Feast of the Virgin Year XI

I celebrated on the correct date this year only because Domino’s was having a 50% off special. And that is the only time I will buy pizza these days, when there are deals like that. But even at 50% off, it was still at the very top of my budget at $20.

And look at this:

Did this sauce not have garlic in it originally, so it had to change? Oh, let me check the ingredients lists. Huh. The only difference is the new “flavored” version has “Bioengineered Food Ingredients.”

Anyway, the only reason I got this post written so soon is because I am actually writing it before the above pic was taken, on a Friday afternoon in the office, where I have fuck-all to do.

Yep, still a born-again virgin. There was a glimmer of hope back in April that I might not need to celebrate/commiserate this year when a person of the contradictory gender bought me a peach and jasmine flavored iced tea (I didn’t have the heart to tell him I do not drink tea, hot or cold). It was a maintenance guy doing some work at the office and he was there for a few days, and we got chatting and he spotted the accent (although he did guess Irish at first) and then on his last day, he brought in the aforementioned beverage. But I never saw him again, so I guess the chemistry was in my mind.

But then along came Elvis.

OK, so before we go on, I really should tell those of you who don’t know what my ideal type of man looks like: short, dark-haired, wears glasses and is Jewish. And let’s get the Electra Complex issues out of the way now–yes, my father is short, has dark hair and wears glasses, but I swear that is not where I get it from. Truly, I don’t, because whilst I do love my father, as a father, I don’t actually like him as a person, and I think that were we not related and let’s say, for example, I worked with him, I wouldn’t like him for myriad personality issues, most of which I share (I have no idea which Freudian complex that falls under).

So, with that in mind, I was shocked to have my libido sparked recently by the movie Elvis. Now, I have never been much of an Elvis Presley fan. He’s as big in the UK as he is here, and I have two American friends who saw him in concert and I worked with someone who met him, but I own only one CD of his, a collection of number one hits. But the only reason I have that is because I got it back in the day when Columbia House did that 12-CDs-for-a-penny deal (fellow Gen Xer’s, remember that?). And I took advantage of that offer to start my CD collection and pack it with the classics (CDs by Fred Astaire, Tom Jones, Shirley Bassey, and The Clash were also purchased), and Mr. Presley was simply included for those reasons alone.

But I never looked at Mr. Presley in a romantic way (and, yes, I am fully aware he has been dead for the majority of my life, but that has never stopped me crushing on hot guys before–Napoleon Bonaparte and William Shakespeare and Rupert Brooke come to mind).

And during award season when Austin Butler, the actor who plays him, was EVERYWHERE, I did not give him a second thought either because, 1. He is pretty much the antithesis of my type–tall, blonde, good looking; and 2., well, yeah, I do not have a Jocasta Complex.

But this movie changed my view of both these men. Hunka hunka burning love indeed.  Mr. Presley, I guess I can understand why, because of the dark hair and the talent, which, along with intelligence, is another huge turn-on for me.

But, on paper, there was no way I should be drooling over Master Butler. So why was I getting so riled up about a tall, blond, Christian who occasionally wears glasses? It bothered me so much that I did some online research. I even re-watched the SNL episode he did that I first saw before I watched the movie. And whilst I sure wasn’t creaming my jeans when I first watched it, I did the second time–for the most part. Because I realized that it was only whilst he was doing Elvis that my loins got a little inflamed. Yep, his turns in Hannah Montana or Zoey 101 or Once Upon A Time in Hollywood did nothing for me. That was a big relief.

But even if he did it for me in a non-Elvis way, during my online research, I discovered that Master Butler is dating someone 10 years younger than him so there is one strike (of so, so many) against me. And Mr. Presley liked getting blowjobs from teenage girls, so there are two strikes there, because, owing to a very small mouth and a very intense gag reflex, I am not skilled in the oral arts. And if there are any of my former paramours reading this who were on the successful receiving end of a blowjob from me, well, sorry, I think you can infer what that means!

But should Master Butler ever find himself in need of crossing off from his Sexual To-Do list any of the following, I would not be averse to helping him out: Fat Chick. Um, wait, that is about it. Normally I would add English Chick, but he spent two years in Australia, so I am sure that one was crossed off then. And it probably goes without saying that I would also be happy to help out in any Oedipal fantasy he entertained (as long as he dressed up as Elvis). And also (wow, this list keeps getting longer) should the chance (and other things!) arise, I would be OK with Master Butler punching my Cougar Card (Zac Efron, Chris Pine and Chris Helmsworth would also be welcome to do the same). As long as they don’t expect blowjobs.