I wanted to dislike the actor. I was sick of his pretty mug on glossy magazines, all sad eyes and smug pout. Years ago, I had knocked back pints of beer with a film editor in New York who told scathing stories of the actor’s pretentious on-set behavior.
I resolved to take action. I’d been doing this crush series for nearly two months, and even I had grown weary of my precious little poet’s inability to do anything but yammer on about boys like I was sketching the clouds. “I am playing around with continuing this
I was working on a freelance article that had necessitated the following Google searches: “how can I get sex online,” “best sites to hook up,” and “dudes nude.” A journalist wears many hats, and at the moment, mine was penis-shaped. I IMed Thomas. “I have seen so much today
“What would you do if you had a crush on someone?” I asked Thomas. “Like a barista at the coffee shop?” “Barista is tough because he’s at work,” Thomas said. We were chatting on IM, like we do every day, so technically he typed it. “I think I would
I got a huge, honking crush on this guy right before I moved to South America at age 26, my splashy sayonara to the daily grind. He was funny and peculiar, we laughed while eating dinner at a place called Rock N Roll Pizza, and out of these details I
I was trying to find a parking space for yoga class when I saw the cute guy walk in. Crap. On second thought, maybe I should just ditch today. The cute guy had come to my previous class, and placed his mat directly across from mine. He had hooded lids,
Four years ago, I bought a bottle of white wine, a pack of Parliaments, and muscled my way into the world of online dating. After years of being a stubborn holdout, I had finally committed to the possible discomfort of coffee with strangers. What I had not anticipated, however, was
In the 1989 movie Say Anything…, someone tells our brokenhearted hero, “All you gotta do is find a girl that looks exactly like her, nail her, and dump her.” Except I usually don’t do any of that. I just feel the flutter in my heart, and wonder why this
Back in college, I had a honking crush on this guy who hosted a syndicated talk show. He was a small, skinny guy—dark hair, nice smile, wore those black jeans and mock turtlenecks we all put our faith in during the mid-’90s. I’m not even sure what
“I’m in love with the barista,” I message my colleague in San Francisco one slow-moving afternoon. “Congratulations!” he writes back. “No, it’s the worst,” I respond. “I can’t concentrate. I’m being weird. It’s awful.” I sighed when people said his name. I had taken
