No, I’m not really becoming a lesbian, even though it is so totally in these days. I just have seriously lost all faith in relationships, love, men in general that I honestly have happily resigned myself to life as a spinster. If fucking George Clooney stopped me on the street and asked me to go on a date with him I’d say HELL NO and send that d-bag packing. Because history repeats itself, and my history blows both literally and figuratively.
The first guy I ever consciously remember crushing on was this devastatingly handsome Jonathan Taylor Thomas type who, despite the fact that we lived in Pennsylvania, always wore a Miami Dolphins sweatshirt. He was towheaded with almond-shaped blue eyes, and had an affection for basketball that was rivaled only by his affection for a girl we’ll call Brittany. Brittany was a tan, slim and equally towheaded little thing who studied dance and wore a lot of pink. Nothing ever came of the relationship between JTT-lookalike and I, mostly because there was no way I was going to try to compete with Brittany. The 4th grade school year ended and we went our separate ways; much like the real JTT, I have no idea where JTT-lookalike is these days, but Brittany is a NFL cheerleader. (I know. In retrospect, I can’t really blame the guy.)
In 6th grade I moved away and set up shop with a new group of friends that was divided pretty equally between girls and guys. I started dating one of the guys from our group, but got freaked out after he got dared to pass me a Cheetoh with his mouth at my 13th birthday party. It wasn’t the thought of kissing that terrified me, but the thought of kissing him, so we broke up. Then I became best friends with another guy, and soon we embarked on a shortlived torrid middle school romance, complete with bloody love triangles, heartbreaking AIM conversations and late night phone sessions. It faded pretty quickly, but I think I still have the love notes I wrote him.
Then it was high school and there was:
1) The boy I had my first hardcore make out session with in our bathing suits on a set of snowman sheets,
2) The guy from a friend’s Hebrew school who was the best kisser I’ve ever met,
3) The skater boy with a funny nickname,
4, 5, 6) The older guys who tried to make out with me while listening to Led Zeppelin,
7, 8) The guys who wanted to be able to say they’d hooked up with the Principal’s daughter.
Some of them I dumped, some dumped me, but there was a common thread running beneath the surface: they were all staunchly arrogant, emotionless, obsessed more with touching me than talking to me: these qualities, of course, eventually coalesced to become my "type." While I pride myself on possessing a keen intuition when it comes to reading people, I've always seemed to make the wrong decision concerning boys. I get swept up in the faux romanticism. Also: I think with my vagina.
Senior year of high school came the Big One, the Important One, the Officially Official One. We held hands beneath the lunch table! We touched each other in the movie theatre! He wasn’t mature enough for me, he flitted serious topics, dodging emotions like rain drops, but since history does indeed repeat itself, I adored him for it. We went to prom together and spent a lot of time making out in the backseat of my Dad’s car and getting caught by the township police half-clothed. I hovered over my cell phone every night waiting for him to call, and spent two weeks in Europe miserable and missing him. We broke it off before I left for NYU and we haven’t really spoken since, except for the odd, accidental run-ins with him or his family when I go home for a weekend.
Then it was New York and there were more:
9) The grad student who whiskey dicked,
10) The chubby vegan from Brooklyn with cigarette fingers
11) The transient boy who always wore a Burberry scarf.
And then it was San Francisco and a philosophy grad student from El Salvador, and then Philadelphia and I was fucking my ex-boyfriend from middle school, whose dick was even nicer than I remembered. And then in LA there were still more boys, Scrubs watching boys, boys who called getting stoned “blazing.”
And then there was my most recent ex-boyfriend, whom I enjoyed a violently tumultuous relationship with, as relationships with emotionally distant misogynists most often are. I went to visit him in London for my 20th birthday and Valentine’s Day where he told me he loved me and then promptly dumped me three days after I got back to New York.
And then there were others whom I went on casual dates with and never spoke to again because by now I was getting the point. Which brings us to the most recent guy, a child actor, who kind of ended up being the biggest dick of all, which is funny, because his dick wasn’t actually that big. At all.
The problem I'm having right now is that all the guys I choose end up possessing some eerily similar qualities, and it's things like this I tend to blame on myself. I am at fault in some ways: I always do manage to pick the wrong guys. But at the same time I have yet to meet someone who can disprove all of the negative evidence that has been mounting up against the male gender in my mind. A sweet boy, a tender boy, an honest boy is all I need to hault this smear campaign. But New York is an iron jungle, and no babyfaced Boy Next Door in his right mind would pick up and leave the comforts of home for this battle zone. New York, I love you, but where the fuck are the nice guys? I promise, this time, I'll give them a try.