More than any other, there’s one question that seems to find its way to my ask box, stumbl

More than any other, there’s one question that seems to find its way to my ask box, stumbling in in a drunken fugue, crashing on the sofa and snoring rather loudly until I come down at 4am to turf its lazy arse out of my house with the same non-committal answer I always give it. Maybe that’s why it keeps coming back; because it isn’t satisfied.  The question: “What’s your type?” To which I answer: “I don’t have one. I like all sorts.” Eugh, I know. It’s terrible. But I’m going to elaborate, and give you the unabridged, undoctored version of what my type actually is. Because, dear readers, I lied. I do actually have one. It’s just a little more esoteric than just saying ‘blondes’. (I do like blondes though.) My type is the girl who can own herself. The type who can see what she’s got, and figure out, instinctually, how to go from what she’s got to what she wants. To augment, frame, enhance and exaggerate the things she likes, and to diminish and conceal the things she doesn’t.  I’m framing all this underneath the picture above because that’s the perfect example right there. I’m not a fan of tattoos and piercings, especially not to the degree she’s taken them, but somehow, she’s managed to figure out exactly how to make them work, she’s created herself an identity, and she makes it work.  (Ignore for a moment, if you will, the fact that’s she’s really rather naturally attractive. It somewhat undermines my point, and point undermining is rude. Stop it.) So I don’t care if you want to dress conservatively, all in pastels and loose fitting cardigans. I don’t care if you prefer something a little tighter, all fishnets and tight skirts. I don’t care if you just want to mooch around in a hoody, and leave your hair in a messy bun the whole day. I don’t care if you just wear white panties most days, or if you’re always in lingerie. The important thing is that you do it with confidence, and you don’t give a shit what everyone else thinks about how you look.  Because my type isn’t the insecure, withdrawn ones. It isn’t those who haven’t quite figured themselves out, or the ones who desperately want someone to sweep in and figure it all out for them. My type are the ones who own themselves, because then they can give themselves to me freely, my type are those who have figured themselves out, and wrapped themselves in a neat, deliciously cute package for me to then unravel.  Now you know my type. What’s yours? -- source link

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