The crush, crushed (finally!)

I’m pretty sure my friends enjoy my irrational crushes. They know I am bedeviled by the fact such crushes don’t make sense, and their randomness will plague me until I manage to either explain or quash them.

Many of them can be rationalized fairly easily: Most bar staff are hired because they’re easy on the eyes and/or charming, plus they bring you drinks — win/win! (Except that I usually still end up paying for those drinks. But still, maybe they slip you a free one once in a while.) And hello, Successful Single Sexyman, M.D. — how you doin’?


“That guy you hate to like is out at the bar,” Mr. Brooks texts. “He’s so sloppy that he’s out on the dance floor behind a drag queen show, pants half off his ass and rubbing up against a mirror.”

That was early on in the crush phase — it seems almost quaint now, when I could still think, “Yeesh … but who hasn’t been embarrassingly drunk in public at least once?” (If this post were a TV show, we would screen-wipe to archival footage of me losing my footing and sliding down a set of stairs at a bar in Seattle.) I also considered how tough it would be to be underemployed … which was a handy crutch a while later, too, when I heard about TGIHTL’s burgeoning porn career, starting with a solo video.

“He does have a great body,” I thought, “even if there are other ways of making cash.” I remembered reading how some sites paid, say, $1,000 the first time, but then the next time offer only $700 because they know you need the money. The idea of him wanking off for cash, for a video that could live forever online, depressed me. I never watched the video, because I like the frisson that a good crush can inspire … but was beginning to lose my ability to overlook the less-savory parts. Reports of messy behavior became more regular — usually shared with glee as they watched to see what would actually burst that bubble.

Up next: forwarded still shots from the full-on porno that followed. I was still like, “Wow, nice body!” But then I recalled that XXX actors usually make most of their money through escort gigs — accepting cash for, uh, spending time with strangers. Like “Pretty Woman,” only you’re stuck in the Laura San Giacomo role, not Julia Roberts’. And yet, if given the chance, would I? …

“Oh, honey, no,” one of my friends counseled. “That would be like eating food that’s been on the floor.”

I think it finally imploded last week, thanks to a recounting of acts performed at the annual White Party in Palm Springs. (Me, processing out loud: “Wait, that’s like three groups of nine people … or nine groups of three people. Is that for real? That far along, would it even be fun anymore?”)

Because, food on the floor: If it were an M&M, and it fell on my kitchen floor, I’d probably still go after it. Sure, it hit the ground, but I know how clean my floor is, and I’d probably have a good idea how long it’s been lying there. But it seems a better analogy now would change that M&M to a glop of peanut butter, and maybe move the floor from my kitchen to an airport bathroom. Seriously, just not as tempted any more.

WHAT SAM WORE: 4-28-11
The shirt: Polo by Abercrombie & Fitch, from Buffalo Exchange.
The pants: Jeans by Ben Sherman, a hand-me-down from Big Booty Judy.
The shoes: Leather open-back slip-ons by Bacco Bucci from Last Chance.

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