The Heatley Cliff

How To Get What You Want From Your Pretend Boyfriend – Part 2

We got a lot of love when we posted about how our pretend boyfriends treated us.  I guess it really isn’t a co-incidence that many of our pretend boyfriends are British (except for Vampire Eric, who is Swedish but appropriately accented up all the same.) We love the Brits and their witty banter and their sexy paleness.  We especially love it when they’re dressed up in costume, or in Henry Cavill’s case, a loin cloth a la The Immortals.

But some of you have asked for an American version and we aim to please, although it would be more accurate to call it a North American version.  I believe there is a strong case to be made that Canadian men are some of the hottest in the world.  Case in point:

Taylor Kitsch, you are such an amazing pretend boyfriend.  When you were on Friday Night Lights, I would visit you on set and see you all sexy in your Tim Riggins Football uniform and all my dorky high school days were forgotten.  You made me feel like the cheerleading princess that I never was and your butt looked so amazing in those white tights that probably aren’t called tights, but whatever.  Since you are from British Columbia, you are totally rugged and wear the s**t out of plaid. You take me camping, which I hate.  But you put up with my moaning and whinging while we pack up the car.  You always say how great it’s going to be, just the two of us, snuggled up in a sleeping bag underneath the stars.  And you are always right.  I love to watch you chop firewood and drink beer.  Without a shirt on. Everything you do is effortless.  You never try too hard, except of course to make me happy.

Oh Ryan, we laugh, don’t we? We can’t believe that pretty much 99.9% of the women and gay men in the world want you. It’s gotten out of hand. You’re not a conventional pretty boy.  You say it all the time (good old Canadian humility at it’s finest, right?), but I don’t argue with you. Ever, btw.  What you are is sexy.  Sex on a stick.  A sexy sandwich covered in sexy sauce and toasted in a sexy panini.  When you say my name, sometimes I pretend that I haven’t heard you just so I can hear you say it again.  What’s crazy is that you seriously don’t care.  You really do find fame tedious.  You would rather just hang out with your mom. Or me. Hmm… Anyhow.  You read poetry out loud to me, you cry when you watch E.T., you drive super fast but controlled, with one hand on the wheel and the other on my knee. Best of all, you know to give me space when I’m in the bathroom.  You promise that eventually you’re going to give it all up someday so you can write a novel.  We’re going to live on a farm we build in Provence or maybe somewhere in Oregon. I hate friggin’ farms, and animals.  But I would do it all for you.

Timothy Olyphant, you are my Johnny-Cash-if-he-was-hot boyfriend.  You open every door for me.  You stand when I get up from the table.  You built me a deck.  You have these smoldering eyes that seem to eat me alive every time you look at me.  I think you might be from California but I prefer to hear to you talk with that southern accent you’ve perfected.  Which you do. Happily. You wear cowboy boots, not in an ironic hipster way, and they look awesome on you.  I saw you threaten to beat the tar out of a man for offering to buy me a drink.  I did tell you to calm down because I didn’t want you in jail. Again. But my heart sang! You love documentary films and you read Shakespeare for fun, though it’s not something you would ever brag about. You don’t brag. You give better massages than a trained therapist and you always leave the seat down. You also drive an old Ford pick up, which is super sexy.  When you go out hunting (with a bow and arrow, of course, never a gun – that wouldn’t be a fair fight) and you come home after not showering an entire weekend you still smell good.  And manly.

Jon Hamm is not my pretend boyfriend.  Watching Jon Hamm on Saturday Night Live is like tuning into some bizarre parallel universe where I have a cat face and gravity doesn’t work.  Watching Jon Hamm smile and giggle through an interview is like  like watching my dad drink too much at a party and try to fit in with my friends. Jon Hamm as Jon Hamm is not right, for me at least. That’s why Don Draper is my pretend boyfriend.  And I don’t mean Don Draper all neutered and weird with his new wife.  I mean old school Don, who drinks and smokes and sticks his hands in your lady bits underneath the table at a public function.  Boyfriend probably is not the right word here.  Lover? It sounds cheesy but it totally works in the Don context; the man is nobody’s boyfriend.  He knows how to make a perfect cocktail.  He always has the right thing to say.  He knows when to say nothing at all.  How could I ever feel cheap around him when he buys me things from Cartier? Not showy things of course, but tasteful.  He understands with Machiavellian precision that whenever I happen to glance at that little trinket, I’ll remember how I got it and my cheeks will burn.  When he tells me I’m beautiful, I believe him.  In fact I always believe him because he’s honest and good deep down where it counts.  We never talk about marriage which is fine by me.  I don’t want to be Mrs. Draper – that would suck.  Don is the best and most naughty pretend boyfriend ever and he better come back soon because the season is almost over.

Come visit us at the Heatley Cliff – we would love to have you any time.

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