I slumped onto the couch and exhaled a heavy sigh. Being a strong and independent woman was exhausting. Outside, three men passed me, and none of them offered to carry my air conditioning package. They must’ve been intimidated by me. Such insecure little boys.
Fixing things in my new apartment and carrying my stuff had exhausted me. For the first time in my life, I admitted that I needed a man. I needed him to change my tyre, push the grocery cart, carry me from the car to the apartment and run me a bath whenever I wanted one. I was tired of doing those things myself.
My successful career in advertising ensured that I was financially free. I have travelled the world, had my fun (wink, wink) and achieved everything I wanted professionally. But at the end of the day, when I arrived at home, I had to order Uber Eats or dress up to go out to dinner with friends. I’d much rather walk into the apartment and smell the aroma of my man’s cooking.
I pictured myself lying on the couch as he twirled the spaghetti around the spoon and then fed it to me, then used a serviette to wipe my mouth. He would tell me how beautiful I looked, even though I was worn out and looked like I didn’t even want to talk to him.
After washing the dishes, he would massage my feet and ask me if I’d like ice cream. If the fridge didn’t stock the flavour I wanted, he’d dash off to the shop to buy it for me.
While feeding me the ice cream, he’d ask me if he should run a bath for me. I’d snort a laugh, glad that he read my mind. I would expect him to know that I wanted the foam to cover the tub without spilling over onto the tiles. He would light candles and scatter them around the bathroom and leave a glass of wine on the side of the tub.
Every few minutes, he would check in with me to make sure that all my needs were satisfied. I deserved nothing less than the most attentive treatment. Every girl did but especially me. Any man would be lucky to be with me. I was a dream come true and, even if I say so myself, once in a lifetime.
As for where I would meet my dream man, I was uncertain about that. What I knew for sure was that he would fall for me as soon as he laid eyes on me. My long, slim legs would have his thoughts tangled up, uncertain of whether he wanted to praise my figure or drop to his knees and kiss my feet before sliding his hands up my legs.
He would be in awe of my beauty and praise me like Cleopatra. I don’t doubt for a second that he would want to announce to everyone he knew that he had met the most magnificent woman in the world.
How fortunate he would be to be in my company. I’m certain that he would shower me with compliments and gifts, then stress about meeting my expectations. Of course, I would always expect him to surpass his previous efforts.
Every other week, I’d expect him to make reservations for out-of-town getaways. At least three times a year, he would spoil me with international trips. I love Paris in summer, Tokyo in winter and Dubai in the fall. While there, and everywhere else for that matter, his eyes and attention would be completely on me. The rest of the women in the world would not exist to him. I would be his central focus.
Upon returning home, he would book a massage for me to rejuvenate myself from the extensive travel. I’d expect a new, dashing dress for the fine-dining experience. After the meal, he’d surprise me with a gold watch or fancy jewellery as my reward for being an exquisite global companion.
At home, he would lay me gently onto the bed and place himself on top of me. His soft lips would leave a trail from my neck to my chest, then down to my abs and in between my legs. I would accept nothing less than a stellar technique of his tongue on my pussy. He would arouse me by waggling his moist tongue in every direction while gently fiddling with my clitoris.
My chest would rise because a fiery ball of lust would burn it, compressing the oxygen inside my chest until I struggled to breathe and would succumb to releasing the lust out of my mouth. My toes would curl as I arched my back and slightly raised my bum off the bed while he continued to moisten my pussy.
I would rake my fingers through his hair and clutch a fist full of it, my eyes closed as I deviously smiled. Like a good boy, he would receive a pat on the head for a job well done.
I would flip over onto my belly, and he would ravage my bum by sticking his face in it and biting chunks of it. That would make me chuckle. I would flip the hair covering my face onto the other side. He would peck my cheek before dabbing his lips on my shoulder and then returning to feasting on my ass.
He would bend my leg, raising my foot and then nibbling on my toes. Intermittently, he would compliment my silky skin and toned body, then slide his hands across my body and tell me that he couldn’t get enough of me. I wouldn’t blame him for feeling that way.
