I love famous men—I always have. I love handsome men, age-seasoned or otherwise. I love smart men, genius men, the top 10. I don’t care if that makes me a spinster for the rest of my life or if I have to enjoy my visuals on a YouTube video. I’ll wait until fate brings me a man who makes me swoon—man, two, 20. I’m not going to turn perfection away.
Nor will I allow a 9.5 in for real. I’ll fuck a 7. A 6. But they’ll never have my heart.
I’m not big on glitz and glamour, although… Well, I am. But you know, tinsel and glitter is quite enough for me. I am not interested in luxuries, per se. I don’t really give two hoots about celebrity treatment, but what I could really use is access to genius creative thinkers… Who are easy on the eye.
I like beautiful things. I like luxury objects, yes, but their status worth is 0 to me. What I love is brilliant people, stuff made by brilliant people… I love intelligence, and celebrity is a mild guarantee of it. It’s not 1 to 1 of course, but it’s a good start.
Where other women would fuck a celebrity man for point scoring, to me, ordinary men are a bit of that. You just need a few more for a point. 
As some other women would never give their heart to a celebrity or a handsome man but use him for sex only, to me, it’s the opposite. I’d never give my heart to an ordinary man. If I’d consider someone ordinary… phew! Is that even possibly love?
Not all the men I’ve loved or love are super famous or famous at all, no. But they are by no means ordinary.
I’ve tried to fall in love with a lot of ordinary men. Tried. So many times that I no longer have any need to repeat that mistake. After my divorce, I just decided to hold onto my promise to myself that I made in my teens or 20’s that I would not marry down. That I’d wait for the right one. But I married the wrong guy, knowing he was the wrong guy. He’s a great guy, don’t get me wrong, but now that he’s found the right one, I think he knows what I mean. I married him on a rebound from a relationship that wasn’t even a real relationship. If we had held off our engagement for another 6 months, we would have never married. I would have never married him had we not rushed into it before it cools down, you know? Knowing we’re on a fucking timer.
7 years. The classic 7-year-itch. And then, I start thinking about the same guy I escaped into a marriage for. He’ll always be a factor. He’ll always be a thing. I’ll always hold onto a little hope he’ll want me one day. But I’m OK. I’ve found others. Plenty of others… Spirit-bound others, that is. I’ll never close the door from any one of them, not even for Mr. Rebound.
