My brush with fame

Dating a celebrity has always seemed like a logical outcome to my romantic adventures. After all, I have this blog that’s read around the world (particularly by lonely guys in India, it seems– thanks for your visit, sexking). And several famous older men have hooked up with women my age (Clooney– if this one doesn’t work out, call me! Cruise– um, nevermind).

So it was hardly a surprise when I was emailed by a guy who claimed to be frequently mistaken for Vin Diesel. I am such a fan that I not only watch XXX every time it comes on TV (or at least the scenes where he takes his shirt off), I’ve even seen parts (the ones in the shower, of course) of that crappy movie where he plays a nanny.  I enthusiastically responded to his message and things seemed to be going well. He even wanted to meet in person!

So we scheduled a date, and even though I should know better based on recent experience, I got dolled up. (A friend once told me that, like carrying an umbrella to ward off rain, shaving your legs before going out guarantees that you won’t get laid. I ‘m now expanding that theory to conclude that blow-drying your hair ensures that you won’t even get to the bar.)

Yeah, so Vin canceled on the morning of our date. Because he had met a girl the night before and wanted to pursue a relationship with her. (How totally celebrity is that? They’ve probably already been married and divorced in the two weeks since.)

I was sad, but only momentarily, because just then I received an email from a guy with the screen name DJJAMMINJEFF. Sweet, a replacement celebrity! I had visions of us rapping and picking out baggy neon clothes together. But then I clicked on the message, and although it’s been a while since the Fresh Prince days, I’m pretty sure the DJ Jeff I was thinking of isn’t a chubby white guy from New Jersey.


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