I’ve always fantasized about deflowering a shy, inexperienced young man, teaching him all the mysteries and pleasures of the bedroom. I want to be a sexual priestess, initiating them into manhood. That was my original impetus for writing the short story, Cherry Boy.
During my stint as a Phone-Sex Goddess, there were many times when the caller wouldn’t- or couldn’t- say a word. Stunned into silence by my sexy voice, he would choke. When this happened, I didn’t panic. I didn’t try to make him speak, knowing this would only make him hang up in terror. I’d been trained to handle just such an emergency.
I purred, “Is that a shy guy on the line? It turns me on to know you’re out there, listening…” Then I’d launch into a fantasy and get myself off, while he listened attentively. I was intrigued by these shy guys, and they soon became my favorite callers. It gave me a sense of power to know I could intimidate (and stimulate) someone so completely. My seductive stories wove a spell, and they were helpless, enchanted. I bonded with my Inner Dominatrix, predatory and irresistible. It was even better when my smoky, sexy voice could draw them out of their shells, make them speak up at last.
For years I dated the center-of-attention guys, the class clowns, life of the party. It was difficult not to. They're everywhere, and they take up so much oxygen in a room there’s hardly any air for anyone else to breathe. (Braggarts, bastards, bullies- and all of them were bad in bed.) You have to look at them, the way you have to look at a train-wreck or a bad stand-up comedian- it’s so awful your eyes don’t know where else to go.
I recently attended a party on Durango's illustrious South Side- not some sophisticated soiree with chilled champagne and fancy canapés, but the kind of party where people do keg-stands and pick fights. At this party, I noticed the usual assortment of drunken assholes- the sort of guy I would have gone home with, in the past.
That night, they just didn’t interest me- they seemed interchangeable, boring, predictable. Alpha males, trying to establish dominance in the pack. These are the guys who spit when they talk, throw up in the bathtub, flirt with your best friend, and pinch your ass on the way out the door, going, “Great party.” They all seemed the same, the way brothers seem the same- but these guys weren’t brothers, they were just drunk.
After several tedious conversations with these so-called alpha males, I noticed a couple of other guys standing on the fringes. They looked uncomfortable in their own skins, like they didn’t know anyone and weren’t sure if they were in the right place. Because I often feel awkward at parties (I’m just better at hiding it), I struck up random conversations with each of them at different points during the night. John was cuttingly sarcastic, hilarious. He made me laugh, and he looked at me like I was the only woman in the room worth talking to. I found him funny, self-deprecating and interesting, if a little awkward. The kind of guy who doesn’t fake a smile, doesn’t even know how. I saw him smile, laugh for the first time all night- a genuine smile, a real laugh.
The quiet guy with his back against the wall, holding a drink- the kind of guy who won’t say anything unless he’s actually got something of substance to say, the one who’s watching the action from the edge of the crowd- he’s the one I want. It's not the dude who’s trying to impress me with overblown drunken stories and manly braggadocio. (Not him, please! I've dated him before, like fifty times. He’s boring, and he can’t fuck.) I want the quiet shy one, the one who looks at me intently without saying a word, trying to work up the nerve to make a move. Alpha males with their territorial pissings bore me to death.
The second shy guy- Thomas- wasn’t shy at all, once I struck up a conversation with him. We talked about writing, art, food, career aspirations- a real conversation. He wasn’t trying to get into my pants in some obvious, sophomoric way. He didn’t pinch my ass, or stare at my tits instead of making eye contact. His approach was more subtle- if it was an approach at all. He asked about my book, said he’d always wanted to write. Our conversation was interesting and surprisingly deep, given the circumstances.
Of all the people I talked to that night, only the ones who weren’t trying to be noticed had anything memorable to say. Let this be a lesson to me. The next time I’m at a party, I will remember this- the most interesting men aren’t the ones hamming it up for the crowd. Instead, I’ll look for the shy guy, the one standing on the edge of the action, waiting for me to notice him. He’s the one going home with my digits!