SMOKE: Blondes Are Fine; Brunettes Are Mine
Originally published: 12 January 2005
I've never really been 'a typical male'. Never the sort of oke you could roll your eyes at and say: "Oh Gawd - what a typical male". Not by choice - I was just built that way.
I'm not a fan of surgical breast enhancement nor indeed of obscenely large breasts, I am meticulous about putting the toilet seat down, I can't abide dirty dishes, I am not threatened by gay men and indeed have a lot of friends who are queer as hell, I don't spend all day worrying about my penis size (you don't have to when you're me - many thousands of pleasantly satisfied yet exhausted women will attest to that) and perhaps most significantly - I prefer brunettes.
I'm always going on in this column about blondes with big tits and I will no doubt continue to do so for many a good year to come. But my dirty little secret had to come out eventually and there - I've finally come out of the closet. I like 'em dark.
What next, huh? Revelations about dressing in women's clothing? Whisperings about nylon stranglings and amorous asphyxiation? The E! True Hollywood story about my involvement with the Manson family? The fact that I once laughed at a Tony Sanderson joke?
It's not that I have anything against blondes - far from it. I never categorise women by the colour of their hair, be it highlighted or natural - as long as she can crack a smile at a bad joke in recognition of the effort made and have a certain amount of mystery to her (I can't abide obvious women), that's all I need.
But somehow blondes have always evaded my attentions. Shame. Poor them.
I know why it all started - at age three I had a small 'girlfriend' called Katherine who I used to kerfuffel with in innocent ways under the kitchen table (which had a long lino cloth that hung all the way to the floor, shielding us from The Man).
Catherine was a raven-haired beauty with the greatest cheek dimples I have ever seen on a female - to this day.
Those dimples and that hair really worked for me and since then I think I've always preferred dark-haired girls.
Not one blonde girl or woman has ever shown even the faintest smidgen of interest in me and I can't recall one I've actively pursued.
Brunettes have always thrown themselves at me in vast hordes, I've had redheads banging down my door at strange and erotic hours and on one night best forgotten yet oft-remembered I found myself on the side of the road in Hope Street after closing hour at Stag's attached to a fat girl with green hair who was trying to suck the tonsils out of my throat.
That fat, wet, tar-stained tongue was so firmly lodged down my gizzard I couldn't breathe and I had to punch her in the stomach to get her off.
She didn't miss a beat - didn't even feel the punch through the valleys of flesh - and I only narrowly escaped death when a police van drove up and arrested her for solicitation.
But not one, single, solitary blonde, dude. Not one. And I think I know why.
Blonde girls were always the cool chicks at school - always. They would include one or two specially handpicked brunettes to be their pals, but other than those all of them - to a tart - was blonde.
I was most definitely not categorised in the cool squad at school and thus those girls were always waaay out of my reach. So far out of my reach that it was pointless even fantasizing about them - not even the fantasy was believable, much less the reality.
Many of those school blondes grow up and remain the school blondes - there were girls at my school who even after all this time still frequent places like La Med, and who only shop at Cavendish and Woolworths.
Girls like that have always recognised in me a darker spirit and one not impressed by silly pettiness. Those girls always avoid okes like me because we're an unknown quantity - they prefer their men studly, smooth-chested and predictable. Safe. The sort of chicks whose weddings you really, really don't want to screw up.
And all the rest are brunettes.
So I love my brunettes, but there is definitely something appealing about a blonde. I had a girlfriend who once did her hair blonde for a while and it did put a different slant on things.
In bed she looked just that little bit... sluttier.
It would be wrong of me not to admit that despite not being a 'typical male' it is nice to be able to look down now and then, slap an ass cheek with one hand and grab a fistful of blonde in the other, and ride on into the sunset screaming: "Yeeeehah!"
Just once in a while.
All Smoked Out,