Sucking a rubber cock can be cute for a minute, particularly if it gets your girl off. But after that minute has passed, it's more of a "put out or get out" thing for me. Like, stick it in and fuck me, or pull it off and let's fuck each other. Otherwise, go away, pronto, so I can watch my Three's Company box set and drink diet cola on my tiny couch in peace.

A professor of mine in grad school once said, "The people you fall in love with are the people with whom your problems are the most interesting." Well, I don't really know what that means. But for some reason, it resonates with me. No one is perfect. It's inevitable that you'd fight with roughly any person you became seriously involved with, and girls who try to yes you to death are excruciatingly boring. Also, annoying.

Today I was listening to the Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings song "You're Gonna Get It" on my iPod as I walked down the street with my girlfriend. I looked over at her. Her head was turned toward me, low-lidded eyes floating lazily down the length of my body. She bit her lip. When her eyes finally met mine and she saw that I had been watching her, she looked almost embarrassed. As if she had been caught doing something bad. As if. I wanted nothing more than to pull her into the Sleepy's we'd just passed and get ass-naked on a Sealy Posturepedic, stat.

What's hotter than having a crush on your own girlfriend? I'll be the asshole who asks and answers her own question: nothing. It's hot to love and care for the one you're with, but it's hotter to find someone you have a massive hard-on for, who you also happen to love. And this isn't easy. Lust is easily conjured. And as dykes are nestier than most downy-chested fowl, it's also easy to find someone who you can love. But both? Not so much. Not an easy feat.

Every femme girl I know wants nothing more than this: to be looked at like a piece of meat by a woman they love — that carnal, neanderthal passion. We could take or leave the loincloth and the bison hunting and the club with which cavebutches beat their ladies about the head before dragging them into a cave to do them, but that initial look — that "you're one sweet slab of meat and I haven't eaten in a week" look. My God, it's enough to set a girl on fire. And it's rare.

My current girlfriend make me feel wanted all the time. And I crush out on her so hard it's perverse. Like, my perpetual boner for her is more perverse than the fact that there was a regular character (a.k.a. Mike Seaver's bestie) named "Boner" on Growing Pains.

When she's around, I get butterflies. Not wimpy ones that flutter around moth-like and nervous in my gut, fueled 50% by amorous feelings and 50% by insecurities ("Does she like me? Will she call? Should I call?"). No. I'm talking bold and big-winged creatures who soar to and fro, butterflies singularly propelled by the feeling of utter and complete enchantment with another human being who I know feels the same; one who I love and trust completely, whose artful perspective saturates my universe with colors I didn't even know existed, whose eyes penetrate a place so far inside me that even the most eloquent language can't touch it; who I support and cherish with every fiber of my being, who makes me feel strong and capable of anything, who celebrates my individuality without relinquishing even a shred of her own.

This is not meant to be some high-five to all y'all out there in a similar place, nor a glib "sucks-to be-you" rant for all those who aren't. I've been mismatched and melancholic before. This is just my realization that no one has to settle... ever. No one should deem the company of a sub-par partner more fulfilling than their own. Hold out. And if you find it, don't run. I'm still getting all S&M every day, slapping and pinching myself to make sure this isn't a dream, trying to front like "reality check" is synonymous with sadness. But I know this isn't the truth.

Here's what is: the way her hair stands up straight and crazy as Cate Blanchett's Bob Dylan. They way she looks people in the eye when she talks to them, listens to them, never lets decency take backseat to her own ego. They way she exudes a marked purity, an unassuming self-possession that makes bullshit around her dissolve faster than the interestingness of David Blaine's stunts. The way her lips are always red, wide-set and pointy-tipped in the middle, the way they glide across her face, stretching over crooked teeth as deep-hewn laugh lines slink back into narrow white cheeks, baby spider-lashed eyes melting above it all, slouchy shoulders, veiny arms and big hands gesticulating wildly at the crest of her skinny, tattooed wrists. Her velvety voice and summer breeze air, her capacity to make me write shit in blogs like this that makes me cringe and then say fuck it, choosing sentiment and hope over cynicism and jokes, till all I'm left with is a heavy feeling in my chest and the notion that everything is what you make of it.