I’m constantly being chastised for my fetish and I won’t stand for it anymore. I like really boring dudes. A lot of women feel (rightfully) that men don’t have to try as hard as women do to be considered attractive and it’s not fair. This is so true and I sympathize, but at the same time, goddamn, would I wreck B-list Dad actor Deidrich Bader. By “wreck,” I mean I would have fifteen to twenty minutes of missionary position sex with him AND I AM NOT ASHAMED.
I like a man who goes to the library, not to fuck on a desk, but just to check out a good Dan Brown novel. When a man asks me if I’ve read The Da Vinci Code my panties pretty much fly across the room. I like a man named Kyle in a comfortable fisherman’s sweater. I like a man who likes podcasts about guys discussing bad movies. I’m into guys who are into every kind of music but rap and country, and I’m no longer ashamed of that!
How This Affects My Daily Life
People don’t understand how difficult having this fetish can be. A lot of times I end up feeling isolated from my friends who all find Chris Hemsworth attractive. I feel so left out that often times I end up faking it. I’m not proud to admit it but I will pretend like I would enjoy having wild, girl-on-top sex with Chris Hemsworth. In reality, I actually think the most attractive man in the Marvel Universe is Ant-Man’s Russian friend, Kurt.
The hardest part of having a fetish for really boring guys is that I married a man who is super interesting. I’m constantly trying to tone down my husband’s cool personality. The other day, to spice up our sex life, I brought a comfortable sweater into the bedroom.
“Do…do you want me to tie you up with this?” He asked.
“No, baby. I want you to put it on!” I said.
“You want me to put it on and, like, pretend to be a stern math teacher?”
“No baby, I want you to put it on and talk about golf. Maybe tell me about your general opinion on Mondays? Have they been…bad?”
Before I met my husband I dated really boring dudes almost exclusively but endless nights of meaningless and gloriously mediocre sex got old. When I started looking for love I found it with a hopelessly interesting man. Do I regret it? Not at all! But I will no longer let the world shame me for what I like in the bedroom, which is pretty much just ten minutes of wild, unfocused thrusting followed by an hour-and-a-half of him explaining fantasy football to me.
Living In The Open
My husband understands my fetish and is very supportive. He’s agreed to get a tribal sun tattoo for me, which is just going above and beyond. It’s more difficult for my friends to understand. A lot of female friendships are built on discussing the attractiveness of various famous men. I appreciate when they try though. Recently my friend Amanda grabbed me at a wine tasting and whispered in my ear, “I know Alan Alda is eighty-two years old, but I’d be willing to breaking both of his hips if you know what I mean.” I knew exactly what she meant! It was so sweet!
I’m much happier since I revealed my fetish to the world, not because I need other people to accept it, but because it allowed me to better accept it myself. I now understand it’s ok if I don’t want to be spanked, or choked, or dipped in an ammonia sex bath. As long as it works for me, my partner, and the life size cut out of Ted Mosby from How I Met Your Mother we keep in the bedroom, it’s fine.