My Father and I have always had a “strained relationship.” He wasn’t “there” when my parents got divorced, which was ultimately because my Mother “wasn’t happy.” But I know where I got my stubbornness from.

My Dad is a “die on the hill” guy when it comes to the shit he is willing to die on. I’m no different. He digs in his heels and he won’t be moved. I’m the same way. I’ve had women say to me, “It’s your way or the highway.” And while that can often be misconstrued, they are not wrong. Especially when it comes to the things that “this is the hill I’m willing to die on.”

My Father is in his early 70’s as I write this. There’s been some health issues that have cropped up lately. Plus he’s not getting any younger. It’s hard to help someone who because of fear, pride, independence, and “not wanting to be a burden,” who shrugs things off and downplays things. I’m going to have to have a serious talk with him in the near future.

Which brings me to today’s article.

I saw a poll recently, talking about alcoholic beverages with straws being gay or not. Now I know the person who posted the poll was just having fun. They really don’t care. Neither do I.

But the responses to the poll as “being gay” if you have a straw or umbrella in your drink = gay?

Guys…

Really? Are you that insecure and hung up about a straw in a drink? I like pina coladas. Straw or no straw. I don’t care. Neither should you. I don’t care what you think. Nor should you care what I think. Does having a straw in your drink define your masculinity? It doesn’t define mine. Nor does the name or face on a label. Drink what you like, straw or no straw, because that’s what you prefer. Date or don’t date someone, because that’s what you prefer. Who cares what the internet thinks. Who cares what your friends think. Who cares what your family thinks. It’s your life, and you are the only one who has to live with you 24 hours a day. Your friends and family don’t live with you 24 hours a day, only you do.

If you are okay with looking at yourself in the mirror and you’re okay with who and what you see, then you are doing fine. If not, well, you have some work to do.

My Father has always had an appreciation for the feminine form. My first encounter with nudity was finding a Playboy in the cupboard of the coffee table. I believe I was around 10 or so. This was after my parents got divorced, but apparently my Mother didn’t know he stashed them there.

My Father loved the feminine form. Still does as far as I know. I know I love the feminine form as well. It’s why I date the way that I do. I like to think that I date the way that my Father would have, if only he had given himself permission to do so. I am my Father’s legacy, writ large, and maybe “out of control” by his “standards.” I have become the “monster.” I have become what he wished he could have been. If only…

From what I see and have heard from parents, they want their children to be “better” than they were, and to have a better life than what their parents’ had.

Mission accomplished, Dad.

I have a better life than you did. I’ve become more than you aspired to. I’ve done many of the things that you wished you had done, but never did because of “responsibility” and “duty.” If only you had done the same.

That’s what I wish for my Father. If only he had done the same as I have done. He could have been a bigger “monster” than I am. That would have given me something to truly aspire to.

I wish that my Dad could have been and would have been a bigger “ladies man” than he was. I would have gotten a thrill out of seeing the neighborhood ladies smiling and patting my head, or pinching my cheeks, saying, “Oh you’re Rob Sr’s boy.” I don’t necessarily wish that for me, but for him. I know somewhere deep inside him, that is something that he would have wanted.

The belly dancer said to me recently, “I’m dating the Devil.”

Yes, it’s a fantasy and a metaphor. But she’s not entirely wrong.

I’m the one who told her I was the Devil early on. Because I am. And I am to her. That is the reality that I have created for myself and for her. That is the reality that I choose. So yes, she’s dating the Devil. And “I’m here to the Devil’s Work.”

Reality is reality, I won’t argue that. Then again, you can choose to create your own reality as well. Sure, many people are going to argue with you about it, because it’s not their reality. But do you really care? So what if their reality doesn’t match yours? I like my reality better than your reality. In my reality, I get the things that I want. Your reality says, “that’s not possible.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“That is why you fail.”

Assume the sale. Assume she’s into you. Assume “You’re the Man.” Assume “you’re the Devil.”

It’s always a “yes,” until it’s a “no.”

I am my Father’s Legacy, writ large and fulfilled.

Thank you, Dad.

Some time ago, I wrote about Desire. I think I covered, in some rather graphic detail, what desire means to me. Today I want to talk about one of the things that I look for in women when I meet them.

Sensuality.

For great sex, I look for someone who is sensual. I watch how she touches things. A woman who caresses everything in her life will caress me too, if that’s where we end up. How does she pet an animal? How does she touch and hold a wine glass? Does she stroke it? If so, there’s a chance she may end up stroking me too. I watch how she smooths her outfit. What type of outfit is she wearing? I’m not necessarily talking about how low cut her top is or how short her skirt is. I’m talking about the fabric itself. Is is silk or satin? Is it comfortable? Or is it scratchy? Is it pleasurable to touch it? Do I want to touch it? Not all fabrics are created equal. She’s wearing whatever she’s wearing and she’s feeling it constantly whether she’s consciously aware of it or not.

I watch how she plays with her hair. Does she stroke it? Or does she blow it out of her way? There’s no wrong answer, but context matters.

I watch how she eats her food. Does she savor it and take her time? Or does she scarf it down? There’s nothing wrong with scarfing food down. Sometimes you are just hungry. It’s all a matter of context.

