Why I Love New York: Male Supermodel Edition

Pardon me while I swing into anecdote territory for a second here ... but I promise it's worth it.

Living in NYC can be tough. The rents are ridiculous, the subways smell like feces, and there aren't any SuperTargets (and trust me, after ten years it's the last one that really starts to get your goat). But I've always said that the city, like any passive-aggressive lover, does have the good sense to give you a "hug" every now and then. You know, not enough to actually improve your quality of life, but just enough to keep you from walking out the door. My first "hug" came in December, 1997. I had just moved here, had two friends, and was questioning why I had moved here about 3475 times a day.

On a whim, I went to the movies one night to see Afterglow (starring Julie Christie and Johnny Lee Miller) by myself on the Upper West Side. I enjoyed the movie (Christie was fantastic) and was in a kind of warm, misty-eyed mood when I walked out of the theater ... to find that during the film, it had snowed. It was my first New York snowfall, and it was gorgeous. Untouched, white, and sparkling, it was as though I was the first person to see it, that the city had given me that moment as a gift for putting up with a chronically depressed roommate and the fact that I couldn't for the life of me open a bank account. I took it, and I still carry it with me.

So yesterday afternoon I wrapped up my bloggy duties a titch early in order to catch an IMAX screening of The Dark Knight (more on that later ... right now this is more important!), again on the Upper West Side. My eyes were tired from squinting at pictures of Cheyenne Jackson all day so as I sat on the L train into Manhattan I closed my eyes for a few minutes, resting them before the 2 1/2 hour movie.

And when I opened them again right before 3rd Avenue, I could not believe who was sitting directly across from me:

Josh. Wald.

As in, Josh "the man that I picked as my #1 choice for the 2008 AfterElton.com Hot 100" Wald. The skateboarder-turned-supermodel who walks the runway for the biggest designers. That Josh Wald. He was sitting directly across from me in shorts and a t-shirt, furiously texting.

I thought I had died and gone to gay heaven... 

Okay, I joke now and then about how gaga I am for the Hotprechaun on As the World Turns and such ... but honestly, that's mostly because I'm bored out of my gourd watching the show half the time and a flash of toned skin is like a mirage in the desert. But Josh Wald? Now he could make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window. 

And yes, I do take my job seriously and if he were a celebrity of legitimate gay interest (beyond those abs ... and those eyes ... and that mouth ... blarghhghghg) I of course would have done my job and spoken to him professionally. But aside from "I picked you as the hottest guy in the universe, isn't that CRAZY?" I really had very little to break the ice. So what's a guy to do? 

Believe it or not, I kept my cool. I kept repeating to myself, "Don't stare. Don't stare." As though he weren't used to it ... heck, it's his job to get stared at. But I didn't want to leer. I played hard-to-get. I stared at the subway map to the left of him as though I'd never seen one before. ("Oh ... so that's where The Bronx is!") And really, my stop was coming up, so I only had a few seconds to keep it together. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw his head turn. And when I stole a glance, I swear to God ... he made eye contact with me.

In other words:

I totally had cheer-sex with Josh Wald. 

But it only lasted a second, as I immediately turned my head and looked at a baby as though I'd never seen one before. ("My word! It's just like a tiny person!") And then I got off the train.

Okay, did I really have cheer-sex with the hottest male model on the planet? No. Like I said, this guy is a model. It's his livelihood to be looked at, and he probably isn't afraid to look back. But beyond being pretty on the runway and on paper, he's legitimately good at his job. Because models are there to make us normal people feel like we have an inroad to the world of the beautiful. Their inviting gazes and come-hither postures are designed to entice us, to make us believe that they want us there with them on their couches and in their impossibly well-appointed apartments ... as long as we're wearing the right underwear, fragrance, and Hugo Boss suit. 

And for that one second on a crowded subway at the end of an otherwise not terribly good day, I was momentarily, magically transformed into a butterfly-tummied 12-year-old girl when I thought that a male supermodel noticed that I was alive. I may not have gotten a hug from Josh, but this is as close as you come to getting one from the fickle mistress that is New York.

Thanks, hon. I needed it.