Crushable Readers Tell Us About Their Fantasy Crush Encounters

I have always really loved Courtney Love. Like, when my boyfriend asked me who my celebrity-i-could-cheat-with person was, I said her. Well, I said I would want to drink champagne and listen to the Young Marble Giants and furiously French her. So when I met her in a hotel lobby a few weeks later, my hopes were high. I approached gingerly. I was kind, complimentary. She was dismissive, cold and curt. She actually said, "if you're really a fan, you will let me finish what I am doing right now." (She was sending a text.)

I shrunk and scampered back to my friends, who were waiting in line for some lame party. Only later did I realize she gave me what I wanted: she gave me the experience of meeting her. And I loved her enough to set her free.

My beautiful fiance, for Valentine's Day, decided to buy me tickets to the Westminster Dog Show. And a good piece of advice if you're trying to hide any sort of present from your boyfriend is don't hide it in a copy of In Style magazine with Julianne Moore on the cover, because I'm gonna look in that magazine. And I completely ruined her surprise due to the fact that I saw Julianne Moore's name upside down on the spine of the magazine on top of her dresser.

Aside from the celebrity crush I wrote about last week, I had a giant crush on this guy in high school who was a local celebrity of sorts, in that he was totally popular. His favorite activities included getting good grades, winning sports trophies, and toying with my emotions. Anyway, long story short, I ended up boning down with him years later, only to find he wasn't all he was cracked up to be. Then I wrote about it in the newspaper. I thought I might feel really guilty about it by now, but I don't.

To many it’s the ultimate fantasy, to some (like moi), it’s just one of those things that happens in the travels of life. I can’t really say that I ever thought I would end up in one, but… I did. It was probably about 7 years ago during one of those ‘transitional phases’ in life where you're just wandering with the good times.

I went to an art show in Philadelphia looking for free booze, great art and, you know, a good time. Next thing I know I’m at the after party, then after the after party is the real after party. We were all in the artist’s hotel room. Drinks and drinks later I was chasing one dude through the hotel in my underwear. We were actually looking for a pool, but there was running and half nakedness so, you get the point. Next thing I know I’m in the hotel room making out with the artist, and oops, his friend was still there. His friend, being the obviously sly guy that he was, put some porn on. I’m making out, grabbing around, getting naked, and his friend jumps in. He starts licking my pussy while I began sucking the other dude's dick. Let me tell you, a threesome sounds fun, but it’s actually a lot of work! You have to make sure no one gets bored, so I’m flippin around, sticking my pussy in each’s face (after all, it’s a threesome, not a gang bang ladies). This goes on for a while till we get walked in on by a bunch of their other friends… so I had to choose my next adventure.

I grabbed the friend, who obviously knew what he was doing, and took him into the bathroom. We had sex in the shower, and alas, the threesome turned into a onesome. When we went back into the room everyone was passed out. There were people on the floor and on the beds, and out I went. When I woke up in the morning I was digging around for my stuff… FUCK, the strap on my new platform shoes were broken! Them shit costs me fifty bones! But, a bone for a bone, and one fucking hobbly walk of shame.

I was 13 when Opie moved to my town. It was the heyday of grunge and he changed his hair color as often as his idol, Kurt Cobain, did. I adored him from afar through the entire 4 years of high school. I crushed on him like no other before or after. To me, his magenta hair, skirts (yes, skirts) and beat up old Chucks were the epitome of gorgeous. I ran into him a few times at parties, but being the painfully shy girl I am, I never said a word to him. Shortly before graduation, he got his girlfriend preggers and they both dropped out to raise the kid.

A couple years after I graduated from college I was at a bar during the holidays. I had never been one of those to go to a bar in the hopes of running into anyone from high school, but being mildly intoxicated I agreed to go. When I walked in I eye-spied Opie immediately. Thanks to liquid courage and being four years older, I walked up to him, introduced myself and told him I had had a crush on him all through high school. He just sort of stared at me blankly and when he smiled, I noticed he was missing his front tooth. If that weren't enough, over the course of the next five minutes of pleasantries, I realized that he was by far the dumbest human being I had ever met and had some serious hygiene issues. He was also the father of three by that point and all by different women.

I never went to a hometown bar again. I figured it's safer to remember people as I thought they were, and not how they actually are.

Quite a few years back, I had a crush on a cool Brooklyn hipster dude who I will call Z, who I only knew through his many musical projects and a handful of shared friends. I was obsessed with the idea that if our mutual friends would arrange a coincidental meetup with Z, he would be instantly be enamored of my charms, since we were obviously soulmates. It got the point that it was all I would talk about around them and we began to hang out less and less as a result of my obsession.

One fateful night however, I found myself hanging out with said friends (one of whom I should mention was a significant ex-boyfriend), in the company of two pretty high profile British rockers, and thought it an opportune time to request we invite Z to join us. Everything was going as planned when he obliged and showed up, I was already pretty hammered and began flirting with him using every obvious trick in the book. Unfortunately, I did not use my best judgment and decided to also flirt hardcore with one of the British guys as a countermeasure to initiate a little jealousy/competition, which in my brain squishy with alcohol, would immediately jump start me making out with Z. Instead, it only served to creep out the entire party of people I was with, and caused a huge screaming match between me and my ex (at the very mellow Williamsburg bar we were at), who told me in not so nice words that I was acting a fool (I was).

After witnessing this hysterical public display of emotion, Z announced he was leaving and seeing it as my golden ticket, I high-footed it out of there with him, burning every bridge with the remaining gentlemen in my wake. When we got to his house, he pretended that my tantrum had never happened, and the lovey-dovey rapture of being inside my crush's abode starting to sink in. I saw that he subscribed to the New Yorker! I learned that we both went to school to study creative writing! Little fireworks were exploding in my chest as we talked and I slowly unfurled small details of his life he was willing to share with me. The next morning, I left with dreams of our new life together already planned out, and a pretty gnarly UTI. But, my suspension of disbelief was enough to sustain me for a few weeks worth of exchanging romanticized texts about the French New Wave or what words in the English language turned into linguistic gobbleygook once repeated over and over again. (I believe mine was purple; his was drawer).

Eventually, he grew tired of my increasingly desperate pleas to see him again and cut off communication entirely. There is no great ending here, we had a few awkward run-ins in public before he decided to move across the country. And as a post script, he accidentally left me a voice mail last year thinking I was his house-sitter in L.A. who shared my first name. Guess he never deleted my number after all of those years, just forgot who I was.

I wouldn't call them my collective "fantasy crush" per se, but TV On The Radio is one of my favorite bands of all time. So when I saw TVOTR's Kyp Malone hanging out at a music festival recently, I felt the need to go up and introduce myself to him. I told him how much his music meant to me and he said "thank you" sincerely and gave me a big hug, and posed for a photo with me, and was generally really awesome and nice. True fact: dude has really long eyelashes.

When I was a sophomore in college, I took a Shakespearean Tragedy class and developed an overwhelming, grade-school style crush on Richard III. I had always had kind of a thing for bad boys, and an unrepentant one with a hunchback seemed very sexy at the time. I would daydream about RIchard all the time— I was convinced that he wasn't really evil, he was just misunderstood and needed the love of a good woman.

Someone mysterious then created a Facebook profile for Richard and requested that we be in a relationship. Two years of Elizabethan scrabble games and messages sent in Shakespearean verse ensued, until an actual boyfriend who thought that this was weird made me break up with my Shakespearean lover. I actually spent a minute debating whether to keep the real boyfriend or the literary one.

It later turned out that "Richard III" was actually a kid that I had gone to theatre camp with when I was 14.