The rules of attraction

Attraction is a funny thing. I'm often asked by guys, "What's your type?" That seems to be the question everyone wants to know when the topic of someone's love life comes up. What does it for you? Who gets you going? Friends ask in hopes that they know someone that fits the bill, guys ask because they want to know what their chances are to make it with you. But is it really that easy to define what you consider your type to be?

Musicians have it lucky.

I don't know what it is, but you can take an average looking boy, throw a guitar in his hands and give him a microphone, and he suddenly becomes the sexiest guy in the room. You want to imagine the words he is singing are just for you, even if it may be a mediocre cover of Smashing Pumpkin's "Tonight." After a few drinks and a smoke, the spell of the musician has taken control of your body. You want him.

"He's pretty good," my friend Dave said into my ear, while watching the guy on the stage belt out covers on his acoustic guitar.

"Well, he picks good songs to play," I said. "He's alright."

"But you're hot for him," he smiled. "Admit it. Every girl gets wet over a guy with a guitar."

The guy playing was scrawny, with dark black hair. His skin was pale, his eyes big and a nice shade of green, long sideburns. His wardrobe consisted of a plain white T-shirt, a pair of baggy khakis and a beat up pair of Doc's. Think Trent from MTV's Daria, morphed into human form and about five years older.

"I went through my musician phase," I told him, and lit up a cigarette, still staring at the guy. In my fantasy, I was taking him home with me. He'd bring his guitar, the hottest phallic symbol imaginable, and sit in my living room. We'd get high, and he'd talk about how he used to be a history major, but dropped out of college because he wants to make it big someday. Then, he'd find himself between my legs, my skirt would slide up my thighs as I wrapped myself around him. My hands in his hair, then going to remove the white T-shirt that covered skin only a few shades darker. He doesn't sweat, and he smells like smoke and aftershave. The stinging effect of his lips against my chest would linger as he trailed his kisses farther down. With each thrust into me, I'd hear him whispering, "Maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me."

After we orgasm, he'd sit naked and practice a Bright Eyes song he's been dying to play and tell me how Conor Oberst is our generation's Bob Dylan.

It's way too easy to say you only fall for musicians, because every girl wants to be a guy's muse and that's what we hope for in a musician boyfriend. It's romantic to think of being able to inspire someone, and its hot to have a boyfriend you imagine leading a life more glamorous than yours just because he gets to perform on stage for others. Even if his performance is only for, oh let's just say, about ten people.

Then there is the age old debate on who gets more girls - the nice guy or the bad boy. Most girls will say they love nice guys, or they wish guys were nicer, or pray to find a guy who will treat them better and yet they're still drawn to the bad boys. I have a friend that has recently been hanging out with a guy whom she assumed thought they were just on a platonic basis. This guy is great and a perfect match for her.

"There's no chance for anything more?" I asked her.

"We're just friends. He's too nice," she explained.

Then after he spent a night helping her put up the curtains in her apartment, she invited him to stay over, and even offered to share her bed with him. Naturally, he came onto her. Since then, she has gone out of her way to avoid talking to him. She won't answer his calls, she left my house when she heard he was coming over, and she threw a mini fit on me when I asked if she would at least talk to him.

"I don't get it," I reasoned. "Did he try to force sex on you or something?"

"Not at all," she said. "He was really respectful about everything. I just thought we were friends, that's all."

Now, if she wants to continue avoiding a guy that obviously likes her because he is a) too nice and b) someone she just sees as a friend, that is her business. This just seems unfair to me considering the guy she would rather let come onto her often refers to her as a "cum guzzler," prank calls her like a 12 year old and told her he was going to hit on me and she couldn't do anything about it.

I really can't talk much though, because when it comes down to it, I'm addicted to the chase. A typical night with the guy I'm into involves him stopping by on his way home from work. Normally, he will be wearing the slacks he wore to work that day and his company named embroidered polo shirt. Sometimes, we'll go get dinner, sometimes we'll stay in. If we go out we spend the entire time playing some odd game where he is making for sure people notice that we are there together by being ultra protective and so into me that I could almost swear to myself that he may end up popping the question within a week's worth of time (I'm joking of course, that would be horrible). When we're at my apartment together, he will throw me down on the couch and I'll stretch my legs across his lap; his fingers caressing my hair and going slightly near the braless nipple that is protruding from my shirt, but never quite grazing it. I'll puff my chest out further, hoping that a few more inches will allow my breast to be placed within his palm or against his fingertips, and that just a mere touch will exude electricity throughout his body and he will have to just take me into his hands only to be replaced seconds later by an eager mouth.

Instead, it just slightly grazes.

Mythbusters may be more exciting than my nipple against his dangling palm, and naturally I understand the interest in why a duck's echo is never heard, but all of my efforts are into bringing my breast into some sort of direct contact without making it too obvious. The pinching and squeezing that should naturally follow has to be his idea. After minutes of trying, contact is made, and for a moment I feel his fingers curl against my breast and I'm hopeful. His fingers will linger across my hardening nipple briefly, and underneath me, I can feel a slight erection, and then I turn up empty handed. He will make some excuse as to needing to check something on my computer, and will spend the rest of the time at my apartment in front of my computer, making me feel invisible.

There is no payoff with him. He's like a teenage girl with an intact cherry and a promise to God or his BFF, the youth pastor. If he ever surprised me by showing more sexual intensity than just a growing boner underneath my ass, I think I would let him call me "mommy" while we got it on.

Of course, since I have to work to get him, I want him more than anything. I like his aloofness. His lack of interest makes him challenging for me. I'm sure the minute I become the object of his desire, he will become a distant interest in the past.

What it all comes down to is, it's hard to say what exactly the rules of attraction are. I've fallen for nerds, jocks, frat boys, skater boys, intellectuals, assholes, stoners, tall guys, short guys and idiots. I guess at some point I just have say to myself, well hey, it looks like they're all my type. On the bright side, I'm never going to run out of options. It's just going to take a little longer to weed out all the Mr. Wrong's.

Maybe I should just start saying, "You know what really turns me on? A guy who can teach me something." Even a stoner can teach you how to roll a blunt and it sounds a lot less slutty than, "Yea, well, I like 'em all."

Tashina Savage is just plain boy crazy. You can hook her up with your friend at sundaysgirl@gmail.com.