Nah, I'm toggled on an 80 percenter. That's a woman who fits around 80 percent of what I want, with that last 20 percent being something heinous but liveable. A B-girl, I suppose. Imperfect, like a box of crayons with all various shades of FLESH or SALMON or ECRU, but no blue or purple.
It's easier this way. I don't have to ever hear the "I really don't think of you that way" speech again if I don't want to. I don't generate that weak-kneed heart-fluttering fight-or-flight reaction in women the way that Sean Connery did when he was a young pearly buck. I tend to ignite the creative thinkers, the ones swayed by words and images brought into being by the reflex-quick language of cat skills, stalkinmg imaginary prey in the middle of the night and shying into the shadows during the day while the laundry-clean soccer moms play mental pinochle with their days and provide the illusion of fulfillment.
I seem to speak to the unsettled, the underappreciated, the hidden, but not in a strong clear voice; I speak in riddles and convoluted stabs of wildness and weirding that speak at once of mysteries unbound and of closets perhaps better off left closed. I am not the James Dean bad boy, but more the Boris Karloff version: not so much the rebel that will be tamed by the passion of a good woman, but the congenial dark and distinguished man that may have things in his basement laboratory that you'd be better off not knowing.