I've always said I don't have a "type". A type of man to whom I'm attracted. I've always found it a little sad that so many do. You often hear the phrase, "oh he's not my type". I'm only attracted to 25 to 27 year old blue-eyed blonds, between 5'7" and 5'9", a little thin but with a nice chest and arms with a little bubble butt of Scandinavian or sometimes German descent, no chest hair but with a little hair on his legs and ass, whose first name starts "B" preferably, Brent or Brandon and has a........what the f*#*! For me variety is the spice of life. So many men, so little time. I love them all. Short ones, skinny ones, men who climb on rocks. But you know, like I admitted yesterday, I do have a special little soft spot for the white-trash boys I grew up with. Not only did I travel back to my home town this past weekend but I actually spent time in one of the local bars. Thinking back now, I can hardly believe I did it myself. What was I thinking? But there they were. Some seated at the bar next to me, some at tables across the room. The old feelings (and hormones) of my youth came flooding back. Now what is it about a man in late twenties, with unkempt hair that needs a good cut, wearing a wrinkled T-shirt, tight jeans and boots, that wide toothy smile and twinkling eyes that make my knees go a little weak and my mind to think about stripping off all his ill-fitting clothes and licking him from stem to stern? Do you know, what can it be? I suppose it's mostly because I grew up with those kind of guys. They were the first who attracted me and were the subjects of my fantasies. I can still remember my pre-pubescent crushes, Curt Anderson (all the girl's dream-boat), Pat Kosman, Clyde Wallace, Tim Ryan, and Paul Schleier. Big sigh! Of course, at the time I didn't understand why I thought the boys were cute and not the girls but I sure do remember thinking so. Who says you go back. Well I really don't want to go back. Yikes. Sitting there in that bar last Friday, my common sense did prevail even though the half-dozen or so Budweiser and tomato juices I was drinking had gone to my head, and I didn't press my luck flirting with them........very much. Thanks to my guardian angel for that one. Instead I found myself playing pool with a toothless woman named Marci. She was on her second or third pitcher of beer and I think she thought I was cute and even interested. Double yikes! Fortunately for me, the beer got to her before she got to me and she disappeared leaving her last pitcher of beer partially full. I hope no one takes offence at the term I used, white-trash. For I consider myself or at least my roots to be that way. I do not use disparagingly or to be callous or cruel but with endearment and loving thoughts of those boys and my youth gone by.