We’ve probably all had a crush on a celebrity at some point. Maybe you loved Kirk Cameron or Jonathan Taylor Thomas growing up, but these days your tastes lean towards Jon Hamm or Channing Tatum. However, rarely does your new crush show up at the party you’re at.
Years ago, I became mildly obsessed with … let’s call him Charlie … after I saw him in a horror flick. I’d like to say he was talented, but mostly he was just ridiculously hot. After some cyber stalking, I found out he was single, living in Los Angeles, had been in some decent movies, and was now working on a police drama TV show I’d never heard of (thanks IMDB).
Around this same time, my best friend started dating an actor whose career was on the rise. He and his friends would have parties up in the Hollywood Hills. A typical Hollywood party usually consists of a modern house owned by who the hell knows and 30 skinny model/actresses wandering around with drinks. There are always C-listers in attendance. After some awkward staring, you realize that you’re looking at someone from a WB show (yes WB before it was CW, hence C-list). Sometimes reality TV stars pop us at these parties. “America’s Next Top Model” and “American Idol” contestants seem to the most popular. It’s a weird world. No one is technically famous, but deep down everyone is happy to be at a party with C-listers and reality stars. It was at one of these parties that I spotted my hot crush Charlie.
Charlie was smoking on the patio. Not really a smoker, I knew bumming a cigarette was the easiest way to talk to him. Charlie was sexy in real life, but upon getting a closer look, I realized I liked him better when a wardrobe department was dressing him. Even in a horror flick where he was trapped in a house for days, he looked more presentable than he was standing in front of me. There is scruffy and then there is borderline homeless. He looked borderline homeless. But still, he was Charlie, my crush! And he was three feet away from me.
About an hour later, riding high on liquid courage, I found myself engaging in a robust game of “I never” with Charlie and a crew of others. There’s something about confessing one’s most aberrant sexual behaviors that turns a group of relative strangers into fast friends. In response to the question, “I’ve never cum more than three times in one day,” Charlie divulged that he had cum nine times in one day. He explained that it was in his early masturbatory years to Whitney Houston circa “The Bodyguard.” He was particularly aroused when she sang the National Anthem. Perverted and patriotic! Conversations like these were turning our patio group into a boozed up, horny, curious little gathering and people were staring to pair off.
I got up to go to the bathroom as the group began to disperse, and Charlie followed me inside. Before I knew it, he had pinned me against the wall and we were making out. I’d been in a dating dry spell and feeling kind of down so this was a much needed ego boost. He tasted like stale cigarettes, but to be fair, I probably did too. I’m not a fan of public make outs, but that night I was totally that girl. While I was very attracted to Charlie, the game of “I never” revealed him to be brash bordering on crude, aggressive towards women, and just too damn cocky. The rational part of me was turned off by his behavior but the fan girl inside of me loved his attention.
After some more making out, Charlie said I should come home with him. I’d never had a one-night stand before. I wasn’t a saint, but I’d always erred on the side of personal safety. When it came to sex, I liked to at least get to know the guy first. Also, going home with a stranger always felt creepy to me. No judgment on others, I just think excessive watching of “Law&Order: SVU” made me a really cautious girl. But in a split second I decided that I was going home with Charlie. I felt sexy, cool and scandalous – words rarely used to describe me.
From the time the cab dropped us off until we got into his apartment, we never stopped kissing. It was ridiculously hot until it got awkward. His apartment was like a sterile operating room. White, blank walls, almost no furniture except a massive flat screen television, and some sort of gaming device. It was summer in LA and his apartment was probably 60 degrees. I was frozen. I started to get visions of Patrick Bateman from “American Psycho.” Not quite a turn on.
Sex happened very quickly, but there wasn’t much sexiness involved. It is one thing for sex to be quick, but it’s quite another thing when a guy is completely disconnected and robotic. For such a great kisser, he was really bad in bed. I was confused. Where was the seductive guy from the party? His looks got him into bed with women but surely, after so many partners, he’d have learned what to do once he got there. It ended abruptly and it was clear he wanted me gone. My decision to go home with him was to check something off a box, expand my horizons, be that girl one night, and not be so measured and safe. Be sexy! But this was none of those things. By the time I got dressed, he no longer even looked hot to me, just hard, mean and borderline homeless.
He insisted on getting me a cab (neither of us were in a place to drive) although the uncomfortable reality of this crush gone wrong had sobered me up. As he walked me out, he asked for my number. Really? Did either of us ever want to speak to the other person again? No. I knew he didn’t want my number, but felt obligated to ask. “You don’t have to do that,” I said curtly.
And in mock shock, he said, “No, really. I want your number.”
While pulling his phone out to enter it, I just said it was unnecessary. If there was some dignity to be salvaged that night, it could be that I didn’t want to leave under the pretense of seeing him again.
Technically, I had a one-night stand even though it was really a 15-minute stand. I take responsibility for my reticence and very possibly naiveté in our sexual encounter. While I never saw Charlie again, he’s now a regular on a hit cable show (his character is sleazy, which feels appropriate), and dating a famous actress. I used to cringe when I saw him, but now I just don’t care. We all have those weird, awkward stories in our sexual history; mine just includes a minor celebrity. And it’s not that I don’t indulge in a little crush here or there, but I recognize that reality is a far better place to live than fantasy.
[Photo of man smoking from Shutterstock]