Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterPin on PinterestShare on TumblrDigg thisShare on StumbleUponShare on Google+

By K



I think it’s my fault because I love Extraordinary Men. I want them to be great and powerful in their own way, but I also want them flawed–not to save or change them, as women’s instincts so often dictate. It’s a fascinating scenario to support a determined man, whether in failure or in victory, and I revel in that. There is something disarming about a man who can take charge and see beyond life’s many possibilities. Power, after all, is a natural aphrodisiac. I cannot do ordinary, nor can I stomach the niceties of courtship. I am too strong-willed and too smart for my own good that I am never really happy.

I have always thought that I should have been born a man, except, at the end of the day, I am straight and I like a good… conversation with a man with a brilliant mind.

What is wrong in this model is that (most) Extraordinary Men won’t likely be good partners in life. They might be good to their friends and family. They may even be a force to be reckoned with by their foes. But they’ll be a spectacular failure when it comes to loving a woman. In some ways, I can’t blame them. Rather, I blame myself for my choices.

An Extraordinary Man is selfish in a lot of ways. I can practically hear the cries of indignation of men who think I say this because I’ve been spurned, or that I’m plain and unattractive; and the disagreement of smug women who say in not-so-many words that they’ve found an Extraordinary Man who loves them and who chooses to love them day after day. In their minds they call me demanding, arrogant, too full of myself, or simply too ugly to be given the right to want so much. In other words, it’s my fault that I’m alone.  

An Extraordinary Man knows that to be the way he is, he should put himself first. Love is safely limited to brotherhood or what is familial. Blood is thicker, friendships can take you places, but the love of a woman can easily turn sour, is counterproductive and serves no purpose. It is rare to find an Extraordinary Man who would find satisfaction in enriching a life with a significant other. Enrichment after all, can come in many forms, whether it’s luxurious travel, expensive wine, fast cars, a string of women, cigars, a bachelor’s pad. The list of the ridiculous, the inanimate and the intangible to make one happy is endless. It’s unfair to say that these are shallow. Hedonism is still a delicious sin to indulge in.

I find that there is something attractive about selfish people; you want to break their barriers, find the human within and nurse the hurt when you find out that’s what makes them who they are, and that they cannot change unless they selfishly want you in their lives also. I like people who take what they think is due them, because it’s one thing that I cannot do for myself.



Maybe the fault really is with me, because I would love to be loved extraordinarily. I want to be seen as an Extraordinary Woman To Be Loved. I need someone who can stimulate my mind, my heart, and my body. I need someone I can run away with, who is passionate and compassionate, and as dissatisfied with the humdrum of every day life.

I want an Extraordinary Man with an Extraordinary Heart.

I do not know if he exists or if I will simply pass away quietly from life at an old age, having traveled to many places, conquered metaphorical summits of my own, with a mild regret that I never shared my beautiful life with an Extraordinary Man with an Extraordinary Heart. I am terrified of that road leading to that scenario, but also equally terrified of living out my life with an Ordinary Man who I will detest eventually. Life is indeed too short to find The One, and I think that is one of the most detestable things about being walking bags of decaying flesh: we can die without winning love’s lottery. That we actually will never realize our full potential and that life is largely unfair and it’s not about to change. The best thing we can do is to make the most of it because the alternative is too boring. Like death.

I lost an Extraordinary Man recently (hence the need to let my bleeding heart translate into prose), and I’m afraid that as much as I know that it was not my fault, I will still punish myself day after day after day until I get tired and simply forget about it. I wish he knew the Extraordinary Things I have put myself through to know that he is loved and that he is Extraordinary. That I know that he is a great friend and a loving father. After all, I loved him for those very qualities. But like every boring story ever told in every love story that fell apart, I was taken for granted. I wish we both found out how we could have been Extraordinary together if we both didn’t have a foot out of the door of our whole relationship.

The best thing I can do, really, is nothing and just continue living my life doing my best, hoping for the best, and maybe someday, bump into You, whoever you may be, and my heart will finally be home and you will selfishly and fiercely want me to be in your life.

K is in the communications industry. She doesn’t want to use her real name.

Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterPin on PinterestShare on TumblrDigg thisShare on StumbleUponShare on Google+