DISCLAIMER: Amy Sherman Palladino's got 'em, not me. I just borrowed them.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
You know, I never really gave much thought to crushes. They seem to hit you so fast. One minute they're some average person, and the next you find you can't stop looking at them. Your palms sweat and that attraction is instantaneous; there's someone that you've got your sights set on. But now that I've got time (too much of it, to be honest) to think about it, I'm beginning to wonder where crushes end and full-blown lust begins; when that curiosity is replaced by a primal wanting to be near them, to see them, to smell them, all the time.
With Dean it was so quick. One minute I'm strolling through the halls of that place I used to call high school, reflecting on the terrible time I'd spent there thus far, and in just a moment that click happens and I'm there. It's like some sort of timed hormone release. You're fine, your dosage normal, and once he catches your eye the trigger is released and wham, it's on you, infusing your blood. With Dean, I couldn't look at him. It was like looking at the sun for too long; it's beautiful, but after a while it burns your eyes. Looking back on him now, I can still see that sort of handsomeness that once made me weak in the knees, but now he fits that schoolgirl crush so well.
Now with Jess, there was something about him that caused you to look back for a second glance. At first, those rough edges and masculine gruffness gives you the sole impression of a hard-ass bad boy, but there's something that reels you back in. His eyes I think are what did it for me. I knew I had a crush on him when I got a look into those troubled eyes of his and saw someone struggling to keep himself afloat within a hard exterior. He was different than Dean I guess there was something more manly about him that kept me wanting more. Now I've got all I could want, and suddenly I don't want it anymore.
This feeling is becoming all too familiar. I'm lying in my bed, trying desperately to push off the remnants of this past day's crush-interactions, but it sticks with me. I can't shake it off. I wrench my eyes tightly shut to the point where my eyes throb and colors dance before my lids and I beg sleep to take me away to a blissful peace from this haunting. Sleep will be a long time coming tonight. I finally give in, allowing my mind to surrender to thoughts of my crush.
I can't stop these feelings. Just imagining her name in my mind causes the muscles of my abdomen to clench and my head to feel dizzy. I can practically recreate her scent; I don't know if she uses perfume or if it's just her, but the smell is so intoxicating that I find myself shaking with every whiff of her. I feel like those kids who'll steal glue to get high it's ridiculous, but I need it. I need that high.
I don't know how it started. One day we're friends, of a sort; we've slowly been getting to a place where we can actually talk to each other without purposely trying to antagonize the other. Things were certainly moving in the right direction.
And then somehow, for some reason that even I can't figure out, Lane and I were discussing Chilton and she mentioned how she wished she had hair like Paris. I smiled and nodded along with her; after all, I had envied the blonde locks as well. Lane further described how hair like that would make anyone look good, even someone as dowdy as Paris. This is where the trouble started, I think. I considered what Lane had said and hastily replied: "I think she's kind of cute."
Not only did that slightly freak out Lane, but it got me thinking. Yea, I had always thought that Paris Gellar was a pretty girl. But to have verbalized it brought it to a new level. She was cute and not in that "I have a pretty friend that I'm jealous of" kind of way. Little things started to get my attention. Her eyes the way they challenged me when we spoke, beckoning me to respond with a sense of equality. Her neck the slope of it as she tipped her head slightly in concentration. The freckles on her nose holding my attention for hours as I counted and recounted the tan spots.
It was only natural for those thoughts to go a step further. I found myself watching for her, looking for her body in the crowds of students swarming the halls. When I'd see it, I'd nearly drop my books as I lost my breath. Those legs, encased in knee-high socks, the slightest amount of flesh shining between the cotton socks and the hemline of her skirt. Her backside, accentuated by the pleated skirt, caught my eye in a way I hadn't expected. I found myself many a time in class, watching her as she took her seat, imagining what it would feel like for her to sit instead upon my lap, applying her weight as her buttocks molded into a comfortable position on my thighs. Her hips made my fingers twitch, my yearning to grasp them as I did who knows what nearly consuming my thoughts entirely.
