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{all-american girls do it better} jack wilder The All-American Girl does it better. So does the girl next door. Trust me. They do. I’ve been infatuated with rock stars and bad girls. Artists and dominatrixes. ¬ Burlesque dancers. Strippers. Sex workers. Drug addicts. Alcoholics. The most dangerous ones are the dragon slayers in bed, no? Uhm, nope. Great and seedy titles alike, strip these hooligans down from their merits and clothing and: not one of them measures up to the girl next door. Not in bed. Girls with strong identifiers have purpose built-in to their life. For the rock star, she just needs to write songs, look pretty on stage and rock. The dominatrix is content with defining her life with the sadism (or god-help-me: sacred sexuality) that helps defines other’s lives. The burlesque dancer is immersed in her pseudonym and her super cool throw-back way of life and clothes. The stripper: stripping, grinding on stranger’s pert cocks and, most likely, cocaine. To be straight, sex workers of all varieties – hookers, strippers, dancers, dominatrix – what do they all share in-common? They’re all horrible lays. OK, I’ll back down: at best, they’re average and forgettable. Beyond that, fetishists, kinksters, sadists, masochists and any other type of sexual identifier that should signify a kind of sexual sophistication: an even worse lay. Sleeping sheep would be more entertained by my whistle for a human cock. But the All-American Girl, the one who lives quietly next door and joyously shops at the Gap and Abercrombie and whatevs – the one whom you only see walking to and from her car with a frosty Crappuccino – she doesn’t have such an identifier. She is normal – that’s her thing, she knows it and she loves it because all her friend’s parents do too. She is what the median (and here I could possibly mean the curb-like island in the middle of the road) looks like, acts like and talks like. She has: A college-educated career. A boyfriend. A BFF, who she refers to as such. A hatchback with an Obama sticker on it. She also has the token Applebee parents in the concentration camp suburbs. By proxy, the middle class girl next door is concerned primarily with the one and only thing that will give her a legacy at all: progeny. Most likely, this kind of girl won’t be remembered for anything spectacular whatsoever, like the amount of alcohol that she could pour down her gullet in an hour or teaching somebody how to shoot heroin or the amount of gangbangs she was in. No, she has to create her memory for others to recall her by. And most of the time, that memory is the children she will bear. More than that, the memory of her will be created by the memory that her children will remember out-loud to their children. The All-American Girl is so dreamy that she is just a dream in the end. A mammary of remembered memory dreams. It might surprise you, but: Trust me. The All-American Girl is amazing in bed. Why? Because she has to be. In an odd twist of philosophical fate, she is debilitating in bed because her ancestors were. Next time you’re strung-out in the sack with this beast, picture her on the African savannah: trust me, it’ll make sense. Somewhere in the same string of genes that make her body ache to reproduce there is a fire that tingles like herpes – giving her superpowers to fuck like a heroine. The All-American Girl is amazing in bed because this is all she has, save the next forty years in the kitchen and in her minivan. |
