Yum. Yes. I instantly align with this word. Imagine all the ridiculous fantasy responses written in the torrid love scenes of those bodice-ripper romance novels. All that pulse racing and blood quickening and panting and frenzied clutching. Yeah, all that. That’s Me and This Word.
I once sat near a drunken sailor who was listening to a male of deep bass voice. The deep bass voice was singing on a CD. I was listening too. Remember listening to CDs? The sailor took a hearty slug of his beer and said in all seriousness, “If this guy’s voice was a chick, I’d fuck him.”
Whenever I hear men say this I always wonder how they arrive at the conclusion that they’d get to fuck the object of choice. In my mind I was thinking, “If this guy’s voice was a chick, she’d be more interested in someone who doesn’t assume she’s gonna get fucked just because you find her worthy.”
But that kind of response just makes sailors want to fight. And should you consider dumbing it down to, “What makes you think she’d fuck you?” Be advised. Them’s fightin’ words too.
But to my point, if the word Heroic was a consenting adult, I’d certainly try. I’d ask. In period parlance, I’d throw myself at him or her. Or who knows? Maybe I already have and that’s why I get so inspired when I hear it, read it, think it, or imagine it.
When I was younger I was very much enamored with the idea of being the hero of my own life; the literary hero of my own tragedy turned triumph. Survivor-type heroes were my jam. I even got a tattoo to mark me as such, so I wouldn’t forget when I got older and my less bellicose and battle grew dim in my memory. It’s obviously been an abiding personal theme.
It took a while to find it — because how do you search Google for the sound of a voice? — but even after all these years I remembered the artwork on the CD cover from 1993. The group was Type O Negative. The album was Bloody Kisses. The male voice the drunken sailor believed would be his conquest belonged to Peter Steele (stage name), who died eight years ago. And I did have to fight that sailor because I hadn’t yet learned how to keep my heroic mouth shut in a disadvantage. But nobody got laid.
I don’t brag about it when I’m drinking though; only when I’m sober and writing for a public audience.