“Music has always been a matter of Energy to me, a question of Fuel. Sentimental people call it Inspiration, but what they really mean is Fuel. I have always needed Fuel. I am a serious consumer. On some nights I still believe that a car with the gas needle on empty can run about fifty more miles if you have the right music very loud on the radio.”
~ Hunter S. Thompson
I posted the above quote on my friend Fabeku’s facebook wall today and we had a great convo about how both of us would not hesitate to go on a spontaneous road trip with Hunter S Thompson, even though it would probably result in our death.
Both of us had probably very different reasons for wanting this. *ahem*
The fab Aidan Wachter (maker of magic and a good guy) jumped into our roadtripping conversation saying “Agreed on all of this. One of the Bastard Saints.”
One of the Bastard Saints.
That made my nipples hard.
Aidan just coined a term I have been looking for most of my life.
Bastard Saint is what I have ALWAYS been attracted to when it comes to men.
Fictional or otherwise.
All of the men I have ever dated have a Bastard Saint quality to them.
All of the men that get me high have a Bastard Saint quality to them.
Hunter S. Thompson.
David Duchovny as Hank Moody.
Ryan Hurst as Opie on Sons of Anarchy.
Jon Hamm as Don Draper
Basically most of the men I wrote about in this old spring crush blog. (I should make this an annual thing)
Seriously it would be a no brainer. I would call shotgun in a millisecond if I was offered the opportunity to get in a car with these dudes. Their words, and ways, kill me slowly so why not go all in?
I am soooooo an “all in” kind of gal.
I am intense and full of muchness and I want what I want, and I love what I love. Without apology. So “all in” is really all I know how to be and truthfully it’s one of the things I love most about myself.
When I decide I want something it usually stays wanted.
I have always been loyal to what I love and this loyalty mostly works in my favour and sometimes, not often, to my detriment. But I digress…
I love these kind of men.
I love that deep down they are probably (trying) to be good guys.
I love that they are fucked up beautiful messes who live and love and fuck and want and try and fail and don’t care and do care and keep going.
I love that they are – as Fabeku aptly called them – renegades.
I one hundred percent believe that every girl loves a bad boy.
I know I do.
I am attracted to anything with an edge.
I love a shady past.
I love a man with stories.
I am at a point in my life where I want a really good man but honestly, I want him to have a smidgen of dirtbag left in him.
Not the type of dirtbag that means he will cheat, or lie, or not take me seriously.
The OTHER kind like:
The ability to throw down.
Bawdy, flirty, naughty humour.
A great ride like a Harley or a truck.
Words that make me wet.
Simple and completely sure of who he is.
Laid back, easy going, but knows what comes first and what is important to him.
Sex, love and rock ‘n roll culture. (you can leave the drugs, been there, done that, never again.)
I want just enough dirtbag left in him that I know if anything hurt me he would not hesitate to murder them.
I want just enough dirtbag in him that my nether regions quiver when I think of him.
I want just enough dirtbag in him that he leaves me spent but craving more.
I want just enough dirtbag in him that I would gladly call shotgun for any spontaneous road trip.
I want just enough dirtbag in him that I can trust him even though he fits the category of Bastard Saint.
Because he and I together, would be sexy AF.
My kind of fella.
I may have met such a beast. And as Misty loves to say “a man like that will ruin me.”
In the best fucking way possible.
But that story is for another sunday.
“I’m not single, I’m lying in bed reading Bukowski and smiling about him.”
Take me to church.
Stay gold wild ones.
Thanks for hanging out with me.