Love is all around

Love is all around

My boyfriend is a kind and patient man, never prone to petty jealousy, which is a good thing, given the number of celebrity crush-fests I have going on at any one time.

You see, apart from the love I have for my bloke, which is solid and enduring, my fancies are generally spread out pretty wide.

I crush out on footy players and movie stars and rock stars. Constantly. This week, the Melbourne Storm utility Cooper Cronk and the INXS frontman J.D. Fortune are rocking my world with their souped-up hotness, whereas last week my ultimate fantasy sandwich consisted of me and my boyfriend between one slice of Sonny Bill Williams and one slice of the new Doctor Who, David Tennant.

I know that makes me sound like the worst kind of fickle slut, but here’s the thing: once I add a guy to my celebrity crush list, I rarely go off them.

Case in point: Marky Mark Wahlberg. My love for this man, which is now well into its second decade, has flourished despite some dreadful career choices over the years (his, not mine), and some particularly nasty tattooing as well. (Those inked-on rosary beads suck so hard.)

Weirdly enough, this crush is older than my gayness. In fact, it was seeing his Calvin Klein advertisements in the early 1990s that brought on the soul searching that led -“ eventually -“ to my coming out.

If CK had chosen a lumpy old oat-bag to model underpants back then, rather than a strapping young buck, there would have been no crush, no soul searching, and hence, no coming out. I could be straight to this day.

So you see, there’s a positive aspect to the celebrity crush: it opens up your life in unexpected ways. I took an interest in the Olympics when I took a fancy to those Russian gymnasts; I started reading the business pages when they started profiling Lachlan Murdoch; and lately I’ve even been reading food magazines, just because of that nice Bill Granger.

So yes, there are many objects of my affection, but I like to think they’re helping me become a more interesting person. Or at the very least, a force to be reckoned with at quiz nights.

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