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San Francisco, CA, USA - I decided to start the year 2004 by takin' a break from giving y'all advice about your (lack of) love lives and add another page to that great compendium of Mackology known as The Tuna Philosophy. After reading some of your letters, I figured it was time to put School back in session, if you know what I mean.A number of y'all have commented on the fact that, being a relatively young man, the Tuna has managed to have been married four times. That's true and I ain't ashamed to admit it. But, as you have also noticed, I don't say all that much about my ex-wives. So I figure it's about time to come clean.
Two of my exes were sweet dark chocolate and the other two were vanilla ice queens. Three out of four had hair the color of midnight and the first one had hair like fire. You can keep your damned blondes, far as the Tuna man is concerned. They is only good for one thang. But a redhead will rock you all night and there ain't nohin' more soulful than a raven-haired woman.
A fine sister is every man's dream come true.
I've stated in past Tuna Time columns my reasons for hitchin' up with these frails, that range from conforming to societal norms ('cause I was young, dumb and full of cum) to avoidin' an ass-whuppin' from two six-foot-plus bruisers who happened to be kinfolk. What I learned from these experiences is what has come to be known as the Tuna Philosophy: it's all about the ducats.
Women don't dress for you or me, Chauncy, they dress for each other. It's a competition that we just happen to pay for.
Cosmetic manufacturers will never go out of business because the frails will always want to look like portraits of the women they believe we dream about.
Plastic surgeons are better than pimps at making a woman think she can wring a condo and a Cadillac or Hummer out of her next victim.
Divorce lawyers and sharks swim in the same waters waiting for the scent of blood.
All that being water under the bridge, this week, this year, I wanted to start by tellin' y'all about the latest frail I run up on. She was one of those women that you cain't keep yourself from tellin', "You'd look awfully good naked."
Don't go slack-jawed on me here, Latimer! You know exactly what I'm talkin' about. Clothes were made for some people, especiallly them fat ones and the ones carrying the cellulite, but some people you see you just know right away that they would be one hundred percent better off doffing them duds and gettin' back to they birthday suits.
This fine lady was one of the last group. I couldn't help myself.
Besides, what she was wearing left very little to the imagination anyways. So why bother? That's all I was tellin' her.
"I've always hated clothing," she whispered back to me.
"I'm not surprised."
I had this immediate brainflash fantasy where I saw this woman cruising down the freeway, buck naked, standing on the front seat of a convertible like one of them ship's standards. The car must have been on cruise control, I guess. It was an awesome sight, like something out of legend. The Vikings would have been proud to have her fine form on the prow of their ship.
"You were just thinking about me naked, weren't you?" she said.
"I can't think about you any other way."
"Good."
We all know the direction this little confab was going. I'll spare you the details.
The point of this anecdote is that we Americans tend to talk a lot more about sex than actually engaging in the sign of the double aardvark and, in the process, begin to lose our appreciation of the beauty of the human body. The Greeks had it, as you can see by the statuary they threw up all over they cities. Most gay folks I know here in San Fran have managed to hold onto it, too, though often in caricaturish forms. Dancers got it down to the point of obsession. The rest of us? I'm afraid we get too caught up in "What do you do?"-"Where are your from?"-"What do you read?"
Class, this lesson is about your eyes and your nose. What does he/she really look like? Would they look good naked to you? How do they smell to you? (Yeah, Charlie just said that! How do they smell?)
I used to have this thang about Chanel No. 5. Take it from Charlie the Tuna, that perfume does not smell the same on every woman. Some women have just the right body chemistry to make No. 5 work overtime for them. On other women it's just another scent.
My greatest successes as a Mackologist have been when I have kept my feet planted firmly on the terra firma and gone with what the eyes and the nose told me about a dame. The eyes (and nose) don't lie. Leave your brain at home.
Bear in mind, of course, Class, that this kind of living won't work for everyone. You got to have the au naturale bent for libertinage in your soul. I remember this one harridan who wouldn't leave me alone -- but also wouldn't give it up -- who took umbrage at the fact that I told her the only way I wanted to see her was naked. [See "Kickin' 'Hos to the Curb"- Lesson 3]. Some people just got too much of the Protestand ethic and the spirit of Capitalism ingrained in they blood. Screw 'em.
For those of us who still remember the god Dionysus, naked is good. Buck naked. If you are reading this column, I suspect it's because you know you'd look good naked. I'd certainly like to see you naked, particularly if you are of the female gender. (You can find me in the San Francisco telephone directory and I return phone calls.)
I used to have a couple of frails on the line who I'd start every telephone conversation by asking, "What are you wearing?" They'd get all throaty-voiced on me and tell me about what they did or did not have on. It was a game we would play. In this lesson, I suggest you make the same kind of call and ask her, "What aren't you wearing?"
Gentlemen, start your engines.
Until next time: Stay Hard.
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