Smurf sexuality

I happen to be in a serious case of lust right now.

I blame Yahoo email.

Recently, this has been greeting me before I log in.

You know how sometimes (back to my mindfulness kick) you see things, but don’t think about them or consciously integrate them? You absorb them into your inner eye, but they stay embedded there. You constantly recount their image, but on the sly, to your inner metadata processor, and you don’t consider what you saw.

Until today.

For some reason, when I opened Yahoo this time, I noticed her. I saw that hot blue bitch for the first time. I’ve been noticing her big blue eyes and that flourishing blonde wave of goldilocks, but I never admitted or allowed that she was actually hot. Until today. Maybe the hormones were on overdrive, maybe I was more open to alternative love styles…the point is, today I finally saw that piece of blue ass, the Smurfette today. My mindfulness was defeated!

She is a fine piece of skin. Her blue weirdness does not perturb me.

That pose. So dainty and innocent. Those eyelashes. The epitome of feminine innocence! Until.

OH MY GOD!
She is inviting me and you.
Come hither in shades of azul.
The fucking slut is calling me into her weird wonderland of monopolized male attention.
She needs a real man, a man with intermittent organs and fleshy-colored skin.
This picture drives me nuts!

Today I realized Smurfette is hot. She is femininity embodied in the slides of some stupid muddled animated garbage.
She is so hot!
She is assuredly hotter than your garden variety lesbian feminist with tattoos and bowlegs.

Show me a feminist bulldyke you’d rather hump than the blue-skinned semen receptacle that is Ms. Smurf?

She is the clarion call of femininity.
This is what we, as men, weak and strong, impotent and ghetto, desire. Our evolutionary drive demands it.
We want our woman to be meek, weak, demure, silly, girlish, and submissive.
We want the girl who we played with in the sandbox in the 2nd grade. But we want her to have all the things grown women have. Only sick men don’t progress beyond the sandbox.

Sometimes, we like women who can fulfill this role but turn nasty when it matters. This duality is a great draw. Men love women who can be “ladies in public, sluts in the bedroom.” Yes, it’s sorta hypocritical, but it is (or was) a man’s world. We want the sweet Smurfette with buoyant golden curls but who can switch instantly once the doors are closed and swat our ass down with a pussy pounding.

We are men. We want it all.

Real men admit this. The plastic, noveau men lie openly. They say they want the stuff they know women want to hear. But women are constructed in such a way that what they want to hear has no correspondence with that which they want to handle.

In our world, blue animated female characters embody a femininity and allure that RL (real life) females do not supply.

Men are drawn primitively to femininity. Femininity is more than a physical body or curves. Femininity is a core behavior. An attitude. You can’t fake it. And those tattoos are overdone and look terrible.

You women are all rebelling against the Smurfette’s image and in return you get a bunch of Smurf men whose gonads are replaced by blank curvature. Enjoy!