You should see my new boyfriend Gene. He’s got a flabby behind, love handles and the thickest glasses I’ve ever removed from a man’s face. If he doesn’t tend to his nose hairs every week, his nostrils start to look like the underside of a gardenia plant. He works out once every three months and returns home with a renewed commitment to a total lack of exercise. His hairline is—well, let’s just say calling it a hairline is being generous.
But I love Gene; he’s perfect for me. After spending the first decade of my dating life in pursuit of the best-looking dude with the finest arms and the twinkliest eyes, I’ve learned a simple truth at age 28: I’m better off caring a little less about looks and a little more about love.
Don’t worry, I’m not hurting Gene’s feelings here. He knows what he looks like and what I think of him, and that’s part of his charm. He doesn’t devote valuable time to ogling his cheekbones in the mirror, or checking out how great his ass looks in those jeans. He rarely rhapsodizes about his rigorous gym regimen or his devotion to a diet of raw veggies and salmon. He doesn’t expect me to sing the praises of his body parts, and so I don’t. He’s happy enough that I’m happy.
I’m not going to deny it. I’ve changed. I used to love how much my friends got all gooey about my college boyfriend, Brendan. I did, too. He was way out of my league in looks, and I never quite understood how I got him in the first place. But that’s what White Russians can do in a certain social situation. Anyway, I ended my freshman year with a totally hot boyfriend of my very own: long hair pulled back into a thick ponytail, muscles upon muscles and dreamy blue eyes I never got tired of looking into. It wasn’t as though I was hideous or anything, but my previous lovers (OK, there’d been two) were a little bit more comfortable at my end of the gene pool. On my very best day, I’m a 7.
But hey, I figured I was entitled to some fun up near the nines. No question, Brendan was one of the top five hunks on campus and a boy toy of the very first order. What could go wrong? Well, as it turns out everything went wrong. I learned the hard way that it’s dangerous, if not suicidal, to date above your station in life.
The problems began when I noticed how hard it was to get a gander at myself in the mirror in the morning. There would be Brendan in all his naked glory, presumably reviewing all the things about himself he didn’t need to shave, cover or disguise before leaving the house. I, on the other hand, had a morning ritual of repairs that often spilled over into the afternoon.
Now I’m not going to complain here about the sex; Brendan wasn’t attentive to my needs, but somehow it didn’t matter. And I’m not going to pretend that I hated his slavish devotion to my orgasm—even though afterward he wanted a thank-you note. The problem was post-coital. Often, as we lay together in bed after a particularly wondrous session, Brendan would lecture me about how much women needed a man with his prodigious medley of moves, and he would pontificate about how most men don’t do enough to satisfy their mates’ needs. And I would think, does this dude really think an orgasm is all I need? Even the best one doesn’t double for the fun of a wonderful walk in the park, or a spontaneous laughing fit or the perfect chocolate chip cookie.
And that’s where Gene comes in.
Gene has made me laugh like a maniac pretty much every day from the moment I first met him on a boat cruise around Manhattan last summer. He’s witty and sensitive and goofy and kind. He calls and texts me for no reason except to hear my voice, and he pays close attention to my moods: When I’m cranky he retreats, and when I’m needy he comforts. He’s the perfect boyfriend, really, in every way except one.
The other night, as we spooned our way to sleep, I felt my fingers slipping into the folds of Gene’s stomach. They lodged themselves into the excesses and I couldn’t help but think to myself, what have I done? This man could do sit-ups for the next 50 years and those crevices would never disappear. For a moment I was terrified and sad; I suddenly missed Brendan’s washboard abs and the fun of tickling my fingers against them. But then, just as suddenly, Gene rolled over to look at me and rubbed his belly up against mine; I laughed and lunged. Somewhere, I thought, Brendan was bragging to some woman about his body or his lovemaking skills, while I was busy having sex with a man I loved.