Women, and people in general for that matter, will tell you a lot by the way they move their hands and what they do with them. Are they all over the place? Are they flitting around like a couple of birds? Do they touch things and linger? Does she take her time? I watch how she moves her body. Women that like their bodies move differently than women who don’t. Going back to her attire, does it cling to her, showing off her curves? Or does it hide her body? While there are plenty of body types that aren’t for me, I can appreciate a woman who appreciates and is comfortable in her own body. Her choice of clothing can reflect that. Her choice may be questionable to you because you have your own preferences, but at least she’s owning it. I can’t fault her for that.

When you hug women, notice the ones who meld into you. Notice the ones who “push back.” The ones who meld into you are inviting, the others aren’t. Women will let you know if they’re interested in you with their bodies alone. No words needed.

I tend to think that women are more sensitive to smell than men are. That’s part of good hygiene and grooming on your part. That’s a reason why I wear the colognes that I do. I have one that always gets a reaction out of women. Every time. And so far it hasn’t been a negative reaction. Does she just take a quick whiff? Does she linger close to my body? Does she inhale deeply? Does she touch me when and while she’s breathing it in? What does she say, because she always says something. More importantly, how does she say it? What’s her tone? Does she pause mid sentence? Does her voice drop? Does it rise? Does she come back for more than one whiff? A woman than enjoys scents is sensual.

What I’m describing here is what I call, “Being in your body.” When she is engaging with her senses, she’s being sensual. She’s not “in her head.” Oh sure, she’s probably still thinking and maybe she’s even having an internal dialogue with herself, but that dialogue is diminished. She’s in the moment. The same could be said of you or me. When I’m observing, I’m not “in my head.” My inner dialogue is either severely diminished, or it’s completely non-existent. When I pay attention to the “outer world,” my “inner world” becomes irrelevant.

Is she relaxed and comfortable? Is she rigid, awkward, and uncomfortable? First meetings and first approaches can always be awkward and uncomfortable. How quickly does she go from rigid to relaxed? How quick does she go to laughter? Is it a nervous laugh? Or is it a deep belly laugh? Nervous laughter isn’t a bad thing, or it can be. It depends on other cues and the context.

Something else I’ll do is I’ll ask her what would feel pleasurable to her, what she would like. And I’ll watch her reaction, I’ll listen to her words, but more importantly, I’ll listen to her body. I’ll watch and listen to her actions. Did she blush? Is that a flush? Was that a nervous giggle? Did she just bite her lip? Or did she just stare at me? Staring isn’t a bad thing. It’s how she stares. Did she raise an eyebrow and look like she just smelled a fart? Did she look perplexed? Is she looking at me like I just sprouted a third arm? Is she doing a “Error 404, Page Not Found?” Or did her pupils dilate and she stopped blinking for a moment? Did her breathing suddenly stop? Did it slow down? Did it speed up and become shallow? These can all mean different things in different contexts.

How easy and comfortable is she with doing something that you ask her to do?

“Hey there! Nice to meet you. Turn around real quick for me.” Does she?

“Here, take my hand.” I say as I extend my hand to her. Does she?

Even better is when I just extend my hand without saying a word and she just takes it.

I always “assume the sale.” It’s always a “yes” until it’s a “no.”

When I extend my hand to her and she accepts it, does she automatically intertwine her fingers with mine? Or does she hold my palm? Does she hold my hand loose and limp? Does she “hold on for dear life?” Does she give my hand a squeeze or a “pump?” Do her fingers do a quick caress on the back of my hand? All of these things mean something. All of these things are different depending on the context and the moment.

What kind of music does she prefer? If she’s primarily into sensual music, she’s sensual. It doesn’t matter the genre so much, other than maybe rap. I haven’t met a woman who’s heavy into rap that is really sensual. Don’t get me wrong, I like rap to a major degree, but there’s very few songs and artists that I would call sensual. Then again, if you’re all about a bullshit-free seduction, a woman who is seriously into rap may be the way to go. If you’re into intensity over sensuality, this is the way.

I have a very distinctive voice. Personally, I’m not the biggest advocate for my voice as I find it high pitched and nasally. But the women who have showed up for me and have stuck around for any period of time love my voice. They love hearing me talk. They love what I say, and more importantly, they love how I say it. Tonality matters. While I’m not the greatest public speaker, and Barry White is in no jeopardy of me taking his crown, I hit them where it matters I guess. I speak sensually when I talk to women, and if she’s sensual, she’ll pick up on it and appreciate it. It’s funny, my Readers who also happen to follow me on Youtube get the blunt, no bullshit guy. And while I can be brutally honest with women as well, I tend to speak differently to them compared to how I would speak to a man. Then again, I tend to go more “Mode One” with women than not, and while it can blow me out of the water, more often than not the women find it honest and refreshing.

I’ve met women on a first meeting, offered my hand with barely a word, had them accept, and then twirled them around as if we are dancing to a tune that no one can hear but us. Their belly laugh of shock and surprise was gratifying. You don’t know what you can do and you don’t know what you’re capable of, until you do it.

You don’t know how willing she will be until you take a chance and find out.