I want to put my tongue in Justin Timberlake's mouth.
This is a new development, and mildly shocking. I wasn't one of those girls who went frothy and wild for the 90s boy bands. This was probably because I had already used up all my froth and wild during the whole New Kids on the Block phenomenon in the 80s. I was a little girl. I didn't understand anything, but I did know that when Danny, Donny, Joey, Jordan, and Jon got on stage I wanted to scream their names and tear at my hair.
Amy and Becky, though--they were N Sync girls. They had posters, they had memorobilia, they had websites they stalked regularly for the latest gossip about the boys. They whipped themselves into frenzies when N Sync made appearances on TRL or Letterman. There was even a time when Amy flew down to New York City on a whim to go to one of the concerts with Becky.
And I used to smile and pat their heads and say, "Oh, that's cute. That's nice. I'm glad you love them so much." It wasn't that I was against N Sync or the other boy bands--ohhh no--but I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about them. I shook my ass when they came on the radio. I didn't turn the channel when they were on. I tolerated them. Gladly, but not obsessively.
And that's why I was so surprised when the new Justin Timberlake song came on the radio. All it took was just one listen and I thought, This song makes me want to take my clothes off.
And after a dozen times watching Justin perform the song or a medley of songs from the new CD I realized I was sitting through those performances without breathing. I was looking at that boy in his three-piece suit and I was imagining oh how lovely it would be to dance with him. And, of course, to make out with him.
Last night he was on Leno. Thankfully, my father was in Rochester for the night, or else he would've heard the sound of some sort of dying animal coming from his daughter's room. That sound was me. That sound was what happened after Justin Timberlake did this little dance move and I realized with complete clarity that I had lost control of my senses. I wanted to lunge at the television. Somehow, I restrained.
I'm also having trouble with James Franco. I've always been pro-Franco, but lately my approval has taken a turn. A turn that is making me feel unreasonable things.
I want to have his children. That's what I'm feeling. I want to meet, seduce, and charm James Franco into being my husband. He's been in a slew of movies lately, and the slew is about to continue. Another of his movies--this time an epic about fighter pilots--comes out on Friday, and I pretty much know how I am going to be spending my weekend, and that would be sitting in the movies and trying to keep my popcorn from falling over after I can no longer use my limbs.
My God. Lanky, lean. It's too much. Also, it's his hair. I want to do things with it. Put my hands in it, mess it up, smell it. It's bound to smell good, after all. He's rich.
I think it was actually the hair that sealed it for me. It was after I'd watched Tristan and Isolde that I realized there was no coming back now: my crush on James Franco was full-on.
I spent the whole movie feeling like I needed to go lie down on the floor and put my face in the rug because my want to tug on those curls was overwhelming.
So, I guess it's fair to say that I've been going a little boy crazy--possibly more than I usually am--lately. There's just something in the air right now. It has to do with me being miles and miles from real boys I like, real boys I want to kiss. It's about to be a beautiful fall and I am secretly wishing to have someone--a real someone--with whom I'd go and do fun fall things. We could pick apples from the tree outside my window. We could go press cider. We could drive down to Watkins Glen and marvel at the leaves and waterfalls. And that, well, it's just not going to happen. Not with a heterosexual boy, at least. I suppose I'm projecting and using up all that lust, all those loose effervescent swells that are bubbling in my stomach. And Justin Timberlake and James Franco--those unattainable wonders--are the recipients. Which is, I guess, better than nothing.