Your “Type” – Where It Came From
I was educated at a small Catholic school as a child. I had the same 20 students in my class from first grade all the way to eighth grade. These 20 students, and perhaps the 40 students in the grade right below me and above me, where the only kids I interacted with during my childhood.
Though I didn’t quite realize it at the time, there were no pretty girls in that group of kids. Growing up, the only pretty women I ever saw were on television.
When I was in the eighth grade, my parents, who were financially strapped to begin with, ran out of money. So they sent me to the “free”, giant public high school. Going from the tiny, controlled, sheltered, ugly Catholic school with my tiny class of 20 students to the gigantic, majestic, public high school with over 1600 students was culture shock for me to say the least.
Moreover, it was high school. I don’t need to tell you how different high school students look from grammar/elementary students. For me it was like stepping into an alien world. It was overwhelming, but exciting.
One day, during my first week of Freshman year, I was sitting out in the main hall of the main building. It was while classes were in session, so I was alone and everything was quiet, other than the rustle of the birds I could barely hear on the roof high above the vaulted ceilings.
I was not skipping class. I sat on a bench filling out some transfer paperwork the office said was critical. There I sat alone, like a good little Freshman, filling out my paperwork with my approved No. 2 pencil. Once done I would turn in the documents and get to class.
As I wrote, I began to hear loud clacking noises to my distant left. I looked down the hall, but there were stairs going down towards the end and I couldn’t see what was making the noise. I shrugged and went back to work.
The noise came closer. It was someone wearing loud shoes walking up the stairs towards my location. I looked up once again and saw who it was.
Slowly walking up the stairs, wearing loud, clacking high heels, was a woman.
But it was not like any woman I had ever seen.
Though I didn’t know it at the time, she was a Senior, which meant she was probably 17 or 18 years old, though to my wide, childish, 13 year-old eyes she looked a distant 25.
I was instantly mesmerized. I couldn’t pull my eyes away. I did not know why. She was unlike anything I had ever seen in my entire sheltered life.
Her tight T-shirt, her jeans, and her shiny high-heeled boots were all jet black and matched perfectly. All of her clothing was skin-tight, like it was a part of her body. Her hair was long, shiny, sparkly, and golden blonde. It made my eyes blink. I had never seen blonde hair before (other than on TV, but that’s different). None of the girls in my class at the Catholic school had hair like that.
Her hair moved perfectly with the movements of her body, like a thing alive on her head. It was chaotic yet uniform, hanging perfectly down to the middle of her back.
Her skin was white and perfect, like milk or porcelain. Yet her eyes were dark, obscuring all detail within them. Two tiny dark buttons on her otherwise snow-white face. Her lips were large and red. They glistened. They beckoned.
Her boobs were enormous, much bigger than I would ever have expected from a woman with such a small frame. (Though she was under 5’3″, she seemed six feet tall, like a supermodel on a catwalk.) They bounced up and down with perfect precision as she walked, along with the sway of her hips and the bounce of her ass. It was like all three areas of her body were purposely synchronized in order to hypnotize me. Which they did.
She didn’t even see me as she passed. I was a small, dorky Freshman, and not even worth a glance. I didn’t care. I was completely enraptured at this strange thing I had never seen.
She seemed to move across the hallway in slow motion, her high heels slowly and rhythmically clacking on the floor. Clack. Clack. Clack.
A wide shaft of sunlight stabbed through one of the distant skylights above, illuminating her with blessedness from heaven. As she glided across the wide hall, the light seemed to follow her like a spotlight on a stage.
I heard angels singing. I heard harps playing. I heard birds chirping. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. I wanted to die.
I knew then if I suddenly died, I would have lived a full life, having beheld such an unearthly beautiful thing.
And then she was gone. She rounded a corner and was out of sight, her clack-clacking slowly fading into the distance. The light from heaven died.
I snapped out of it and returned to Earth. For some reason I was breathing heavy, my hands were shaking, and my Johnson was rock hard.
“What the hell?” I said. It was like awakening from a dream. I shook my head and tried to refocus back to my paperwork. I was only half successful.
Why You Like What You Like
Science and psychology tell us that, as men, what we are attracted to for the rest of our lives gets established during the latter end of the initial stage of puberty, which for most men is around age 13 or 14.
Assuming you’re a man, you likely have a very specific physical “type” that you’re very attracted to. Maybe you like really thin women, or dark skinned women, or redheads, or whatever.
Why do you like that? Because back when you were around 13 years old, you had some experience, or set of experiences, that locked that type into your brain. If you don’t believe me, take some time and think about it. Take a stroll down memory lane, and you’ll be surprised when you pinpoint that one time in your young adolescence where that specific female type was forever stamped on your brain.
It’s actually quite interesting.
I remember listening to Tom Leykis on the radio years ago. Even though he’s a white guy, he loves latina women. They drive him wild. Why? Because as a 13 year-old kid in New York, his racist mother used to always tell him not to go over to the neighborhood near 216th street, because that’s where “all the Mexicans live!”. So of course, that was the first place he went. There he saw the forbidden latina women, and then it was game over. For the rest of his life, he was going to be attracted to latinas.
While I am attracted to women of all types and races as long as they’re pretty, I am really, really attracted to short blonde women with big boobs and big butts, of any age. Extra bonus if she has dark eyes; brown or dark green. These women drive me crazy, in a good way. Any time I see a woman in passing who looks like that, I have to stop and take a good look while trying to not look like an insane stalker. If I’m on a first date with a woman who looks like this, which happens quite a bit, I have to exert a little extra self-control to keep my outcome independence in check.
Moreover, the more a woman is opposite to that physical template, the less attracted I will be. If a woman has a very beautiful face but is taller, has brown hair, a flat chest, and no real butt, then I’m not interested, even if her body and face are supermodel quality. I think Jessica Biel is one of the ugliest, off-putting women I’ve ever seen in my entire life, but a woman who looks like Meghan McCain makes me drool like a bulldog.
Now here’s the question: Did I sit down one day years ago with a piece of paper and a pencil and logically “decide” to be viscerally attracted women like this? Of course not. I had no control over it whatsoever. Because of my upbringing and because of the above experience plus a few other similar ones that happened around that same time, that physical template was stamped on my brain permanently. Now I can’t help it. 20 years later, it’s still what I like best. In another 20 years, it still will. Not my choice. (“Attraction is not a choice,” remember that one?)
Can you remember when your female “template” was stamped on your brain?