Paper Not Plastic

Evidently my mad dash to escape the middle-age spread is paying off. While I was skating alongside the Columbia River that borders Marine Drive I got two driveby horn beeps and my first wolf whistle in I don't know how long. I honestly cannot recall when the last time was that I was whistled at. In my hyperacute state of denial, I figured all the male chauvinists had morphed into politically correct prepubescent emos (that’s emo, not a misspelling of Elmo, although I find that there is more than just the striking name similarity to the cloyingly emotional furry red creature from Sesame Street with a falsetto voice). I didn’t want to face the fact that it had anything to do with my being the anti-MILF.

I must admit, male sexuality is still a bit of a puzzle to me. Not being born with a penis might be somewhat of a learning obstacle, but the power of the visual to men never ceases to intrigue me. I mean, my head will turn at the occasional flash of flesh. I’m always pointing out women’s boobs to Dave, maybe because I wasn’t born with any of my own and they have yet to sprout, which reminds me of a particularly disturbing detail about the “Magic Hands” church movie. There was a female character that very obviously got aroused (or very cold) every time she was in the presence of Jesus/Joseph, evidenced by the two hard points protruding from her sheer blouse. It was very distracting to say the least. Even Dave couldn’t miss them (something he confirmed when I began to bring it to his attention). I guess they were on a shoe-string budget and couldn’t afford properly padded bras, or editing.

Anyway, back to the male visual response. I don't dress particularly seductively when I skate, and frankly, I am armored to the teeth because I don't want to have to be careful and risk a fall from the odd piece of debris laying me up for an indeterminate period of time because of a broken bone or, worse, strained tendon or ligament, so I don't deem myself terribly sexy in my skate gear, but certain members of the male species evidently disagree. I have gone into great depth with Dave on this particular topic, seeking to understand just how males can be sexually titillated by a mere glimpse of the female form without seeing a face, hearing a voice. Brings to mind a charming male turn of phrase Dave introduced me to—a double bagger—and yet if there is the opportunity for sex...

Well, regardless, I find it infinitely satisfying these days to get the periodic wolf whistle, and I chuckle to remember how 20 years ago I would have found it extremely offensive. Stupid youth. It is only the taut self-righteous 20-year-old that can indulge in being offended by vocal male appreciation. When you get over 30, what once was an insult to your sensitivities becomes a compliment to your vanity.