wildaspie

I am not sure when, exactly, I realized I have an IQ fetish.  I always liked smart people – in grade school I preferred the company of the “nerds” and “geeks” and was pretty much the undisputed queen of them all.  Sometime after I started dating in high school, though, I realized I also preferred to date intelligent people – given the choice between a pretty face and a quick mind, I would take the quick mind, and to hell with what other people thought of my choices.

The boy I remember most fondly from those years was a socially-awkward, genius-level college sophomore who was sweet and doting to a starry-eyed high-school freshman; and though we never shared more than a few kisses, I spent countless happy hours snuggled in his arms, reading a novel as he did his homework.

More recently, I have had some emotionally-intense, though physically-exempt, relationships with other men that are similarly brilliant.  But strange things happened with the first, R – that is to say, it was in a way sadly predictable.  After a long period of getting to know one another and enjoying each other’s company, he basically vanished for nine months, and now … Now and then he sends me an long and rambling email about books he has been reading, thoughts he has been thinking, practices he is pursuing – but nary a word to ask how I am, what I have been up to, or a mention of any feeling at all.

The second, J, seemed to forget over a matter of two weeks that I have a brain in my head, or a name to be called by; his last few attempts to contact me have consisted of, “Hey sexy, kiss-kiss-kiss.”

Then I met the techno-punk … and that is an exploration for another day.

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