Evening Wood
Twice last week, I found myself sporting erections in the dark safety of a theater. That's fine. I've been doing that since I was 10 years old. But for the first time since I was that age, those erections were aimed at women.
Threat #1: Missy Peregrym from Stick It.
Now, the movie was forgettable. It was definitely no Bring It On. Not too funny or interesting, with some laughable acting, I still found myself transfixed. Miss Missy was just irresistible! She played a tough girl, wearing baseball caps and oversized hoodies in camo or illustrious tagging. Her face is feminine, but in a teenagey boyish way that I can only compare to the skater boys that tortured me with crooked grins and sun bleached bangs in the summers of my So Cal youth. Her problems with authority, her bratty dialogue, the band tees (I know she probably has never listened to Black Flag but a boy can dream...) all furthered my amorousness.
I found myself blushing with desire for the soft and tanned skin covering her muscled abs, the purposeful curve of her shoulders.
Threat #2: Chan Marshall (Cat Power)
I saw her at the Palace of Fine Arts with some friends last week and although I went in an exhausted and bad mood, I left in a jubilant daze. The show had been perfectly orchestrated from beginning to end. Her presence on stage a tornado, her voice a beam of dusky light.
There's something about her that has always fascinated me. The first time I saw her was in LA at the Knitting Factory, fumbling and hiding from the increasingly angry crowd surrounding her. I stood there frozen and transfixed and in a way, I've been in love ever since. I listen to her records more than any other female artist and am oddly protective of her when people complain about her performances or her supposed substance abuses. But it was always one of those gay boy crushes, an admiration, a starry eyed idolization.
Half way through the PFA show, she changed into a little strapless white dress, lace webbing its way along the hem. It was a force. It's power immediately hit me, and as I sat there in the dark I found myself feeling physically drawn to her. She sat at the piano and stamped away at the foot pedals; I could barely breathe as I watched her knees bouncing and her lips brush the round tip of the microphone. She stood at the microphone with a guitar strapped around her brown freckled shoulders; I was hard. And when she put on a backwards baseball cap and some white adidas, bouncing around the stage like the little sister of a bunch of dusty boys playing baseball, my desire was painful, loud, bone-crushing.
A couple years ago I saw her at the Great American Music Hall with The Dirty Three. She went first, oddly enough, and when The Dirty Three began their mournful performing I suddenly felt a tug on my arm and the drunken brush of wet lips on my ear. I turned, a little annoyed, and was in utter shock to see her, Chan Marshall herself. She was shorter than me, drunk, and she looked up at me and smiled before saying "Aren't they great? Aren't they amazing??" I just stood there, unable to say anything, until she said bye and moved further up towards the stage. To this day I wish I had said something, anything. Something to let her know how cool I think she is, like: "I love you."
Considering my two secret straight crushes, I wondered what they had in common. I was in awe of their shoulders, which I have decided is my favorite part of a girl. They're strong and yet delicate, like wings. Men's shoulders are functional, like the hull of a ship. So many of my straight friends go after the little wispy girls. The girls who look like porcelain dolls: tiny wrists, little pink mouths, pale skin. I've never understood that. I could love a tough girl, especially if she's got straight brown hair naturally cascading down either sides of her face. I don't want her to act shocked or delicate, I want her to clench her nail-bitten fists. I want her to look like she spends most of her time outside, getting into trouble. Nothing sexier than a girl smiling, white teeth framed by a tanned face.
So I guess I like my girls a bit boyish. Which isn't that surprising. Ironic though, considering the only girl I fooled around with was a paragon of femininity, all blonde tits and makeup. I still think I'm going to switch teams, because boys? Yeah, they look better naked, but those fuckers have failed me one too many times.
Threat #1: Missy Peregrym from Stick It.
Now, the movie was forgettable. It was definitely no Bring It On. Not too funny or interesting, with some laughable acting, I still found myself transfixed. Miss Missy was just irresistible! She played a tough girl, wearing baseball caps and oversized hoodies in camo or illustrious tagging. Her face is feminine, but in a teenagey boyish way that I can only compare to the skater boys that tortured me with crooked grins and sun bleached bangs in the summers of my So Cal youth. Her problems with authority, her bratty dialogue, the band tees (I know she probably has never listened to Black Flag but a boy can dream...) all furthered my amorousness.
I found myself blushing with desire for the soft and tanned skin covering her muscled abs, the purposeful curve of her shoulders.
Threat #2: Chan Marshall (Cat Power)
I saw her at the Palace of Fine Arts with some friends last week and although I went in an exhausted and bad mood, I left in a jubilant daze. The show had been perfectly orchestrated from beginning to end. Her presence on stage a tornado, her voice a beam of dusky light.
There's something about her that has always fascinated me. The first time I saw her was in LA at the Knitting Factory, fumbling and hiding from the increasingly angry crowd surrounding her. I stood there frozen and transfixed and in a way, I've been in love ever since. I listen to her records more than any other female artist and am oddly protective of her when people complain about her performances or her supposed substance abuses. But it was always one of those gay boy crushes, an admiration, a starry eyed idolization.
Half way through the PFA show, she changed into a little strapless white dress, lace webbing its way along the hem. It was a force. It's power immediately hit me, and as I sat there in the dark I found myself feeling physically drawn to her. She sat at the piano and stamped away at the foot pedals; I could barely breathe as I watched her knees bouncing and her lips brush the round tip of the microphone. She stood at the microphone with a guitar strapped around her brown freckled shoulders; I was hard. And when she put on a backwards baseball cap and some white adidas, bouncing around the stage like the little sister of a bunch of dusty boys playing baseball, my desire was painful, loud, bone-crushing.
A couple years ago I saw her at the Great American Music Hall with The Dirty Three. She went first, oddly enough, and when The Dirty Three began their mournful performing I suddenly felt a tug on my arm and the drunken brush of wet lips on my ear. I turned, a little annoyed, and was in utter shock to see her, Chan Marshall herself. She was shorter than me, drunk, and she looked up at me and smiled before saying "Aren't they great? Aren't they amazing??" I just stood there, unable to say anything, until she said bye and moved further up towards the stage. To this day I wish I had said something, anything. Something to let her know how cool I think she is, like: "I love you."
Considering my two secret straight crushes, I wondered what they had in common. I was in awe of their shoulders, which I have decided is my favorite part of a girl. They're strong and yet delicate, like wings. Men's shoulders are functional, like the hull of a ship. So many of my straight friends go after the little wispy girls. The girls who look like porcelain dolls: tiny wrists, little pink mouths, pale skin. I've never understood that. I could love a tough girl, especially if she's got straight brown hair naturally cascading down either sides of her face. I don't want her to act shocked or delicate, I want her to clench her nail-bitten fists. I want her to look like she spends most of her time outside, getting into trouble. Nothing sexier than a girl smiling, white teeth framed by a tanned face.
So I guess I like my girls a bit boyish. Which isn't that surprising. Ironic though, considering the only girl I fooled around with was a paragon of femininity, all blonde tits and makeup. I still think I'm going to switch teams, because boys? Yeah, they look better naked, but those fuckers have failed me one too many times.
posted by themerrygo at 4:07 PM
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