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Short skirts, french knickers

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

I like being shallow

Fil met me for lunch yesterday and told me how he dumped his most recent girlfriend when he found out she liked Reese Witherspoon movies. How shallow, I know, but this is Fil. He explained that from his "very vast" experience, girls who like Reese Witherspoon are always trouble. Liking Reese Witherspoon movies, apparently reveal some sort of hidden history about a girl that nobody should get near.

"I like Reese Witherspoon. She's cute. Legally Blonde was fun what," I said.

"Yah, but look at you." Whatever that's supposed to mean.

Fil has also dumped girls in the past because he thought she giggled too much, or her jokes were stupid, or her hobbies bored him.

And actually, upon deeper reflection through the afternoon, I soon realised I wasn't really any different. Shame shame. Unless I actually really like the guy and want things to eventually move along some sort of dating curve (which hasn't happened in a while, thankfully), I quite like keeping things to a "fuck and fly" policy. Give me good head, then go home before you start telling me your weird stories. I won't bore you, if you won't bore me, that sort of thing.

Case in point: a few months ago, I'd been sleeping on/off with this guy for a few weeks before he decided to search me out on Friendster and add me to his list. (How embarrassing to admit that I'm on Friendster, I know. But high school friends are not ever to be forgotten!). Piqued by some sort of odd curiosity, I checked out his profile, looked at his list of favourite books, favoutire films etc, then found a link to his blog.

Click click. And there I found pages and pages and pages of heart wrenching poetry about being having his heart broken. Scrolling backwards through the archives, happy poems, deeply in love poems, blissfully-in-love-and-lust poems. There he was, fuck buddy turned into vulnerable little boy-in-love (not with me, fortunately, but some other evil girl who had torn up his soul apparently). It was distressing and not because I felt sorry for him, but because he was suddenly not quite so sexy anymore, now that he'd sort of bared his soul. How heartless of me, I know. Like I said, I like being shallow.

And anyway, how not fun to know all this when he's got his head between my thighs, or while we're having sex. I almost imagined I could still see all that sad, sad poetry flitting about his face while I was straddled on top of him the next time we had sex. So that was the end of that.

How ironic that a little romantic poetry was all it took to kill the joy for me.

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