I would stretch my arms above my head, and he would intertwine his fingers with mine, his cheek pressing against mine as he penetrated. My parted lips would permit the pleasure to flow out as I exhaled, and my closed eyes would assist me in focusing on the immeasurable pleasure of his penis thrusting back and forth inside my vagina.
With every thrust, he would compound my satisfaction and inflate the climax balloon. Eventually, it would expand to squeeze out every last bit of oxygen in my chest, and I would open my mouth wide and scream my lungs out. During my release, he would unload inside of me the biggest load he’s ever shot out.
While lying on my back and panting, completely satisfied, I would feel his gentle lips on my neck and chest. His kisses would be infused with compliments of my performance. If I so wish, he will satisfy me for another round. Of course, I would expect him to perform even better. Otherwise, what’s the point of repeating the same experience?
On rainy days or when I felt under the weather, he would call my boss to explain that my dreadful state would prevent me from attending work. If, for whatever reason, my boss decided to treat my absence as unpaid leave, my dream man would reimburse me for the lost wages. In fact, he would double them to make up for the mental torment I would endure from finding out that my boss committed such a heinous act.
My mother often called me to nag about not having grandchildren. My man would snatch the phone from my hand out of sheer frustration at my mother’s demands. He would explain to her that I could not possibly risk stretching my skin after my pregnancy and that my thirties were reserved for preserving my figure so that I looked fantastic in my forties. He’d add that he fully supported my decision to possibly have children in my mid-forties.
If he were unable to impregnate me at that age, he would be more than satisfied with adopting children. I would scour the globe for the most beautiful, intelligent, astute children that adoption agencies offered. We would fly wherever was necessary to examine the children and ensure that they met my stringent standards. It goes without saying that he would foot the bill for all the expenses. How could he possibly expect me to pay a dime? I’m a lady after all and the woman he adores. He would not dare do anything to upset me in the slightest.
On the occasions that my friends wanted me to join them on a girls’ night out, my man would look after the children. He’d feed them, tuck them into bed and then wait for me to get home. If I felt peckish after the big night out, he’d fix me whatever I wanted to eat.
Throughout the night, if the children got rowdy, he would attend to them because I needed my beauty sleep. I expected him to know that it was his responsibility to look after them and not wake a lady up. Heaven forbid he did something as foolish as startle me in the middle of the night and expect me to perform a chore.
Before going to work, he would pack the children’s lunch boxes and then take them to school.
Taking on the burden of having children, I would be mentally and physically fatigued. That would eventually lead me to resign from my job so that I had more time to myself and recuperation.
When that day arrived, my man would need to increase his income by, at least, the amount that I forfeited by being at home. I wouldn’t accept a downgrade of our lifestyle. Taking out debt to meet all of our financial obligations will be unacceptable. If he needed to get a second job to take care of us, then so be it. He’ll do that gladly to keep me happy.
He shouldn’t expect a reduction in his house chores because of working two jobs. I would be livid if he expected me to take on some of his load. We’re living in a new world. Men need to take on more responsibility.
Considering his hectic work schedule, combined with his house chores, he’ll have limited time to attend to my needs. Since he would be incapable of satisfying me in every way possible, I would need to find something or someone that would. My girlfriends would fill the gap to an extent, but even they would not completely fulfil me. Perhaps a trip to an exotic destination would fill the void. But I would travel alone, making me susceptible to predatory men seeking easy prey.
If something happened to me, my man would need to travel to rescue me. He would drop everything to attend to me ASAP. Money would not be an issue. If he needed to hire professional help, he wouldn’t hesitate. Whatever it took to ensure my safety, that would be his priority.
My man would need to save a large college fund for our children, as I would expect them to attend an Ivy League school. Nothing but the best would suffice. I wanted successful children who would take care of me when my man passed away. If they were unable to physically attend to my needs, they would hire help to relieve me of doing house chores. Financial support for me will be their way of showing gratitude for raising them.
If my dream man were somehow to outlive me, I’d expect the grandest tombstone to commemorate my contributions for making him the man he had become and looking after the children. I would expect bi-weekly visits from him and the children. They would need to cover my tombstone with gorgeous flowers that graveyard visitors would envy.
