Six Feet Tall and Worth the Climb

The possibilities here are really limitless. In my mind, anyway.

Ladies, one thing you should know: I’m tall.

Not freakish, Chewbacca tall, mind you. Just somewhere north of six feet.

I’m not gonna lie: there are certain advantages to being tall. For one thing, I could dunk a basketball from the time I was 13. Also, that top shelf at the library where all the good books are usually stashed? No problem for me. Oh and you almost never have to worry about a bad sightline at a concert, unless you’re sitting behind Abe Lincoln. Sure, every fifth person you bump into calls you “Stretch,” but it all works out.

I bring this up because the other day, while attempting to look engaged during an ass-draggingly awful meeting at work, I started thinking about the women I’ve dated, boned or snuggled up with to watch American Idol over the past decade. And by my count, I cleared most of these women by a solid foot. In fact, one of them was only 4’11”, which gave us that certain “Circus Act” look that most couples strive for.

The thing about dating women who are considerably shorter and, in most cases, lighter than me is that it enables some Olympics-like behavoir in the bedroom.

There’s the ability to pick her up, let her wrap her legs around my waist, and pin her to the wall for some amplified makeouts. There’s the “fireman’s carry,” which is great for hoisting her up and over me and inevitably into some position that involves her ass on my face. Then there’s the “surfboard,” which is awesome and slightly dangerous and kinda strange if you’re both drunk and singing “Kokomo” while you’re doing it, so I’ll just skip right past that one.

Not that I was, am or ever will be into exclusively women who are shorter than me. I love ’em in all shapes, sizes and colors. It’s just that I don’t run into a lot of women over six feet tall.

But once, I did. And it was amazing.

It was at one of those company functions where we put up all our key clients at some swanky hotel to thank them for their business. I was milling around the bar, looking for an excuse to retreat to my room, when a colleague grabbed my shoulder and introduced me to one of our client contacts. She was stunning–sun-kissed with dark hair and blue eyes and freckles and a Southern accent that had my cock whistling “Sweet Home Alabama” before I’d even had a chance to return her “hello.”

She was also six foot three in flats.

It was a weird experience, standing eye-to-eye with a woman. And I gotta say, I dug it hard. In fact, after a few drinks and a half-hour of conversation, I was swooning. I wanted to know what her mouth tasted like. How soft her skin was. And, most importantly, I wanted to discover the raw and rare joy of making out with someone whose crotch aligned perfectly with mine whilst standing.

We had a few more drinks. I mentioned my love of her height. She shrugged and drawled, “Hell, when we’re laying down, we’re all the same size.” And my heart did the flippy-flop.

Alas, it was not to be. She probably found me increasingly less charming with each drink, but I’ll chalk it up to neither of us wanting to cross that nefarious line between business and pleasure.

I still haven’t nailed a six-footer yet. But like the elusive Yeti, I know she exists. And that someday, I will find her.

In the meantime: holy shit, tall women. I love you madly.

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