Our resident sexpot, still a goddess, claimed she had–in the kitchen at least. She can now heat water to perfect boiling point and produce uncharred, fluffy rice–in a rice cooker. Okay, let’s not nitpick. It is a change–a big one, if you knew her. Thus began the sharing. It was mostly the usual: more patient, less controlling, happier, sadder, content, lonely. Then, from the smoke-filled air, a confession that rained stars on our evening. "My taste in men has definitely changed. Forget handsome. I want to go home to a simple, caring soul who gives good foot massages–quietly; a man who won’t utter a word until I say GO!" Heads snapped to attention. Mischievous, high school grins spread across weary faces. This was just the kind of game we needed. It was time to spill the beans on the kind of things we liked in a man–but only the extraordinary stuff; just the previously unaired. Attraction for pearly, white teeth: not counted. A thing for crooked, nicotine-stained canine protrusions: counted. Let the games begin.
A shiny, shaven head ranked high (think Yul Brynner not Telly Savalas). Hhhmmmm. I could get into that. Bembol Roco always got my vote. Another had a thing for thin, hairless legs–thinner than hers anyway. Still another tingled for vein-marbled hands, but only if they ended in squeaky clean, square fingertips. Nice eyes, someone volunteered, though I argued there was nothing extraordinary about being attracted to that. "Well, tell me what’s ordinary about long lashes on droopy lids. Imagine a dreamy, almost liquid gaze coming out of those!" was her haughty, remarkably literary reply. Can’t argue with that. Another preferred chinito, Vietnamese style–something about a specific shape of unlidded eye on caramel skin. To me, it isn’t so much what the eyes look like but what is expressed when they gaze out into the world; how they soften or intensify at the sight of someone they love. Or can’t love.
It was thumbs up for a hairless chest. Muscles? Not really. They get sexy points, but we agreed that the perfectly carved and chiseled male body is too busy loving itself to be of any use to us. So, yes, we find paunches somewhat endearing, as long as they don’t protrude past the last trimester mark. A slight lisp was counted in. Raspy voice, please. Deep, just-coming-out-of-a-cold, said another, but without the congestion. I care more what the voice can say–a talent for words is always a plus.
Voracious reader, someone announced. Again, I argued nothing extraordinary about that, but someone pointed out that if you found a Mills & Boon aficionado sexy, well, that was extraordinary. True. I don’t think I could live with a non-reader myself. That’s big to me. For others, it isn’t. Bigger to them was fashion sense. Though that reeked of the ordinary, a sudden image of someone’s polyestered, beloved ex shut me up. As long as he steers clear of chunky gold jewelry, white shoes and matching belt (with all kinds of communication devices attached to it), I’m not too picky, but if he spends long afternoons browsing fashion magazines, count me out. Thankfully, everyone drew the line at cross-dressing.
One of us confessed she preferred a smoker’s kiss. Non-smokers were too bland for her discriminating palate. Not just any smoker, mind you, but one who was at least two drinks past his limit. Vodka, cabernet or single malt? All of the above but not together or in any combination. And please, she qualified, no beer. How about holding hands, asked another with a sigh that said this once-chaste activity had recently been awarded erotic status. It depends what kind of hand, another challenged. Only cushy, somewhat sweaty palms for this lady. Cool, dry hands were too sterile. "Cold, hard hands belong to a man who will pick your pocket, not the kind who can bring you to life." Giggles all around.
We all liked funny–agreed that a great sense of humor was supremely sexy, but didn’t quite agree on style. I hate slapstick; prefer to be tickled with words. Some of them liked the whole Jim Carrey thing, though I fail to see how opening your mouth wide enough for Noah’s Ark to sail through can attract anything other than homeless insects–in pairs. Wait, someone countered, wasn’t I the one who couldn’t get enough of Apeng Daldal and his Cafeteria Aroma? Nothing like old memories to bring one back to earth.
We could have gone on forever. The list grew to include other musts I dare not print. We laughed at each other’s idiosyncrasies–at this growing list of rather strange (bordering on perverse, actually) confessions. Soon the midnight rustling of carriages turning into pumpkins reminded us that yet more time had passed. We headed for the door, but not before exchanging tight hugs decorated with generous dollops of newfound appreciation.
On the way home, sporting a silly grin that wouldn’t quit, I realized it wasn’t so much that we had changed but that, over these imponderable years, we have learned to enjoy ourselves more; have gotten comfortable with the angles and corners of our often constricted, dictated shapes. The years have been good. They have given us room to unfold, untuck and shine light into the pockets of our woman selves. What’s more, we’ve learned to laugh all the way; proof that we have finally discovered the art of celebrating who we are.
Ahhh, I exhaled as I sank into bed, I could really get into this aging thing. I drifted into sleep, still sporting that grin, even as images of a bald, almond-eyed Jim-Apeng mutant threatened to invade my dreams.