June 30, 2010
A Guest Post by SSDATED
I want to clear something up. Be a little more precise. About Man-Eaters. About who I am. About chicks just like me. Because there’s this notion. That Man-Eaters. Are Man Haters. (A notion proliferated by young buckettes who don’t yet know themselves.) And it’s really just the opposite. Grown Up Man-Eaters. Are Man Lovers. We love ‘em. Can hardly contain ourselves. Gotta have ‘em.
Friend – “Man-Eater!”
Me – “What?!?”
Friend - *raises eyebrows*
Me – *shrugs* *laughs* “Oh, okay fine. That’s about right.”
I’ll admit it. I. Am. A. Man. Eater.
Back in the days of my early twenties, I had a rep. Slutterific? Sure enough. Awesomtacious. True Story. But at the heart of my rep (pun intended) was my lack thereof. Tin Man. The nickname speaks for itself. I was a Man-Eater. I had a bed post and an abacus. A belt and a list. I had a ledger. The boys were a tally. I was like Columbus, conquering the natives. I was just a kid. I may have been one of the minions proliferating the notion that Man-Eaters were Man Haters. I was just a kid. I didn’t know any better.
But I never made anybody do anything. Boys did things of their own volition. For their Goddess, Man-Eater. One boy quit a job just to see more of me (he also proposed within four months). One boy stayed home on Saturday nights, in case I called late night. Boys set up bar tabs and announced our arrival in nightclubs. Boys made offerings. Boys left their chicks. And at dawn I left my socks (and ran). I hunted. I prowled. And the boys came out of the forest, hands raised in cheerful submission happy to be my dinner. I ate boys like chocolate, and they were delicious. I didn’t care. They seemed not to care. But I don’t really know. Because I never asked. Because I definitely didn’t care. Carve notch. Move bead left. Punch hole. Add name and date. *hunger pains* and prowl again.
But that was then and this is now. Here I am, in my Summer of Boys and it has me thinking a lot about what’s different (if anything) between then and now. Have I learned anything? Have I just gotten older? Has there been any kind of development? And I can without a glimmer of doubt answer yes. I am very obviously a Man-Eater but I am no Man Hater. Let me say it again. Loud and proud.
I am a Man-Eater but I am no Man Hater.
The boys of now. They’re in the know. Whether they listen or pay attention is on them. But I tell them. I say it. I will be kind and gentle. But you are a meal for the summer. I plan to eat you. It is no reflection on you as a person. I’m sure you’re awesome. And if you can handle it. I promise not to go prey mantis on your ass.
I heart boys. Really. Let me say that again. I. Heart. Boys. Just because I don’t want to be your girlfriend, your mom, your babysitter, your secretary, your teacher or your savior, doesn’t mean I don’t want to be your friend, your favorite summer memory, the reason you’ll forever laugh at the word “lozenge”, the person who challenged you to grow and know yourself, your smoking hot booty call, the memory that will always make you hard. Boys, I think you’re amazing.
So boys, I’m telling you now. And I’ll tell you again if I have to. You are the candy of my summer. You are the giggles by a campfire and the sexy innuendo in a game of pool. You are the butter on my movie popcorn and the breathless scream on a rollercoaster. You are the magic in a first kiss and the impossibility of anything more. You are the steam on the car windows and the writing on the bathroom mirror (cum back to bed).
Boys I heart you. I want you. I need you. This summer. I’m hungry. And I’m going to eat you. But I won’t be mean about it. Because even though I’m a Man-Eater, I’m not a Man Hater. I’m a Man Lover. And the moments that we have together, though fleeting, will be awesome. I’ll make sure of it. Because I want your world to be as full of rainbows and magic as mine is.
Now grab your balls and ask me out. I’m sitting right there. Two tables away at Starbucks. Ask my name. Ask my number. Show me your balls. And I might just put them in my mouth. But I promise not to bite.