What a Woman Wants

A recent post on a friend's blog was the inspiration for this one. In it, she meticulously describes her ideal man. Since the majority of my readers (at least the ones who bother to comment) are women, I can't help but wonder if they have virtually the same image of "the ideal man". And would he be anything like me?

You see, from reading many posts and comments by women over the past few months, I've concluded that most are dreaming of the same "Hemingway-esque" kind of guy. So I decided to channel (It's a gift that I have, thanks. And no, you can't borrow it.) Ernest Hemingway, in order to procure his objective opinion on yours truly. To see how I stack up.

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Ernest Hemingway's assessment of Puerileuwaite:



"Puerileuwaite was a man's man. Never bothered to ask women out. Didn't have to. He expected it of 'em. Women were not his friends, damn it. They were made for lovin'. Strange women make the best bedfellows, fellows, Puerileuwaite would loudly proclaim after a belt of whiskey.

Chances? Chances were for carnivals, he'd often bellow. Puerileuwaite took risks, not chances. If a woman had the gumption to protest his lurid advances with a "How does never sound?", this mass of masculinity would toss her over his shoulder like a sack of meat. Then he would haul her to his bed for some steamy lovin'. Damn the torpedoes, save for one. Full speed ahead.

Puerileuwaite had little patience for panty-waisted frat boys. He would pound them repeatedly until his knuckles were blood red and bone white. Drinking in moderation and arbitrary curfews were not part of this scrapper's vocabulary. He made his own rules. Which he would then break like Dolly Parton's bra straps at an aerobics workout.

He liked no-nonsense women. But he loved the non-verbal types most of all. He didn't want to be coddled or taken care of. He wanted just two things from women. To see 'em naked, and to see them off. Having no desire to keep a woman, he just wanted to keep 'em from stayin'.

Active, well-educated, outgoing energetic ladies were his prey, and his athletic, muscle-rippled body was the lure. Though not rich, he was financially stable. A one woman at a time kind of guy. A born hell raiser at home, he still enjoyed a night on the town. He worked hard, he played even harder. He drank even harder than that.

He fancied a female companion that he had to be on his toes to keep up with. He knew that a gal had the right to constantly change her mind and mood. And he met this challenge the same as he would in landing a prize-winning marlin. With equal parts patience and tenacity.

He loved a good scrap. He loved to roll up his sleeves over his brawny arms and get dirty. His love of the outdoors found him perpetually in jeans and t-shirts. He hated desks and the khaki-wearing sons of bitches hiding from life behind 'em.

He was a tiger, this one. He wasn't afraid of man or beast when it came to making his principles known clear to each end of a crowded saloon. His balls were the size of coconuts, and just as hard. His head was even harder than that.

To hell with Neil Young, Puerileuwaite would shout. A REAL man doesn't need a maid. Women weren't maids to this man. They had only one purpose. His pleasure. This was how it was gonna be, he would tell them. Leaving little room for doubt or negotiation. Love it or shove it, Clementine. His way or the highway.

He was first and foremost an outlaw lookin' for his next crime spree. A true bad ass cowboy of love. He knew that in the end we are all worm meat anyway. "Savor the wild ride while you can" could've been his motto, had he had the time or patience for one."

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Thank you, Mr. Hemingway. That was pretty decent of you. I am humbled and flattered. Your endorsement has made me completely mental, I must say.