A Woman Needs a Marlboro Like a Fish Needs a Pretzel.

Bear with me on this. Or, don’t. It barely makes sense to me.

So here’s the thing Wise Readers…

I know it seems like I’m obsessed with Marlboro Man and I can see why you’d think that. After reading my last few posts I’m kinda wondering about it myself, but then I gave it some thought (i.e., I talked to DOC), and this is what I realized (i.e., what DOC explained to me):

This ain’t about Marlboro Man.

Sure, he’s ruggedly handsome and built like he was carved out of a rather forgiving chunk of granite (he’s been working out but still has one of those Yummy Tummies that fucking drives me insane), but he’s also UNOBTAINABLE and more importantly, he’s SAFE.

After what I went through with THAT GUY, I vowed to never become so invested in a man again. Well, MM is married, so that can’t happen, at least not to the extent that I was with THAT GUY. I can stretch my wings only so far with this one. Can I still get hurt? Obviously- he’s already managed to do it a few times, but not to the extent that THAT GUY hurt me. THAT GUY was oblivious. Marlboro Man is an asshole. It’s an important distinction.

And yes, it’s true that he showed me attention that I hadn’t had in a few years since THAT GUY and I parted ways, but more importantly, it was SAFE attention. Even from the day we met and he nicknamed me ‘Pretty’, I think it meant more to me because there was no icky connotation to it. He was just being cheeky. Nothing underhanded, nothing sexual about it. Shit, he may not even have thought I was pretty 😂. He probably meant it the same way I say, “Hey handsome,” to guys. For all I know, he may have thought I looked like a bridge troll. When he said I looked nice dressed as Jasmine or in my dress at Conference, there was no lewd tone to it. No slimy look that makes my skin crawl. None of the shit that I’m used to getting that scares the bejeezus out of me.

And of course he’s sweet and salty and hard and soft and rough and smooth and all that good stuff (See? I told you the Pretzel Analogy was relevant) all of which I happened to become privy to in a manner that was…I don’t even know what word to use here. It was the stuff fantasies are made of? Or begin with, anyway? 

Let’s be real: Fantasies are free. They are fun, and sometimes, they are what we need to get us through a drab, sexless existence. Plus, I don’t have anyone else to fantasize about 🤷🏽‍♀️. I haven’t seen another man naked since…well, since the first time the Great Orange Hope occupied the Oval Office. Not to mention the fact that he looks really, REALLY good from the back while shooting a shotgun (Marlboro Man, not the Mighty Merkin). Hopefully his wife didn’t notice me noticing 🫣.

But I digress…

If it weren’t Marlboro Man, it would be someone else. I just need to find the SOMEONE ELSE. The problem is, I don’t know where to find him. I don’t have classes in IL anymore, the guys I shoot with in IL can barely stand upright (speaking of bridge trolls), and the guys in The Cesspool are proving to be a worthless lot of gutter swine.

But that’s another post…

Bottom line, Marlboro Man showed me that there might be a safe dude out there somewhere. They DO exist. I CAN trust my instincts. Not every man is going to hurt me. Not all men are like THOSE GUYS. Besides, I can defend myself now. I can be smart about it. I’m not the same vulnerable girl I used to be. I’m stronger now, I can do this.

So why the FUCK am I crying right now at the thought of having to do this? Why am I still so fucking scared?

GODDAMNIT.

I need to make decisions based on the confidence that I am smarter now. Even if men are dumber and meaner and have uglier intentions than ever before. I am stronger.

Or maybe sex just isn’t that important after all.

Who needs pretzels anyway.