I fell in love with a man when I was around the age of 22.
I’d seen him around since I was in my early teens, but at the time he was not quite within my reach. Too mature, too old for me, and we certainly weren’t in the same tax bracket. So, I’d look at him longingly in hopes we’d one day be on the same wavelength of wealth and love.
He advertised his talent, his worth, salaciously, and it only added intrigue for a 14-year-old girl who was used to shopping conscientiously at T.J. Maxx. Once in a while, I’d see him there and wonder what he was doing in such a low-brow shopping mall. He was so often seen with the beautiful people, both men and women, half-clothed and looking bored beyond imagination. Why would he be here?
I could bump into him in a basement in Burlington or at a high-end runway show in New York, and he’d subtly wave hello, an air of recognition would pass between us, making me blush.
Despite how attracted to him I was, it was his consistency that always struck me. He was quietly confident, classic, but modern. He was the kind of guy who, if he said you were a 10, you were 10. It didn’t matter what anyone else said. And call me crazy, but I much liked it better when he said I was a 6.
As I grew older, the gap between us closed, and I realized that he was no longer out of my reach. I no longer quivered when he reached out his hand. Instead, I’d gracefully grab it, and throw him against me, feeling his smoothness envelop me, caressing my body.
And this lust looked good on me. Every. Single. Time.
Sigh.
I’ll never stop loving you, Calvin Klein.
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