Posted on January 27, 2003 in Sexuality
My dyke friends and near-dyke friends know that I love to talk about sex, almost incessantly.
Bedding me is another matter. First, as Garnette reminded me tonight, I’m not particularly attractive. Second, I’m a chemical eunuch. Third, I love Lynn more than anyone. Adultery risks losing my best friend. (I’d rather not treat her like Diego Rivera treated Frida Kahlo.) Importance increases as the paragraph continues.
I worry, sometimes, about leading women on. I like their company. A woman with a good mind is a terrific companion. I don’t want to find myself in a place where one wants more from me than I can deliver. My ring, my outrageous sexual jokes, my beard (in most cases), my belief in my unattractivness (sometimes reinforced) are the elements of my woman-proof shield.
I’ll show them my heart, but not my body. Which is the reverse, I think, of most men.
There’s a strained safety in feeling ugly. I just don’t like being reminded of it.