Let me say this about that.

All our lives, we have been fascinated by mythical creatures.  It starts in childhood with fanciful characters like Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy.  As we get a little older, we add unicorns, Hobbits, and the Man-In-The-Moon.  For the really imaginative, there are always the elves and the more advanced society of leprechauns who show us the way to a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  Then there is the ultimate mythical creature, the ‘imaginary friend’.

Pre-adolescence is usually accompanied by Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, and all manner of PlayStation-induced incarnations of devils and dragons.  Mythical creatures tend to develop a darker side upon the arrival of adolescence with the appearence of werewolves, zombies, and vampires.  That usually concludes the ‘mythical creatures’ phase of childhood.  But as we enter our twenties, these Delphian-beings are replaced by the most bewildering, perplexing and elusive mystical creature of all:

The Perfect Woman.

Untold fortunes have been squandered in the pursuit of this magical ideal.  Intrinsically, we all know this creature does not exist, but like a four-year-old, putting out cookies and milk for Santa on Christmas Eve, we still believe.  Most guys cannot even…    describe this glorious beast, yet invariably upon reaching the age of twenty, they shut down all their cognitive skills, open their wallets, and set out upon their lofty quest – ie: stupid guys with too much money, searching for something that does not exist.

I stumbled across a guy in an airport bar some years ago that was an early victim of this Quixotic pursuit.  He was a guy in his late thirties that spoke with the authority of a man who was battle-hardened, had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars, and had endured insufferable pain in his pursuit of the Perfect Woman.  He was driven – he was committed – he was pathetic.

Yet, he was the only guy I ever met who had reduced the target of his quest to a suite of specifications as clear as a set of NASA blueprints.  He knew exactly what his Perfect Woman was, right down to her shoe size. I asked him to describe her.

CAUTION:  If you are below the age of 18, DO NOT read any further.  Simply put, if you are a girl below the age of 18, you already believe YOU are the perfect woman.  Go back to your room and twitter one of your bimbo girlfriends.  If you are a guy under 18, your standards are so low, you wouldn’t understand this description anyway.  Besides, it’s X-rated.

And so, the guy at the bar took a long drink of his bourbon and branch water and described his Perfect Woman.

“Well, let’s see.  She is about five feet, four inches tall and weighs around 130 pounds.  She has long auburn colored hair that drapes midway down her back.  She has an Audrey Hepburn-like neck that causes her to go into a ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ rapture when you kiss it.

Her breasts are shaped like pears that point up, with nipples that get so hard when she is aroused, you could see them through a Coast Guard life vest.  Her heart-shaped ass is attached to a dimpled back and  granite-hard abs featuring an “innie” belly button deep enough to hold a full shot of Tequila.  Her pubic bush is full, but trimmed carefully to fit within the thong she wears every morning while she prepares your lobster omelet.

She is a sexual creature with a clitoris as sensitive as a exposed wisdom tooth nerve and a G-spot the size of a manhole cover.  She believes that halftime in a football game is the perfect time for a blowjob, because it won’t interfere with your game.  And further, she believes her ‘time-of-the-month’ is God’s way of giving you time to endulge in your obsession with anal sex.  Oh yes, she can also suck a golf ball through twenty feet of garden hose.

She does not believe in the fantasy that ‘men can be changed for the better’.   Take her fishing and she baits her own hook and cleans her own fish.   She has a great sense of humor and thinks the only thing funnier than a Richard Pryor stand-up routine is when you fart in bed.  Shopping is not her thing, but when she occasionally goes out to buy a pair of shoes, she comes home and begs to be spanked.”

At this point, I’m gasping for air and begged him to stop.  An eavesdropping crowd was beginning to gather and you could see a bunch of wide-eyed guys staring into space and re-evaluating choices they had made in life.  It might get ugly, so I paid my check and got the hell outta there.

You have to give it to the guy, though.  If you are gonna shoot for the stars, you gotta have a clear vision of what you want.  Otherwise, it’s just an adult version of capturing the Tooth Fairy. 

I thought about writing a follow-up article on a woman’s version of the Perfect Man.  As a preliminary step, I asked my wife for her thoughts.

Shambo:  “Honey, how would you describe the Perfect Man?”

Mrs. Shambo:  “He would be just like you, Baby.”

Now there is the Perfect Woman.

And, that’s all I have to say about that.

Shambo