I've been finding excuses to touch her. Anything, really, will suffice. If I'm handing her something, I'll place my fingers in a way that will cause her to brush against them (all the while trying to convince myself that she initiated the caress, not I). If I'm looking over her shoulder at something (and am managing not to give in to the need to buckle at the knees, for her scent will undoubtedly be filling my nostrils), I'll find a way for our arms to touch. When we're talking, I'll stand an inch closer to her, in hopes that I'll get shoved by a rushed student into her side. It's ridiculous, really. I know this. But I can't not touch her. If I've gone a day without it, I find myself sullen and my mother and Jess both recognize the melancholy that will strike me.
As I shift now in my bed, I clench my thighs together, hoping to banish these possessive thoughts. I can't escape. As much as I try to think of Jess, I can't. His face only morphs into hers, those eyes challenging me to meet her there, to follow her into reckless abandon. I want so badly to be with her all the time, to see her face, to smell her, to hear her speak. I want her.
I've never wanted anyone as much as I want her. She could be doing the most mundane of tasks and I would be salivating, anxious to catch her attention and be soothed for but a moment as she settled her sights on me. I find myself trying to impress her, or make her laugh, just to be the one to put a smile on her face, or to pull a laugh from that exquisite throat.
This has gone too far, so much farther than I ever expected. Why did one declaration of general attraction turn into such a consuming affair? It's so hard to function like this, to concentrate in my classes, when all I can think of is her. This is where the fantasies come in, I suppose. I'm not proud of myself. But I can't get rid of the images of her and I engaged in a little steamy behavior.
There are times when we're at The Franklin, and I'm sitting at my computer working on a layout, and she'll crouch over my shoulder to see what I'm doing. Her hair will fall over her shoulders and sometimes brush against my neck. Her breath will occasionally gracefully whisper upon my cheek, and her scent will assault me in a way that leaves me sweating and eager for more. But these are the times that are the worst. Because it's during these times that one minute I'll be reveling in my crush, and the next I'll be imagining her face turning to mine and the closeness of our heads would make a kiss all too easy. And we would, in my mind, and the apex of my thighs would throb for the remainder of the afternoon.
But that's not even the worst of it. There'll be times that I'm keeping things at a generally PG-13 level, and she'll do or say something that'll get me in a frenzy. Like, for instance, the one time that we were working at the office and people were going in and out of the room. At one point, I had kneeled beside her chair to look at a copy with her, and we were close enough that when Louise entered the room she exclaimed, "Are you guys making out?" I knew she was saying it in her usual sarcastic manner, but that didn't erase the fact that it was implied and put out there for me to dwell on. Paris said nothing, and I can only assume she glared at Louise, for I couldn't look at her and Louise responded with an "Well, I couldn't see your faces." Paris shook her head (I knew this only by the movement of her breads; I still couldn't make eye contact) and returned to the copy. I, on the other hand, found myself fixated on the very idea of making out with Paris Gellar, wondering what her lips tasted like, what her tongue felt like. Those morphed into thoughts of my tasting her in places other than her mouth, and by that point I needed to grab my water bottle to hydrate my parched throat.
I need to stop this. I have a boyfriend. He doesn't deserve this. It's not fair to him that when we kiss I think of her. It's not fair that I am let down every time I put my hands on his waist that I come in contact with hard muscle rather than soft curves. It's not fair that I'm kept up at night because of her rather than him.
Part of me wants to tell her so badly. I'd love to know what she'd say to hear that her best friend has the hots for her. Would she be flattered? Disgusted? Annoyed? You can never tell with Paris how she'll react to something. I don't even know how she feels about the color pink, so there's no way to gauge how she feels regarding a same-sex crush.
I've got nothing to do but wallow in the tense, urgent fixation. This crush is pulling at me in every direction, keeping me forever wet and wanting of the one person I can't have. I feel like the sad Shakespearean fool, pining away for a forbidden love, only this time I don't think I'll win her over. I've got nothing to do but wait until this blows over.
And until that happens, I've got nothing but my crush-induced insomnia to keep me anxiously yearning.
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