We are continuing to accept unsolicited submissions for “Flavor of the Week," our weekly sex/dating/relationships column. There are no restrictions on the content, and submissions should be between 800 and 1,200 words. Email editorial@nypress.com.
But I love Gene; he’s perfect for me. After spending the first decade of my dating life in pursuit of the best-looking dude with the finest arms and the twinkliest eyes, I’ve learned a simple truth at age 28: I’m better off caring a little less about looks and a little more about love.
Don’t worry, I’m not hurting Gene’s feelings here. He knows what he looks like and what I think of him, and that’s part of his charm. He doesn’t devote valuable time to ogling his cheekbones in the mirror, or checking out how great his ass looks in those jeans. He rarely rhapsodizes about his rigorous gym regimen or his devotion to a diet of raw veggies and salmon. He doesn’t expect me to sing the praises of his body parts, and so I don’t. He’s happy enough that I’m happy.
I’m not going to deny it. I’ve changed. I used to love how much my friends got all gooey about my college boyfriend, Brendan. I did, too. He was way out of my league in looks, and I never quite understood how I got him in the first place. But that’s what White Russians can do in a certain social situation. Anyway, I ended my freshman year with a totally hot boyfriend of my very own: long hair pulled back into a thick ponytail, muscles upon muscles and dreamy blue eyes I never got tired of looking into. It wasn’t as though I was hideous or anything, but my previous lovers (OK, there’d been two) were a little bit more comfortable at my end of the gene pool. On my very best day, I’m a 7.
But hey, I figured I was entitled to some fun up near the nines. No question, Brendan was one of the top five hunks on campus and a boy toy of the very first order. What could go wrong? Well, as it turns out everything went wrong. I learned the hard way that it’s dangerous, if not suicidal, to date above your station in life.
The problems began when I noticed how hard it was to get a gander at myself in the mirror in the morning. There would be Brendan in all his naked glory, presumably reviewing all the things about himself he didn’t need to shave, cover or disguise before leaving the house. I, on the other hand, had a morning ritual of repairs that often spilled over into the afternoon.
Now I’m not going to complain here about the sex; Brendan wasn’t attentive to my needs, but somehow it didn’t matter. And I’m not going to pretend that I hated his slavish devotion to my orgasm—even though afterward he wanted a thank-you note. The problem was post-coital. Often, as we lay together in bed after a particularly wondrous session, Brendan would lecture me about how much women needed a man with his prodigious medley of moves, and he would pontificate about how most men don’t do enough to satisfy their mates’ needs. And I would think, does this dude really think an orgasm is all I need? Even the best one doesn’t double for the fun of a wonderful walk in the park, or a spontaneous laughing fit or the perfect chocolate chip cookie.
And that’s where Gene comes in.
Gene has made me laugh like a maniac pretty much every day from the moment I first met him on a boat cruise around Manhattan last summer. He’s witty and sensitive and goofy and kind. He calls and texts me for no reason except to hear my voice, and he pays close attention to my moods: When I’m cranky he retreats, and when I’m needy he comforts. He’s the perfect boyfriend, really, in every way except one.
The other night, as we spooned our way to sleep, I felt my fingers slipping into the folds of Gene’s stomach. They lodged themselves into the excesses and I couldn’t help but think to myself, what have I done? This man could do sit-ups for the next 50 years and those crevices would never disappear. For a moment I was terrified and sad; I suddenly missed Brendan’s washboard abs and the fun of tickling my fingers against them. But then, just as suddenly, Gene rolled over to look at me and rubbed his belly up against mine; I laughed and lunged. Somewhere, I thought, Brendan was bragging to some woman about his body or his lovemaking skills, while I was busy having sex with a man I loved.
We are continuing to accept unsolicited submissions for “Flavor of the Week," our weekly sex/dating/relationships column. There are no restrictions on the content, and submissions should be between 800 and 1,200 words. Email editorial@nypress.com.
