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She’s Not My Type

7/14/11 – by Riley Dylan

What’s your type?  Do you think you have one?

I’ve been asked this question before.  Haven’t we all?   To tell the truth, I feel a little uncomfortable answering.  The images that pop in my head of my “dream girl” (my dream girl would have to be my type, right?) make me feel shallow, narcissistic.  Boobs.  Long hair.  Abs.  The images that pop into my head are all physical attributes.  What the hell?  I’m kidding myself.  That isn’t my type…  But wait, I have a subscription to Playboy…?

So what is mine?  Do I even have one?

I look back at the four relationships I’ve been in.  I don’t think each girl could be more different than the other.

Girl #1: redhead, lifeguard, country girl, averagely talented at theatre/sports, an overall nice Minnesota girl

Girl #2: brunette, tall, incredibly intelligent, amazing actress, awesome personality, “X-Files” and “Friends” geek (I say this with love)

Girl #3: Can I describe Angela as a girl? Ha… masculine, muscular, short, outstanding athlete, quick to laugh, just as quick to anger, a cop

Girl #4: blonde, southern, small, not an athlete OR an actress, crazy, spontaneous, sexy

Um.  Maybe I don’t have a type?

Still, I look at my list above and one relationship stands out.  (One of these things is not like the other. Ha…) It was the only time I ever dated someone I didn’t feel at the time was my type.  Read: feminine.  If I wanted to date a guy, I’d date a guy, right?  And um, I’m a lesbian.

I remember when I first met Angela.  Online.  Myspace.  (You can laugh now.)

She pursued me heavily.  A first.  I wasn’t the “boy” in the relationship.  Also a first.  SHE took care of ME.  Bought me dinner.  Gave me presents.  Held the door.  Offered her arm.  Did this feel unnatural for me?  At times.  Honestly, I’d rather have someone hold MY arm.  But for some reason, with Ang, I felt I could relax.  Being the “guy” in a relationship is a lot of work, even when you’re good at it.

She was a cop.  She sent pictures of herself in uniform, and I could see that she had short-cropped hair, shorter than mine.  But her eyes were almond colored, and were extremely feminine.  She had a great smile, great teeth.  Did I mention the “cop” thing?

After three months of talking online, and another month of phone conversation, we finally agreed to meet for a weekend in Indianapolis.  She arrived at the hotel first, and when she opened the door to the room, my first thought was… “My god, she looks like a little DUDE!”  I mean, I shouldn’t have been that surprised; I had pictures.  But the way she carried herself, her physicality…  It was in that moment, that exact second, I said to myself the very thing which has given me the balls to live the way I choose from then on:

Fuck it.

I jumped out of the box I’d put myself in, and decided to try something different.  I’d been speaking to this woman for four months; we had a very real connection.  I didn’t want to write that off because I was worried she wasn’t my type.

And it was different.

I quickly learned she wasn’t really the guy.  I’m embarrassed that I thought she would be.  I was young and naïve.

It’s easy to see why, though.  People look at me and assume.  Am I really the guy?  Anyone that’s been in a relationship with me can tell you, I will cry at “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition” harder than you will.  And don’t even get me started on “Intervention”!  And I am almost always the more emotional/more sensitive one in a relationship.  To be truthful, I don’t see gender roles at all in same-sex relationships, be it in day to day living or the bedroom.

Ang and I figured it out.  We loved each other and had a ton of fun.  When a gorgeous girl walked by, did we both stop and stare?  Yes.  Sometimes, she’d turn to me and say “You like the girlie girls!”  Well, yeah.  So did she.  But we also liked each other.

Did I eventually leave her for someone that was blonde, feminine, soft and curvy?  Yep.   And I can tell you right now that it had nothing to do with love, with being in love.  I loved Angela.  I was in love with her. But my relationship with her was in shreds.  She tore me apart.  (That is its own story, yet to be written.)  I didn’t leave her because she wasn’t my type.

I can tell you that I’m glad, in that millisecond outside of the hotel room door, that I said “Fuck it.”  I’m glad I was in that relationship.  I learned a lot about myself, about love in that relationship.  Just as in any relationship I learned what I want in a partner and what I don’t.  When I think back to Angela, I don’t think, “Well, I definitely don’t want someone more masculine than ME again!”  Nope, I think, “I definitely don’t want someone so ANGRY again.”

Why am I even on this topic?  Soccer.

Lately I’ve been watching USA Women’s Soccer and am not going to deny that I didn’t get turned on watching Abby Wambach head two goals in the last two games.  But wait!  She kinda looks like a dude!

So what.

So do I have a type?  Sure.  Talented.  At anything.  Sports?  Ok.  Theatre?  Ok.  Flip cup?  Definitely.  (Kidding. Kinda.)  IntelligentFunnyMotivatedDriven.

These things are not physical attributes.  Do I have a physical type?  Well…Attractive.  Masculine, feminine, I don’t care.  And you know as well as I do that people become more physically attractive the more you appreciate them for less superficial reasons. (Side note – Google image searched Abby Wambach just for shits and giggles and saw that she used to have long typical soccer-girl hair.  Physically, much more attractive with the new ‘do she’s got going on.  Am I right?)

So, I guess I DO have a type.  It just isn’t physical.

And um, those girls in my Playboy magazine may not have all the non-physical attributes that I’m looking for in a woman, but… I read it for the articles, anyway.



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One Response to She’s Not My Type

  1. Paul Schenck

    May 17, 2012 at 3:32 pm

    Enjoyable piece–revealing but not salacious, with just the right touch of wit.