We all have short-term relationships that challenge us to grow and explore who we are—mine didn’t, but I still get to publicly write about it because it was with a celebrity, and that’s noteworthy.
I’d gone out with lots of boys, but there was something different about famous bassist Bryce Sylvan. Was it the boyish gleam in his eye? Was it his crooked smile? Or was it that he was a rock star? That’s right, a fucking rock star. And I went out with him. Me. Dating him. Imagine? Of course you can. I’m telling you exactly what happened.
He was really tall with deep blue eyes that I’d often find myself drowning in. His jet-black hair—wait, what I am doing? Of course you know what he looks like—he’s famous! Open up any Rolling Stone right now. He’s in there. Just like he was in me when we were having sex. That’s right: Someone I was intimate with is in a copy of Rolling Stone right now and I want to let you know that. I fucked him. I fucked his glorious perfect famous body.
What did I learn? Nothing really. I’m just bragging. But I did learn that he has a bidet.
We met at a nightclub in Los Angeles. I had one too many whiskey sours, and I should have known better than to get into a Maserati with a complete stranger, even if that stranger is responsible for the number-one single in America at the time. But I didn’t. And I still don’t. Bryce was used to getting what he wanted. And at that moment, he wanted me. I want to write it again, mostly for my own sake. Bryce Sylvan wanted me. That is basically the point of this essay.
All of a sudden, I found myself swept up in a whirlwind romance. We partied like rock stars because he was an actual rock star. He was a great kisser, but actually a shitty relationship. When he was on tour, he was physically distant. When he was around me, he was emotionally distant. He made me send him pictures of my feet, like, all the time. But like, his abs though. Right? It still makes for a great story.
Do you want me to give you some kind of moral about learning self-respect or the importance of “me time” in a relationship or realizing that all the love you could ever find lives right in your own heart? Because I didn’t experience any of that. I did experience lying in a really expensive mattress on a bedframe made of driftwood. I also got to see which anti-depressant he’s on (Wellbutrin) and what his assistant looks like (tall). Plus, he made me an omelet once. You probably haven’t eaten an omelet made by a rock star, unless you’re one of the girls he cheated on me with. To those women, I say: Artichokes in an omelet—so good!!
Seriously, anyone who has a Google alert set for his name—and he has a huge and obsessive pre-teen fan base on Tumblr—will see this article come up and know that I fucked him. That’s really the gist of it. But it’s a good story, right?
We eventually broke up because of the cheating. I can’t say that I learned my lesson, cause even though he was kind of an asshole, he was also super famous and now I get to brag about it. Go, me!
