7: Confessions of a Libido Slave

Sometimes, I wish I weren’t a man. No, it’s not like that. Sometimes, I wish I were neither man nor woman nor freakish freakish hybrid of both. I’d rather be a eunuch: me and yet not me. Sure, school would’ve been somewhat problematic, but isn’t it always? For some time now, I’ve wondered what life would’ve been like for me without a member. Invariably, beautiful women are the catalyst for this adverse reaction.

For the most part, I enjoy heterosexual masculinity. Habitual attraction to a certain type of woman can be enjoyable in the same way as a Big Tasty*. But stepping outside the box can be better. There’s a reason the first strawberries of spring are the best you’ve ever had. Enter Elly Jackson:

http://entertainment.uk.msn.com/music/spotlight/gallery.aspx?cp-documentid=12060982&imageindex=9

Like all good inciting incidents, she disrupted my status quo. She upset this protagonist’s life, throwing his world into imbalance. Then Taylor Swift appeared:

http://entertainment.uk.msn.com/music/spotlight/gallery.aspx?cp-documentid=12060982&imageindex=12

I was the First Act, she was the Turning Point. She spun me in a different direction. She made me undertake the arc, confront inner conflict, learn something, etc. Her overpowering cuteness demanded it.

There are others. Ashley Tisdale, for one. But this isn’t Ian’s 100 Hottest List.**

Years - almost a decade - of fancying a certain “type” of woman just started bothering me. There was a time (1999-2001) when nothing pleased me more than Sarah Michelle Gellar’s Buffy grunting her way through paranormal fisticuffs. Or Alyson Hannigan’s Willow stammering her way to adoreability. In puberty’s halcyon days, I did… things… dubious, lamentable things. Magazines of a gentleman’s nature were not alien to my hormonal hands.

Over time, I honed my craft. No, really. That wasn't a euphemism. First, any marginally attractive woman to whom I wasn’t related demanded my attention. And you thought beggars could be choosers? Over time, my focus narrowed. I became primarily obsessed with the aforementioned “type”: mostly, but not exclusively, petite, slender women, be they blonde, brunette, ravenette, or otherwise. You know the sort. The dime-a-dozen variety currently found in your local city centre aping Ellen Page or Katie White or Little Boots or all three. If they happen to rock a garage band look, all the better. If she loves W.B. Yeats, dead on. If she loves W.B. Yeats and has red hair, will she marry me?

By 20, my art was mastered. This provided an extra incentive to go into town*** . Only on Tuesday, when I discovered Jackson and Swift did my epiphany dawn. These achingly-sweet gamines gave me the kick up the Khyber I needed. This is boring. These girls all look the same. Sure, they’re all hot. But when you get past the initial “wow” moment, they’re as empty as the calories from that Venetian Grande Saporito. They’re unremarkable. It’s sexual painting by numbers. This is so boring. What else is on?

Now, I know how Rivers Cuomo felt. Sex shouldn’t be such a ball-ache. Should it? We’re all meant to be dragged into senility tugging at our pieces or whatever saying “please, one more for the road!”, are we not? I fully expect to go on repeating myself, fancying the fanciable and not really thinking much about it. Most guys and gals (regardless of persuasion) would very well file this under “if it ain’t broke...”, if the thought ever occurred. Maybe, they’d be right to. All I know is I’m the T-Rex behind the security fence: I’m done with bloody goats. I want something more. I want to surprise myself, in a good way. I want to be surprised, in a good way.

Maybe this is just a phase. Maybe not. Auch, who cares? It’s boring, anyway.

* The best thing about a trip to Venice, depending on your tolerance for excessive amounts of tourists, keek-dropping pigeons, and local ignoramuses.
** If you demand it, it will come…
*** Like Manchester, Belfast has an embarrassment of attractive women.

--

Ian Pratt doesn’t just like the first track off Pinkerton. He enjoys all of Weezer’s misunderstood sophomore album.