One Man's Meat (is another woman's joke)

Sexual tastes are many and varied, and can drive people to do bizarre things. Catching a glimpse of the hideous corseted freak that is Cathie Jung on the news today, I couldn’t help imagining what a one-time colleague of mine might have said of the cringe-worthy sight.

“She looks as if a stiff breeze would snap her like a twig,” Devious once remarked of a rather thin girl walking past as we ate our lunch.

He was vehemently anti-stick-figure and frequently made caustic yet amusing comments regarding what he refreshingly saw as unattractively skinny women. Often these observations were murmured to me in a conspiratorial fashion, and I suspected that he was trying to ingratiate himself in the hopes of deposing Mr. Lonie. Or maybe he just thought my self-esteem needed boosting, possessed as I was of an unfashionably voluptuous figure. Either way, he ended up with a similarly Raphaelite colleague who was not so scrupulous about fidelity to her fiancé.

Another workmate was less ambiguous about his intentions.

“My girlfriend and I have decided to have a threesome,” he said quite casually, apropos of nothing as he gave me a lift home one day. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and said nothing as he chatted unconcernedly about their trouble finding a suitable girl to make up the numbers.

“I was going to ask you, before I realised you had a boyfriend.”

“Mmm,” noncommittally. “Thanks for the ride.”

A third workmate didn’t seem to have any specific tastes; I suspected he formed designs on a woman based on the following criteria: ‘breathing’, and ‘reasonably close in age to myself’. One night after a few work drinks at the pub, Threesome and I happened upon Desperate Guy out with his own gang of friends, and he invited us for a drink which we reluctantly accepted. He bought a round of beers, handing me a bottle with a straw in it – I nearly laughed in his face when I realised he was trying to get me drunk with that fatuous method. After a few polite sips while Desperate and his mates leered at me and exchanged knowing looks, I began to fear that Desperate’s real taste might be for non compos mentis liaisons. Needless to say, we left immediately, me clinging to forward-but-honourable-tae kwon do-champion-Threesome for peace of mind.

So what does this little story say about my sexual tastes, leaving aside the whole valuing fidelity thing?
1) Chubby-chasers make me suspicious they might secretly be feeders.
2) Offers to make up a threesome are flattering but not in the least tempting.
3) A reliance on alcohol and Rohypnol is for bottom-of-the-dregpile-of-humanity losers.

In other words, I may not like corsets, but I am straitlaced.