HEY, RICKY!

Does your boyfriend’s celebrity crush matter?

To this day, I am not a Ricky Martin fan. (Okay, yeah. Who is?) But there was a time when he was big. He was everywhere. And I wanted nothing more than for him to go away.

If you recall, our little Ricky exploded to international fame—aka American awareness—when he performed at the 1999 Grammys. Sure, he’d been a member of Menudo. Sure, he’d had success in umpteen countries with Spanish-language hits. But he was a total unknown when given a prime performance slot on that awards night.

Someone must have known something. I never experienced the hoopla over the Elvis Pelvis, but Ricky Martin shook it better than Shakira. Or Charo. His perfect hair, his sexy smile, his form fitting, ribbed Lycra top and his bell-bottomed leather pants invited the world to drool. This guy was the total package, an instant It-man.

I took my eyes off the television long enough to see that my Spanish-speaking boyfriend was taken. I put a hand on his knee to remind him he was indeed taken. To his credit, he didn’t bat it away. Still, I lost a part of him that night. In the months to come, I can’t tell you how many times I walked in our condo to hear “Livin’ la Vida Loca” or, worse, to see yet another recorded performance of that song on our VCR.

Dammit, he was no one-hit American wonder. More hits, more media coverage, including seemingly daily reports of Ricky sightings on “Entertainment Tonight”, a show my boyfriend never watched prior to the arrival of Mr. Shake Your Bon-Bon.

Suddenly, my boyfriend had purchased all of Martin’s Spanish CDs. (I couldn’t prove it, but I suspected there was a Menudo memento stashed somewhere in the closet.)

A celebrity crush, a fixation on someone completely unattainable: Does it really matter? Uh, yeah. I liken it to a straight guy lusting over Pamela Anderson when his girlfriend shops in the training bra section.

There’s an insensitivity. Admittedly, I was jealous. My boyfriend made no effort to suppress his crush. I became critical of Mr. Martin, even disliking “She Bangs” before William Hung butchered it. Rationally, I knew that Ricky would not spot my boyfriend on the streets of Vancouver and take him back to L.A. or Puerto Rico. But still, it bothered me. What should have been an innocent infatuation only made me question what in the world my exotically handsome partner saw in a muscle-free, ghostly white guy like me who had all the dance moves of Rick Astley, not Rick(y) Martin.

Had I been single at the time of Ricky’s glorious debut, I might have developed my own crush. I could have ogled alongside my boyfriend, just as we did during increasingly rare TV appearance of Antonio Sabàto, Jr.  I suppose it was just bad timing. We witnessed the Big Moment together, sitting on the same sofa and yet my boyfriend had never felt so far away. A number of years later, I would know that feeling many times, not due to some stud du jour but because things had run their course. But our love was still so new on that Grammy night and I wasn’t ready to share my guy with anyone, not in person and not in my boyfriend’s wandering mind.

The hoopla over Ricky Martin was so huge, there was no way it could last. On a smaller scale, the same could be said for my relationship.

So what about you, dear reader? Has there ever been friction between you and a boyfriend on account of a famous stud? Whose crush was it and how did you work through it?

THE FACT IS, I’M WAITING

“The fact is, I’m gay.”

Anderson Cooper’s grand coming out last week met with a yawn by the Told-Ya-So public.  I had a different reaction.  I immediately checked to see if he was a new member on Plenty of Fish. 

Not there. 

Drat.

Yes, I am well aware that it is unhealthy to crush on celebrities who don’t live in the same country, much less the same city town rural area.  But I’m the same guy who thinks that rescuing slugs from my driveway will bring good karma in the way of a modest lottery win.  (Don’t need $50 mil; 3 or 4 will do, thank you.) 

Until Anderson stepped out, I’d made very good progress on detaching from such crushes.  I haven’t thought of Parker Stevenson in at least a month and I’m steering clear all screenings of “Magic Mike”.  I’ve found the best way to deal with visual taunts from Hugh Jackman is to accept that he is indeed a happy heterosexual who innocently steals jobs from gays on Broadway.  As for the gay Green Lantern, I’m told by reliable sources it’s not Ryan Reynolds; in fact, he’s apparently a complete work of fiction.  Good to know.

But then Anderson came along and upset the balance of my sad single life.  Yes, Andy—no, scratch that...can’t see you as anyone but Anderson...or maybe Coop...or, after we split a bottle of wine, Cooper Anderson—you are my great white-haired hope.  I’d endure the heat of Atlanta for you.  I’d endure a spate of anecdotes about Larry King’s days on CNN and jealous rants about that scoop stealer, Christiane Amanpour.  I’d even travel to a war-torn country with you.  (A guy with your clout can rent the pope-mobile, right?) 

Don’t dismiss me so quickly, my blue-eyed beau.  We have so much in common, Coop.  Your maternal grandfather was a railroad heir and mine worked the trains—not sure his exact role, but he’d wave from the caboose while passing by our summer cottage.  If our train stories don’t connect, we could just listen to Train.  Maybe amuse ourselves over the ending to “Save Me San Francisco”. 

We were both born in the 60s.  Presumably, you were also heavily influenced by the late 70s/early 80s.  That means you should be able to relate to all my references to pre-schmaltzy Rod Stewart (shockingly, at one time, I did think he was sexy), “The Bionic Woman” and, yes, Parker Stevenson.  

We both have vowels in our names.  And consonants! 

Moms love me.  Gloria will, too.  My eventual prom date wore Gloria Vanderbilt jeans on our first date.  (Yes, Anderson, I succumbed to high school dating peer pressure.  I was just thankful that those tight pants stood between me and All Things Girly—or at least one thing girly.  How many girly things are there, I’m really not sure.) I’ll ooh and aah convincingly as I view her latest paintings.  In no time, your lovely mother will permit me to call her Glo, just as Kathy Griffin does.  (And, yes, Kathy and I are sure to hit it off.  She was clearly the best thing about “Suddenly Susan”.  Sorry, Brooke.  And ex-crush Nestor.)

I’ll never belittle your giggle, snort and all.  In fact, I’ll relish it, even encourage it.  (Maybe we can read Green Lantern comics together.  They’re supposed to be funny, aren’t they?) 

Yes, Anderson, the fact is, I am gay, too.  And now all my years of being single are beginning to make sense.  I just needed to wait for you.  Surely you’re not considering a famous boyfriend.  Clay Aiken?  If only he could stay “Invisible”.  Boy George?  You’ll never get any counter space in the bathroom.  And don’t ever get in a car with George Michael at the wheel. 

Call me, Anderson.  You’re guaranteed more than a maybe in return.