I hate our generation.

But I love you.

These are my thoughts.

Strong Is Beautiful:  Why I Lust for Athletic Women

Strong Is Beautiful: Why I Lust for Athletic Women

I have a thing for strong women.

And by strong I don’t just mean mentally tough.  I mean physically strong. Powerful. A broad shouldered Amazonian woman with whom playful wrestling could easily become a fight for survival.  A woman like the NHWL's 5’11, 172lb forward for the Boston Pride, Hilary Knight, sitting in her locker room, nude, drawing her skates tight while throwing the camera a bright smile for the 2014 ESPN Body Issue.  Her fists clenching the laces, forearms tense and a faint shadow defining her twisting tricep while her breasts overhang a six-pack I wish I had.

To me, This. Is. Woman.  Tall, muscular, and aggressive—women with whom sex feels like a gladiatorial contest for supremacy.

Now, some might see my attraction to powerful women as some sort of latent psychosexual need to be dominated, some cliche BDSM "Oh I'm so alpha in my public life I need to be spanked in private," but I think it’s just the opposite—plus my ego is too massive for that.  No, it’s a need to find a “worthy” adversary to match my grandiose ambitions in life—and in bed.

I want to be part of a 1980s-style power couple, locking horns with an icy, hardbody, Brigitte Nielsen-in-Rocky IV-esque woman who runs on the same high-octane fuel I do. A woman I can push up against a wall, grab her cheeks and press my lips against hers right before she does the same back to me. I need a counterbalance to my madness, a woman who won’t easily yield to my indulgences, a woman who won’t stand for my shit and has the physicality to back it up.

And I found it, albeit briefly, in the form of an interlude with a college volleyball coach from Tinder.  Usually, the women I found on the increasingly sordid "dating" app represented themselves through nauseating group photos at brunch, horrible dance clubs or doing Yoga stances in front of sacred religious sites in third-world countries.  The Coach's pictures, however, were something different: dead lifts and screenshots of Fitbit statistical data.  

I was intrigued.

And in following modern digital courtship procedure, we matched, fired some quips at one another, exchanged a few salacious texts and decided, given our respective schedules, that the most convenient "date" option would be an afternoon beer at my place on a Thursday. 

The day arrived and when I opened the door, seeing her for the first time in real life, I felt my heart pump an extra jolt of blood through my veins, which made my pants feel one size tighter. Coming straight from a coaching session, she bled utter sexual confidence as she stood there without a touch of makeup, clad in capri stretch pants, a tank top over a sports bra, a sky blue Patagonia soft-shell jacket and bright pink Nike running shoes. Like many volleyball players, the Coach had long legs that looked like they belonged on a Clydesdale and the thought of them wrapped around my waist consumed me.

She stepped through the door, closed it behind her and immediately we began to make out.  Rising up on my toes as her 5’10 face tilted down to meet my 5’7 lips, I couldn’t help but grin.  Then the kiss broke, my hand slid down from her hip to her thigh to feel her firm “good flank” as the dirty old man Bukowski might describe it and I led her towards the couch in my living room. We sat there drinking beers while I played random snowboarding videos on my bargain wall-mounted TV in an awkward bid to set the romantic ambiance, but after 10 minutes of white guys shredding down Breckinridge to James Brown, she gave me a deadpan glance and said, “Alright, dude. You don’t need to impress me, I’m just as horny as you are.”


“Oh...” I began, taking a sip of my IPA.

The Coach rolled her eyes and began to pull off her tank top while motioning for me to get rid of my classy black and red Adidas track pants.  I obliged, kicked off my Cole Haan loafers and stared at her now topless form that revealed a body that was simultaneously smooth, feminine and perfectly sculpted.

As she placed her hand on my inner thigh I flinched at her rough workout calluses raking my skin, but I could also smell the scented moisturizer she used to treat them which created a conflicting dichotomy of pleasure and discomfort.  When her firm and determined grasp finally reached my engorged cock, however, it was undeniably a woman’s touch and it made me truly feel desired.  My ex-girlfriend, for example, a thin heroin-chic blonde, seemed uncomfortable performing oral on me. We had a good relationship, but when it came to blowjobs her touch was reluctant, as if she were holding back to preserve some notion of female propriety implanted on her by an article in Cosmopolitan. “You’re an executive at an ad agency,” I’d want to yell at her. “Treat my cock like an annoying client!”

The Coach, however, approached our sexual romps like a competition. Perhaps from being used to snatching up kettle bells and swatting leather balls all day, she took me in her mouth like she was performing an athletic drill and as she found her rhythm, I involuntarily fell back against my crummy, free Craigslist leather couch with a groan and in a stupor observed the moment in its entirety:  Her bobbing up and down on my cock, performing a simultaneous twisting motion which she executed with an intensity that rivaled what I imagine being sucked through a space station airlock feels like.  I did not last long against this onslaught.

As I approached climax, I remember taking hold of her shoulder which felt like a granite slab and dug into it with enough desperate force that would've made a lesser woman let out a howl of pain. But not the Coach. She gave no discernible reaction to my grip. When the waves subsided, she sat up, stared at me and after a pause said very matter of factly, “That was a lot. Can I grab another Narraganset?”

Spent, I lazily motioned towards my kitchen with a cartoon drunk’s smile and watched her topless panther-like prowl through the dining room, drinking in the sight of her well-defined back muscles and felt my groin stir once more. Before long, her capris too found their way into a bundle near her tank top at the edge of the coffee table and before I knew it I found myself straddled by the Clydesdale thighs.  The power with which she moved up and down led to a second orgasm that left me in a near catatonic state for at least three snowboard videos.  

The Coach is just a memory now--you don’t tie a woman like that down.  (She ended up being married to a Corrections Officer who was none too pleased to discover our texts), but now I find myself at a new mixology bar/bowling alley in Los Angeles admiring a bartender I’ll call the Swan. She has square shoulders like a marble table, a long neck bisected by a choker, and pouty lips that pop like a cherry Italian ice.

And literally, as I’m writing this, she peers over the bar, down at my notepad and says, “Writing anything good?”

To which I reply, “Yeah, I’d say so.”

The Swan smirks. “Isn’t that something a bad writer would say?”

Strong Women. 

My Problem with the Women's March and a Day Without Women

My Problem with the Women's March and a Day Without Women

Moonlight Wins The Oscar:  White People Love Black Victims

Moonlight Wins The Oscar: White People Love Black Victims