Ladies, there are so many facets in our struggle of masculine dominated life that project us to either remain docile or feel guilty for refusing to be docile. Progression in gender solidarity has indeed taken several steps forward, but women are still subliminally encouraged to retain these "inherent" insecurities and buy things to make themselves "less ugly" because that's, like, how we're built. To which I say, FUCK THAT NOISE.
So in my steps to continue this combat of ugliness, I took an (unplanned) step and had a sexual encounter (whatever) with my definition of a "100% fuck-ya holy shit I'm drooling" hottie.
I don't mean to say that this is the best and only way to validate your own inner and outer attraction at all. What I mean to say is: so you're making out, right? And you're like turtlely freaking out in the moment cause he's gorgeous so how the hell did this ever happen to me, right? And after this moment, will he just forget about me because there's like 8 million profesh models alone in this world? Yea?? But here's the thing dude: no. You know why? Because he's having these EXACT same thoughts. To him, you're a fucking specimen to beheld that should be taken to brunch or the aquarium the next day for even letting him undo your bun that took exactly six minutes to create (shout-out to the Gram).
I recently had this exact occurrence occur. I knew that when I met my friend's roommate, whom we'll call everyone's favorite Irish bad-boy name Kyle, the common trigger would be instantly pulled: Kyle was on the level of Clooney, Pitt, Damon, and the rest of the Ocean's 11 cast. (except for Elliot Gould. Not into dads. Sorry.) If he were a car, he'd be a Porsche. If he were a kitchen device, he'd be an oven. If he were a futuristic fusion of cars and kitchen devices, he'd be a Porsche oven. (I'm patenting that.) Basically, Kyle was hot. Like insanely hot. And the maddening thing was, he's also polite, kind, intelligent, and the type of charming that's not annoying as shit. So it wasn't just his physical appearance. He embodied hotness. And because of that, I never even considered the thought of pursuing him. Because why would this Greek god even come near my pale Irish skin?
And then I started drinking.
If there's anything that Abby and Ilana have taught me, it's that the world becomes a little less scary after 1, 3, 6, doses of Vicodin. (Remember the wisdom teeth episode? Broad City Season 2. Watch it.) Well, I wasn't on Vicodin, but I was a little drunk. And I'm at a party held by my friend and her roommates. And Kyle's there. And once again, he's looking fooiiiinnne. And I don't know what it was. Maybe it was my post-musical theatre performance fierce grunge hair and make-up. Maybe it was my family-bred YOLO state of mind. Maybe it was the fact that Beyoncé had announced she'd be releasing a new track that week, and I didn't know how to handle myself. I don't know. But I went for it.
And he was totally down. And just as stoked as I was. (I think... My level was pretty hard to get on.) I never once worried about what I looked like in the moment or worried that I was saying the wrong things. We were two people acknowledging that we equally appreciated the other completely for who they were in the moment. And that, in itself, reaffirmed my own personal hotness for myself and the hotness and worth of every sexual being that has ever lived.
I know this thought is impossible to swear by. But I swear by this swear by. You can't believe you're touching his bare chest, and he can't believe he's stroking your God-sent collarbone. Because you both think you're slightly unworthy by the other one's hotness. And in my analysis, this (1) confirms the human natural psyche to undermine itself and (2) is fucking bullshit! Because we're all human. We're all living and breathing. And that itself is AMAZING and hot as f&*^.
Thanks to not-actually-named Kyle for being inspirationally hot. And thanks to Fly Honey @ the Inconvenience for reaffirming my faith in solidarity. I'll never forget that show.