to stroke it, the way one would pet a sheep. She has these beautiful things on her chest called breasts, and she smells like gardenia. You aren't exactly sure what she is wearing, but its sequined and shiny, and it kind of makes you afraid you'll slobber all over yourself when you take a sip of water, so you wait to drink, until her ass has turned the corner.
Only she doesn't turn the corner. She leans over you - you can see the valley in between her breasts, can touch it almost - and nothing happens. Nothing. Nada. Rien. There is no small surge between the thighs, no slight hardening of your breasts. Your fingers are frozen; your lips show no inkling of desire to plant themselves gently on her red-tinted mouth.
The lunch goes on. A man approaches - dirty, disheveled, wearing some monstrosity that never should have been allowed to escape from the shelves of Old Navy. He smells like sweat, but there is something sweet about that smell, prickly almost, like he is some sort of cactus-fruit waiting to be sliced open. He does not have these exquisite mountains, but the blades of his shoulders as he turns the corner -you want to feel them. He does not come near you; rushes by your table without so much as a glance your way, and you feel it: the feeling that there is some sort of magnetic core pulling you to him, pulling your body to his body.
You think about it logically of course, and you are confused: Why on earth should this creature, with his nothing of a chest and legs that look like they've become territory for an overgrown forest of brown hairs, turn you on, when these beautiful women leave you feeling - well, really like you'd just rather find the first guy standing closest to them and start grinding - no, well, women are better to grind with really - they have more rythm, and you don't have to worry about feeling if they have an erection.
At moments like this, you are forced to beleive in evolution, because were it not for the reproductive imperative, you can't think of any reason why you would be programmed to be attracted to these phalus-bearers. Maybe this was Darwin's idea of a dirty joke.
Well, it's not that funny - but then again, you've never really trusted scientists to have much of a sense of humor anyway - especially straight ones. Damn breeders.
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