On big-screen-boy-crushes and crazy startups



Oh, well. I survived this first week. Nerve-wrecking with all the new stuff (courses, work stuff, the defense, etc) and the need for order and a composed façade. But I guess I managed to get through it with my skin more or less inctact. Except for having to work with someone who cares more about his Mini-Cooper (can't blame him) than for actually working everything is peachy keen. At least for now.

Not so much for Boo. Working with inept, ignoran, scheaming, backstabbing assholes is not good when you've got a Type A Personality. No Seree. It was a little bit forced here yesterday. He even got half-mad at me for not having 'what I needed' to respond to an email that noone would read until today and about something that could definitely wait.

So in order not to blow up on his face, I decided to take it easy and go to Borders to get a copy of Dante's Cove. Only to discover that it's fucking out of stock! Who knew? That a gay soap opera can actually run out of stock? All fags in Akron and surrounding areas deplenished the warehouse containing Passions-like gay soaps? I guess I'll have to give up and get it online. But I waited and got Noah's Arc at Borders, too. So I may wait. Or give in the pain and go to Barnes and Noble. I'll think about it.

So then I went to the movies. By myself. Oh, yeah. I'm one of those people who can actually go to a movie theater alone and don't give a fuck. I don't understand why people need to go in flocks. It's like jerking off: it's way better alone. Good when someone is there (for the afterward comments and the empathy) but definitely made to be a solitary pleasure. So I went to get me some eye candy. I went to see "Step up". Your generic thug-rich-girl thing. The glorification of disenfrachised social groups receive the after-school-movie-treatment. I went to see it because I was curious about Channing Tatum, one of the seven million shirtless post-teen you see everywhere. He does however, have a grittiness I find quite appealing. I, like every other quasi-burgeous feel the call of the rough trade deep in my bones. It's the promise of good, sweaty, exhausting sex coming from every move and every gaze.

So I went to see the movie. Really ho-hum acting, of course, but the boy looks yummy in his Ecko clothes (that no orphan in a foster home could afford, of course) and even yummier when he's out of them. And he can dance. And nothing gives me a bigger mental boner (and sex is all in your brain, baby) than a guy who can dance and seems to enjoy it. These guys look a little out of their element with the first three steps (even more when they attempt the 'urban' pop-and-jerk that comes with hip-hop but oh-so-sexy when they get their freak on...

So Tatum was my prize to myself in my one night out. And I really enjoyed it. Not to mention that I had almost the whole theater to myself so sigh when his slighty imperfect face and amazing body were up there on the big screen. Only four other people were there (surprisingly, none of us were under forty and some seemed closer to fifty!) and I was the brownest presence in the theather. Funny, what our boy-crushes leave us to do. Not to mention uncomfortable situations at home.

So until next one, babyboy. No new boy-crushes for you? Only that yours seem even more unattainable than mine. At least I can pay ten dollars and enjoy mine for the time it takes to get bored with them...

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