For the rest of his life, my man would mourn my death, consume all his thoughts of me and perpetually thank the Lord that he had the privilege and honour of spending his life with the most amazing woman in the world. He would teach our children to speak only favourably of me, praising me to their co-workers, neighbours, lovers and everybody they met.
I stroke my cat as I think about the unattainable standards I expected of men when I was younger. Now, at the age of 53, I sit in an empty apartment. My only company is Mr Waffles. He’s a handsome little fellow. Pity that he can’t transform into the man that I always desired.
Looking back on my expectations of the man I desired, I understood the reason that my connection with a man never stretched further than the first date. Every one of them disappointed me. On the rare occasions that a man had almost all the traits I sought, he always said or did something to make me realise that he wasn’t the one. I just couldn’t catch a break.
Come to think of it, they never stood a chance with me. I expected perfection, even though I had flaws. I recall almost falling in love with Rob because he embodied most of the traits I wanted in a man. His hair was slightly long for my taste, but I knew that I could get him to trim it once we were in a relationship.
As our connection strengthened, Rob asked me if I cooked. I immediately knew that he asked me if I would cook and do other chores for him. Gobsmacked by his inquisition, I told him that it was the man’s job to bring home the bacon.
He had the nerve to explain to me, like I was a toddler, that the expression meant a man would earn money for the food that his woman would cook. Offended by his cheekiness, I told him that it was his responsibility as a man to court me. I don’t think he understood I meant that I was the prize and he should woo me with gifts and compliments, instead of interrogating me with qualification questions to determine if I was worthy of being with him. The nerve of that man.
It was evident to me that Rob’s expectation for me to cook for him was only the beginning of his requests. Give a man a finger and he’ll want the whole body.
That day I promised myself I would focus only on what I could obtain from a man, and my offering to him was my divine companionship.
Needless to say, I never met anyone better than Rob. He got married a few years ago to a woman almost half his age. Last month, I heard that his wife was pregnant with twins. Good for him. I hope he and his wife are happy.
As for me, I have Mr Waffles. Sure, he cannot converse with me, but we have a way of talking to each other. Well, I do most of the talking, and he meows every once in a while when he’s hungry.
My freedom allows me to explore the world. The only downside is that I have to fund all the expenses. That wasn’t how I planned my global travels when I was younger. I was certain that my high-earning man would be honoured to take me around the world.
In my younger years, I questioned if the standards I expected of a man were unattainable. Several of my girlfriends had the same expectations as me, so that gave me assurance that my demands were reasonable.
Those girlfriends are also without a man. The major difference now is that we’re not young. Yet, most of them haven’t lowered their standards. I’ve accepted that my potential mate will be in his fifties, possibly sixties. But I can’t accept a man who has children or has been married before. How could I settle for such a man when I’ve never been married, nor had children? It would be unfair to me.
Spending most of my life alone has been challenging. Carrying three grocery bags from the car to the elevator isn’t easy. A man would definitely come in handy for such chores.
I would feel safer with a live-in partner. Several years ago, a drunk man banged on my door in the middle of the night, demanding that I let him in. The fist bashing awakened me, and I was terrified. I thought that an intruder wanted to barge into my place and do heaven knows what to me.
I called the security, and they removed him from the building. As I shivered, the building manager explained to me that he had confused my door with his mistress’s.
That was a terrifying experience, and I hope it never happens again.
I often wonder what my life would’ve been like if I had a husband and children. However I analyse that situation, it seems better than the lifestyle I live. After all, a man and children were in my plans when I was younger. It’s a pity that it didn’t work out that way.
Time has flown by so quickly, and I’m not getting any younger. As difficult as it may be to admit, even to myself, my best years are far behind me. I had a much better chance at attracting the man I wanted in my twenties. Instead of focusing on that, I made my career, travel and fun a priority. Then, when I turned thirty, I felt a sense of urgency to find a man and create a life with him.
If only I hadn’t been so picky. But I felt that I deserved the best because I was the best. Surely it’s not my fault that no man had as magnificent personality traits as I did?
I worry about dying in my apartment and nobody discovering my body for days. The mere thought of that frightens me to the core. And as for the funeral, who would attend? My friends would mention me for a few weeks after my death, and then no word would be spoken of me ever again. Surely I deserve to have my legacy live forever?