For most people, Halloween is either an excuse to look like a slut or it’s an opportunity to look as stupid as possible. Either way, it’s all about appearances, and, ultimately about getting attention from them.
On Halloween last year, I had parked myself firmly in Camp Slut, arriving to my costume party as a bride left at the altar—one, of course, with a very skimpy wedding dress. By the end of the evening, I was playing the part quite well because I was literally living it. I sat alone in a corner of the room, pissed because no boy had come to my rescue. Then, like a scene in a movie, the crowd parted, and out of it emerged a tall, thin man with wispy blond hair, heading straight toward me. Corey was, in a word, beautiful. (Even with a slashed t-shirt and fake blood smeared over his face and collarbone).
Corey wasn’t hot. Hot is for David Beckham and Brad Pitt. With his angelic face and creamy skin, he was a bit unreal, as if he had just stepped out of a Botticelli painting. I was instantly infatuated.