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As is true of every man in America--even Jake Gyllenhaal--I've had many unrequited crushes over the years. They're painful. Worse still, I've suffered repeated exposure to a special subset of unrequited crush. And it is, I believe, the cruelest variety. Namely, unrequited crushes on women who talk dirty. As in, women who are "just friends" but who discuss with you, in vivid detail, their exploits with other men with whom they are not "just friends.
Anya took a lot of classes on human sexuality and enjoyed telling me about naughty dirty girls content of those classes, including how it related to her life. I'd listen intently, nodding my head, and then spend the next half hour digging my fingernails out of my leg. Years later, as part of my job as an editor at Esquire magazine, I oversaw the sex column, which was written by another impossibly attractive woman. Every week or so we'd have long, intense phone discussions about, for instance, why lesbians in porn movies seem to enjoy fellating dildos. Then I'd hang up and furiously edit an article on how to write a thank-you note or the world's best golf umbrella--anything to calm down.
Those were tough, for sure. But my most agonizing experience with a dirty girl was with Chloe. We met in college but started hanging out in earnest after graduation, when we were both living in New York and severely underemployed. She was hard to miss: blond hair--seriously blond, like the color of a smiley-face sticker.
She wore cowboy hats, tiger-skin pants, enormous pink sunglasses, shirts and dresses with plunging necklines. She was basically an early version of Nicole Richie, but with a high IQ and no trust fund. Her theory was that if you look and act like a celebrity, you will eventually become one.
And it worked--a little. She did start to hang out with the famous, or at least to inhabit the fringes of celebrity culture. She was funny naughty dirty girls smart and outrageous and let me tag along with her everywhere: to bars that were too hip for me, parties that were too hip for me, concerts that were too hip for me.
We once went to the Catskills together, and when I was with her, it seemed the Catskills were too hip for me too. I was smitten. She was not. But she was no prude. She was quite romantically adventurous with other men. And she liked to tell me about those romantic adventures. She told me about how this indie-film director was performing oral sex on her the night before and, while he was doing it, he persuaded her to call her mom and discuss Thanksgiving plans.
It gave him some sort of perverse Freudian thrill. The sick bastard. The sick, lucky bastard. They of course ended up messing around in the restaurant bathroom. She also had a weakness for musicians. It killed me. Why not a weakness for something more original--say, Boggle players?
Or guys who've read every Hercule Poirot mystery? Or men with facial moles? That'd give me a fighting chance. And not just because I have a giant mole on my face and can quote Poirot chapter and verse. I'd never heard of any of the bands these guys were in, but apparently they were well known to people who read Paper magazine and rented walkups in Alphabet City. So I'd listen to the stories of her escapades. And I'd pine.
For those who've never endured this particular torture, how can I describe it? It's like sitting at a restaurant while the waiter describes the mouthwatering specials--then returns to say they're all no longer available.
Oh, and by the way, the restaurant is out of food altogether. And you have to go in the back and help with dishes. And you won't get paid. I can't say for sure why I kept coming back to the dirty gals. Partly, I think, bad luck.
But partly, the maddening fact that these women all tended to be interesting and funny. Weight Loss. United States. Type keyword s to search. Today's Top Stories. Masala Pepper And Cauliflower Omelet. This content is created and maintained by a third party, and imported onto this to help users provide their addresses.
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