My Museum of Former "Lovers"

Questionable choices and a few good men who became mythology

I’m visiting my parents, and while they have impeccable style and taste, they have also accumulated lifetimes of clutter. I’ve made it my mission to streamline their entire second floor, which has slowly transformed into a three-bedroom storage unit.

I started with my own crap: childhood toys like Smurfs and hordes of stuffed Steiff animals, mixtapes from old boyfriends, fading music magazines, and cringe-worthy journals.

The weirdest part has been rediscovering old writing I don’t even recognize as my own. It’s like finding a stranger who somehow has my handwriting. She was dramatic, horny, ridiculous, romantic, occasionally insightful, and honestly much more entertaining than I remembered.

This little roundup made me laugh so much that I decided to share it.

The Yoga Teacher

I have my eyes on this yoga teacher. He is a sex god. He can do insane poses — all those impossible arm balances that make normal people look like broken furniture. Turns out he’s also an acupuncturist and Chinese medicine doctor. Very smart. Deep, sexy voice. The whole class has a crush on him.

I was supposed to meet him for lunch. I wanted to be fashionably late and seem mysterious and nonchalant, but instead I was a full hour late. He was just getting his check and standing up from the table.

I told him I got stuck at the pharmacy.

“For what?” he asked.

“Oh, just some stuff,” I said.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Um… cream for eczema.”

“Eczema?” he said. “Really? Let me see.”

So I showed him my hands.

And instead of a sexy lunch, I got a diagnosis, an appointment, and a lecture about my bowel movements.

Now I see him regularly, but not in the biblical way.

He dabs ointment on my belly button and bleeds my toes. Occasionally he grazes my boobs while trying to get a giant needle into my heart chakra.

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The Sprite

The Sprite has long black hair down to his waist and looks Indian. His skin is flawless. His body is flawless.

The Sprite also looks gay, acts gay, talks gay — but is irresistible because he’s androgynous and ambiguous.

I call him Sprite because he’s a trickster, like Ariel in The Tempest. He’s also a little bit like a tiny, nagging Chihuahua nipping at my ankle.

He talks in riddles. He has no address, phone, or car. I suspect he is someone’s boy toy.

He is incredibly smart and knows pages of poetry by heart, from Dante to Rilke.

I also think he might be a sociopath.

I let him hand-feed me dark homemade chocolate on top of a waterfall after a hike where I almost fell to my death. Then I allowed him to spank me in an alley.

He tried to make me cry and got very frustrated when I didn’t.

Later he sent me emails with images of rubber duckies in bondage gear.

Obviously, this didn’t go anywhere.

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The Foot Fetishist

The foot fetishist is young, dumb, and sexy. He has an IQ of maybe 80.

Yet he has incredible style and promised me he doesn’t shop at Hot Topic. In fact, he makes his own leather pants and thinks my body is perfect.

I love him for that.

One time we got really high in the park and he pretended my feet were dinosaurs. He made them growl at each other.

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The Sex Addict

This lovely specimen must have slept with 500 women and received blowjobs from even more.

He’s my soulmate and unfortunately my brother.

I want to move to Ukraine with him.

That’s assuming he doesn’t die of syphilis first.

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My Husband

My husband is a rock star and cares more about music than he cares about me.

That’s why we might get a divorce.

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Vince Vaughn

He’s with Jennifer Aniston now, I think.

I’ve sat on his lap a few times.

He doesn’t know we belong together.

I would lick his puffy alcoholic eyes and tuck him into bed at night.

He doesn’t know I exist, which is really kind of a problem. He must have a very short attention span.

I don’t know how many times we have flirted at the counter of La Poubelle where my friend Michael bartends.

And that night, when Twiggy Ramirez DJed and I kissed Dave Grohl on the mouth with whiskey breath, he said:

“There you are, sweetheart.”

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“Sugar”

Sweet. And sad.

Hunky, sultry, Omar Sharif-y.

I meet him for fondue for some reason.

I come straight from work wearing a gray suit. He doesn’t like girls to look too sexed up. Neither do I.

There’s this new log cabin place with a delicious, thick, Burberry-inspired carpet, antlers, and fondues.

I’m an hour late, and he’s flirting with the very short but very busty brunette waitress and drunk on two Cabs.

I slink into the seat next to him and immediately drown in his huge Arabic eyes.

He’s wearing a Hugo Boss jacket and a very tight New York Dolls T-shirt.

I explain my theory about white picket fences and how they used to serve a purpose. They weren’t just symbols of bourgeois contentment back in the day.

“What day?” he asks.

I ignore the rude interruption.

They used to have exceedingly sharp points so if people tried to scale them, they would be impaled.

“What people?”

“Marauders.”

“No, the neighbors.”

“Why would the neighbors try to climb your fence?”

“To pick your cherries!” I say.

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M.

One day there will be a very lucky representative of the female race who ends up with M.

She better be good to him.

I would claw her to death if she were unable to see his subtle beauty and the preciousness of his mind.

He is both my child and my lover, which sounds insane when I write it down. Every time I leave M., it feels like the last time — like a small death.

I feel weird calling him Matthew.