Tuesday, May 13, 2014

Just My Type

You know when you see a crew of inmates picking up litter by the side of the road and there's always that one white guy with vaguely bleached hair and a neck tattoo? That's my type.

Danger. That’s what I’m after.

I may have been raised in the wrong part of New Orleans, but my subdivision had a fucking bird sanctuary in it for Christ’s sake. So when I try to establish street equity by saying “I’m from the Westbank,” there’s really no need to feel threatened. My family had box seats at The Saenger.

I can defend myself, though. I wrestled varsity in high school and one time I got thrown out of a bar for fighting. But to be fair, it was a gay bar. At a foam party. And by thrown out, I mean the bartender smacked his bottle opener against the bar and screamed, “STOP SLAPPING HER!”

I’m a huge pussy when it comes to manual labor and basically anything that might be slightly uncomfortable. Since I was little boy, I avoided anything that couldn’t be performed without air conditioning. One time, I told my mom that playing Wave Race on N64 counted as a sport because it made my heart beat fast and improved my reflexes. Even now, at the age of 25, I get anxious and sweaty just thinking about mowing the yard. Which is why I pay someone to do it for me. Most days, I just want to lie on the couch and have nachos and Double Doozies crammed into my mouth. And then I want to watch several hours of RuPaul’s Drag Race while I shotgun champagne. And then I want to fly off into the night sky on a Hippogriff and never lift a finger again. Some men dream of becoming President. I dream of exploring new fathoms of laziness, wrapped inside a down comforter.

I have asthma and I drive a bright green Ford Fiesta. I’m the opposite of dangerous — skittish even. Which is why dangerous men appeal to me. That chiseled inmate with half a cigarillo hanging out his mouth doing litter abatement? He’s got what I want.

Well, not necessarily him. The idea of him. The real him is frightening and I’m sure he’d be mean and call me “Twinkie dick” or something. I guess the synthetic version is what I like. Think: Ryan Gosling in The Place Beyond The Pines. Oh, let me tell you; when homeboy appeared on-screen with that store-bought dye job and all those jagged, homemade tattoos, I could practically hear my boner against the bag of popcorn. Yeah, that’s my type: A non-threatening bad boy who makes his own rules and also has a neck tattoo. Someone imaginary and impractical.

Instead, I have Andy who is basically a big goofy stuffed animal whose idea of bad behavior is walking around in his underwear in his own room. Maybe one night I'll be out with Andy and some drunk prick will walk over and hit on him. Maybe then I'll have to inform this prick that Andy's with me. Maybe things will escalate and I'll drop into a staggered stance before tackling his ass to the ground and jamming my elbow into the back of his neck. Maybe then I'll have to spend the night in jail.

And that's where I'll meet the man of my dreams. 

*popcorn boner*

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