Me and sports don't get along. My eyes glaze over during discussions of rbis and forward passes. If I am forced to go to a sports match, I try to focus on the biceps and bulges. I can barely tolerate having friends who are sports nuts, and I've almost never dated any. It's on my list of top turn offs, along with being elitist, tall, thin, and feminine.
But what if he looks liked this?
At Christmas in 2008, my boyfriend Chad and I went to a Christmas party thrown by the Rich Kid. Troy came as the Rich Kid's date.
He was tall, slim, athletic, very handsome, except for the big black earrings and a pink triangle tattoo.
As new meat, he was mobbed by the Gang of Twelve, especially the Satyr, but he kept close to the Rich Kid. We chatted briefly: he was 22 years old, a senior at the University, president of the Gay Student Association, and a sports nut. He started out as a physics major, but switched to French, and planned to become a high school teacher and coach.
"I go to Paris every year!" I exclaimed. "We should talk."
"Sure. Friend me on Facebook," he said, while both Chad and the Rich Kid glared at us.
The rest of the story, including uncensored photos, is on Tales of West Hollywood.