The Birth of Your Sexual Type

I recently learned that the orgasm is a powerful tool for classical conditioning; a tool that you already use effectively to shape your own behavior, whether you realize it or not.

It goes something like this: as a teen, you find some hot photo of a blond guy, wearing camos and a white t-shirt, and it gets you aroused. New to this, it doesn’t take you long to rub one out, and when you do, your eyes happen to settle on a specific part of the model: the tight t-shirt, the buttocks, whatever. The next time you bring out the pinup you (consciously or subconsciously) remember that you came when we focused on that part, so you do it again and, voilá. Pounding ’em out over the blond with the killer ass in the cargos works for you.

The next thing you know you’re online looking for military porn. You find it, and you rub one out real good, and this time you notice the girth of his tan, blond-furred calves tapering down into white socks and combat boots, and POW! You get it right between the eyes.

You walk around town and see some guy wearing white socks and boots, and you run home to take Private Johnson into the showers. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Congratulations, you have a type.

I have experienced this personally. I grew up in South Florida, where we were all tan and blonde. The jocks even moreso. Hot sunny days, and no embargo on shorts in my high school allowed me to appreciate the way quarterback Greg David looked in shorts and a pair of Pumas as only his future wife, Marcia Frengel, would. Boom. I liked tan, blond jocks in Pumas. Greg was pretty muscular for a tall kid, and muscles definitely worked for me, but then I realized that the shorter guys got lumpier a whole lot quicker than most, and so then I was into short, muscular, blond jocks in Pumas.

FACT: Joe Namath, quarterback for the New York Jets, put Pumas on the map when he wore them in Super Bowl III, in 1969.

By the time I finished college, I’d realized my type to the extreme: a saddle-brown, blue-eyed, musclebound guy who was 5’4″ on a phone book. A born tow-head, even his eyelashes were white, and he was sweatered in flaxen fur all year long. My best friend, Chad, called him “Monchichi” and strictly forbid me to try to form a long term relationship with him, dictating, “Cowboy, he’s a pizza boy. You can bang the pizza boy all you want, but you can’t marry him. You’ll break your Mother’s heart.” Must’ve given that dude 10 pairs of Pumas before I broke up with him (in a hot tub).

I strayed from the path for a few exceptional exceptions, and ultimately learned that if it’s not blond, it’s bland.

Now I’m 40, and I’m married to Sam, a big, gorgeous, blond, blue-eyed dude who tans up real good – 6‘4″ on a phone book. The first time I stayed over at his house, I woke up in the morning and he offered me a t-shirt of his to wear home. He opened his closet, and – no joke – it was full of Pumas. Any wonder I married him?

Now this is all well and good, unless your type works against you. The specificity of our ‘type’ and what gets us off naturally narrows as we age, but if you’re not careful, you can paint yourself into a corner…

To be continued in Don’t Get Trapped in Your Type.

5 Responses to “The Birth of Your Sexual Type”

  1. 1 waltzinexile
    Thursday, June 19, 2008 at 4:47 pm

    Oh, my. I think I have to go be alone now…

  2. Thursday, June 19, 2008 at 9:41 pm

    i too have the blond hair blue eye type. except i prefer 6’0+.

    i hope i find one.

    they’re so rare. and often mean.

  3. 3 Rob (you know the one)
    Friday, June 20, 2008 at 7:21 am

    Oh my god–you’re 40?
    And yes, you’re spot on. In my case, something about dark hair and blue or green eyes. EVERY time.
    Hunky and chest hair is just a bonus!

  4. Friday, June 20, 2008 at 8:15 am

    Hey Cowboy….what ya waitin’ for? A matin’ call? (couldn’t resist!) I loved the way you described your process…I had to be in the 4th grade and I remember coming home from school when these two much older guys (I am sure they were at least in the 7th grade) began to wrestle. I stood there watching as these two pair of blue-jeaned, white t-shirted, white tennis-shoed boys went at it… one was finally on top and began to jest as he tried to poke his fingers up the pinned down boys jeans into his (let’s just call it for what it was) ass. Standing there mesmerized, something within me came alive… unlike any sensation I had ever felt. boy… blue-jeans… white t-shirt… white tennis shoes… every time, no exception. All these years later, that’s still the thing for me. To be sure they have had variations on that particular theme about as often as Canon’s Pachelbel. And the only variance as I entered my late teens was the addition of a beautiful, sincere smile, and it has to be said, a great ass to fill out those basic 501 jeans.

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