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by Stefi Sparer
I've been hanging out with John a lot lately. And the more I hang out with him the more it makes me realize how much I need a real boyfriend. One who isn't gay.
John is what you may call my beard. He is my always on call good looking guy friend who is available for weddings, birthdays, and bar mitzvahs. He looks great in a suit, superb in a tie, and never wears jeans. He also looks better in my Diane von Furstenberg dress than I do. He can put his arm around me like he means it and do that head tilt that all boyfriends tend to do, and sometimes he even buys me coffee. Most importantly, he laughs at all of my jokes. I have based many a friendship on that alone.
At first I thought that if I had John, this awful, horrible, girly feeling gnawing on me like a dog to a squeaky toy would go away. The one that starts in late January and stays with me until just after Spring. I think it stems from someone in my Pituitary gland, and it tells me that I need a boyfriend.
Suddenly, I am looking at anything that moves. "C'mon," the feeling says to my brain if it catches me looking at a scruffy guy in a Smith's t-shirt, "He probably doesn't even know who the Smith's are, but will that affect how he kisses? Why don't you find out?"
Its horrible and with me everywhere I go. The supermarket. The movies. School. Uncle's weddings…
I sat with my cousin Alison in the lobby of our Santa Barbara hotel. She's twenty-three and far more worldly than I'll ever be, but we both agreed, that despite the beach and the shops, we were beyond bored. I sat reading Allure when Alison nudged me, "That guy's cute," she whispered, nodding to a tall, dark haired boy walking into the lobby.
I look up and squint to save me from putting on my glasses. "Yeah," I agree, "I'd probably let him have sex with me," I joke and she laughs as my dad passes us in the lobby looking like he's on the way to the pool.
"What are you girls up to?" he asks. He doesn't wait for our answer as he spots the dark haired boy at the check-in desk with an older man, presumably his father.
"Steven!" he shouts with the excitement of a ten-year-old boy at Christmas. "I haven't seen you in ages!" He makes his way over to the counter. "Girls!," he calls after, giddy on Mai Tai, the "ultimate in vacation drinks," as he explains later, "Come say hello to your Uncle Steve and your cousin Seth!" Alison and I exchange looks and my dad continues talking, "I don't think you've seen them since you were about five, Stephanie!" he tells me. "This is so great!"
Oh yeah. Fantastic
Stephanie likes boys who have a good sense of humor, a small collection of Smiths t-shirts and who aren't related to her. Candidates can apply to firstname.lastname@example.org.