I never cared for Loni. While every boy I knew went on and on about Jennifer’s tits, I was dreaming about Bailey. I did fall for Farrah, but it was a passing fancy. Pam was ok before the mega surgery I guess, and I never thought much of Dolly at all. Diana Prince had a neat secret outfit, but I lusted for Jaime Sommers. More recently, Six was nice to look at but nothing like Boomer or Starbuck. Truth is, all I needed to know about Barbie was that “Math is hard!!” She was plastic, fake, and not very bright.
These days, Carrie Prejean exemplifies everything that turns me off in a woman. Just like Barbie, she’s plastic, fake, and not very bright. I don’t find her attractive at all: not her fake smile, fake beauty-pageant breasts, fake walk, fake hand wave, or fake holiness. Not even if she keeps her idiotic, homophobic mouth shut. I’m just not interested. She’s not pretty. She’s not pretty at all.
I love real women.
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I love women with hair that moves out of place. Women with hips a little too big, and breasts a little uneven. I love women with teeth that are a little crooked to match their slightly crooked smile. Women with dirty knees and little scabs on their elbows from crawling around looking for whatever they dropped under the couch. Women who choose between getting their nails done or getting their hair done because they don’t have a pageant paying for every little thing.
I love women who think they have big feet… because they do.
I love women whose asses are not quite pear shaped and whose bellies aren’t six packs and whose waists aren’t the perfect size six. Women who don’t have eight hours a day to spend in a gym. Women who have to shop around for jeans that fit half-way right, because they aren’t designer jean models. Women with dirt under their nails from the garden, and women who shop at the dollar store.
I love women who want to quit smoking but haven’t quite been able to… yet.
I love women who kiss me when I’m right and tell me I’m a shithead when I’m wrong… and then kiss me anyway. Women who think for themselves and stand up for other people. I love women who shave their legs because they want to, and women who don’t because they don’t. I love women who do things they know I’ll like because they love me, and women who tell me to go fuck myself because they don’t even know me.
I love women who swear.
I love women who use the word ‘cunt’ but would punch someone for using ‘faggot’ or ‘nigger’. Women who would put their foot up someone’s ass before they’d take orders about what to do with their own body. I love pro-choice, liberal, sex-positive, progressive, strong, powerful, sensual women who fuck on the first date if they want to, and don’t if they don’t. Women who will not be shamed into compliance by some old lying, cheating scumbag from the AFA, or his hypocritical plastic puppet mouthpiece who was first runner up at the Miss USA pageant.
I love women who care more about what’s between your ears than what’s between your legs.
I love women who crush on other women, and are perfectly comfortable telling the world about it. Women whose sexuality doesn’t need your binary label or your fucking approval, thank you very much.
I love women who fuck who they please and aren’t afraid to say so in public.
I love women with scars that aren’t airbrushed into oblivion – C-sections and appendectomies, fourth grade football and the box cutter incident last week at work. I love women with stretch marks – graffiti writ large that says, “Kay was here” and “so wuz James, yo!” or “I worked pretty hard to make you regret how mean you were to me in high school, don’t you wish you were fucking me right now? Sucks to be you, asshole.”
I love women who aren’t ashamed to talk about masturbation.
I love women who stick their hands in their jeans and let me share the photo, complete with scars and without airbrushing. I don’t love women who are sexy in spite of their stretch marks, but women who are sexy because of them. You can have women like Carrie Prejean.
I love women like Jane.
From whence came the art: