Men forget most “firsts” unless they really matter. First kiss? Women remember that—men, eh, maybe remember, maybe not, depends on who it was and how good it was. Actually men probably lie about the first kiss and “upgrade” the first to the first hot girl they actually kissed. The ugly girls aren’t really counted on the score sheet. First date? Women can tell you everything you were wearing and what happened second by second on the first date. Women can remember every word that was spoken. Women have phonographic memories. Men? Not likely. Men have pornographic memories. Men most likely will recall great breasts, their first shaved pussy, or maybe their first thick hanging pussy lips. And guys want to know does first date mean my date with chunky Erlene? Or does first date mean my first date with that hot chick. It’s a lot like the first kiss issue. A guy might remember his first little league home run. That’s important stuff. First high school touchdown, that’s important stuff. He probably remembers his first car, again, important stuff. But the one thing a guy will remember for sure is his first real blonde, that’s a rare treat.
First truth: the reason so called “blonde” women have more fun is not because their hair color somehow makes them more wild or sexy—it doesn’t—I can tell you from experience brunettes are probably wilder and naughtier than blondes. Brunettes have to be naughtier to keep men from thinking about blondes. Men chase blondes aggressively because men want to get them naked to see if the hair down below matches the hair on top. It’s like the quest for the holy grail. Men might want to get a brunette woman naked for a good fuck. Men feel totally compelled to get a blonde woman naked to see if she really truly is that precious rare natural blonde (and once she is naked its rude to simply stop without making her cum as a way of saying thanks).
I think the reason lots of women shave their pubes is not to satisfy the pedophilic urges of their man, as most commentators suggest, but so that the mouse brown woman can keep the man in her life guessing about her real hair color until she has a ring and a vow. Anyone who has been to a beach lately knows that even young women are shaving, “down there,” these days, else they couldn’t get by wearing those postage stamps thongs that pass as bikinis on most beaches. Hair would hang out of the thong and the fabric would bulge without a close shave. So even if a guy starts chasing blondes early in life, he has to work hard to discover the truth.
Confessional moment: I took out a personal ad in order to find a real blonde. I know what you are thinking—loser. And you might be right. But after working my way through seeming dozens of bottle blondes, I decided that I needed a more efficient way to search for nirvana.
My ad read: “SWM, 30-SOMETHING, ISO NATURAL BLONDE. PROOF REQUIRED. IF YOU THINK OF YOURSELF AS SLINKY AND SVELTE, OR BUSTY, OR BUFF, OR SLENDER BUT SLUNG—THOSE ARE GOOD QUALITIES TOO”
The radical feminist reader might be tempted to call me a sexist misogynistic pig at this point, but I don’t really care about what she thinks on the subject unless she can prove that she is a natural blonde. I consider my outlook to be reconstructed and enlightened. Why should I lie to a mouse brown woman and tell her that I enjoy her blonde moments—when they aren’t really blonde moments. How can honesty be offensive?
The ad ran for thirty-two weeks before I got any response other than an insult. Hundred of brunettes replied to call me a pig. Red heads called me unenlightened. Mouse brown women sent responses to the effect that no woman is really that blonde. What we see in magazines is a good dye job. Italian, Greek, Mexican, Korean and Japanese women suggested that I had a cultural problem. A few blonde gay men responded and wondered if they would do. I was about ready to call it quits when I got an answer from Betsy.
Betsy’s answer was simple. “Give me an address, and I will send you some hair.”
I got a PO Box fearing a letterbomb from some pissed off Irish girl experienced in bomb-making from the troubles.
I sent Betsy the box number. Two weeks later an envelope appeared from overseas. No return address but a postmark in the dessert. In the envelope a little bit of Saran Wrap, wrapped around a snatch of unmistakable curly blonde hairs. Not long hairs. Not the kind of hair one usually sees streaming down the back of a California beach blonde. But unmistakably very blonde hairs from “down there.”
I emailed back to Betsy, “loved the hair, now what?”
Our dialogue began.
Betsy and I traded dozens of emails, instant messages, and even a few phone calls. The world is sometimes very small, and we soon figured out that we actually worked for the same University and both had an office in the same building. We hadn’t met because we taught in different departments and because recently she had spent most of her time overseas working on an archeological dig. She would be returning home sometime in the spring. She told me that she read the personals because she badly needed to find a real man who would treat her like a blonde cumslut, but who wouldn’t be intimidated because she could use multi-syllabic words correctly.
I was in heaven at the prospect of Betsy’s return. You have got to love a woman who weighs less than her IQ and loves to suck dick for sport. Six months of archeological dig had stroked Betsy’s brain and given her enough material to write dozens of scholarly articles, but six months of dig had also gotten Betsy thoroughly bored with only her fingers and vibrator to stroke her clit. She may be a stuffy academic, but she was also a blonde with hormones. She was frustrated as hell after working month after month digging relics in the desert with Professors Micropenis and Queerastheycome. Hard up hungry blonde with an attitude has to be the absolute best a guy could ever want.
She told me that she found my ad refreshingly honest. She felt that most men are afraid to say to a woman, “I actually prefer blondes.” Political correctness has sapped the strength in most men’s balls. I was up front with my expectations. She was also pretty up front with her’s.
Perhaps Betsy was horny, or I was persistent, or something, but I finally harangued Betsy into sending me a picture. Even though Betsy and had I realized that we sort of knew who each other were, I had never actually seen her smiling face trotting around grounds and I wanted to learn what she looked like before I actually committed to anything (I didn’t share that little detail with her of course). I kept pestering Betsy that she must have a digital camera at the dig and could email at least a snapshot. Everyone has a digital camera these days. She finally obliged.
How to describe the picture. First, Betsy is not a big girl. She stands about 5’ 1”. She is skinny as a fence post. She is one of those dedicated academic types who simply forget to eat. Think waif. In the very first picture that Betsy sent me I saw the full frontal naked picture of this skinny girl with a mass of golden blonde mane framing her face and with what had to be the hairiest blonde snatch I ever had seen. You take a skinny girl, narrow hips, tiny butt, skinny thighs, add in mound of hair, and it looks like everything from the navel to between the legs is a blonde forest. Maybe on a big girl that isn’t much hair. On a tiny girl, it’s like all hair.
I was in heaven—I hadn’t said naked picture. Betsy had to have a dirty mind. She could have sent me a picture of herself fully clothed in dessert khaki smiling standing on top of some statue or tomb or temple and I would have been happy; instead she sent me that picture of her naked body and giant swollen pussy lips framed by acres of blonde hair. She also sent me a few intimate close-ups of her furry blonde bits and enormous pussy lips dripping pussy juice all over an 8-inch vibrator. I got the message. She added a comment to the effect she was as blonde as they cum.
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