Boy Toy Hooked Up with a Stanford Student and Wrote About It and Became Famous?

I had this rather awkward OKCupid conversation about two years ago. Unbeknownst to me, I hooked up with an undergrad at Stanford and wrote about it and became famous! This was actually the moment I realized that I had created somewhat of a phenomenon. Boy Toy suddenly became bigger than me, with an infamous life of his own, embedded in fiction beyond the grasp of my own reality.

It’s amazing how words can influence us. Every story changes depending on who reads it, and we all take a little something different from a narrative to which we can associate. None of the original Confessions ever mentioned Stanford (or any California college, for that matter), but guys still identified with it, flexing to believe it could be about them or about someone they might know. Our own experiences shape the way we view the world — the way we read a blog.

I am proud to have written something that resonated with so many guys all over the world, most of whom I’ve never even met. It goes to show that I’m not the only one to have (over)reacted over a broken heart or mourned a failed relationship or got caught up in my own fantasies of being the one. Even the most specific circumstances can become universal if the right emotion is involved.

Now that Boy Toy is out and about — hooking up with discerning undergrads all over the country without my knowledge, let alone my permission — how could I ever reign him back in? Or is it better to just let him float free? Unattached and uncommitted. Not bound to answer to anyone – not even the man who created him.

BOY TOYS TALK BACK: How did you find out about the original Confessions of a Boy Toy blog? Did I hook-up with someone at your school too?

The Way the Game Is Played

“You should be very proud of yourself,” he says grabbing me as I try to get up from my bed to go and turn off my bedroom lights. It takes some effort, but I finally manage to get up from his arms and walk towards the door. On my way, I readjust my crumbled up boxers over my jeans.

“I don’t usually do this,” he says.

“Yeah, I love to wrestle in bed,” I respond, dimming the lights.

“No, I mean, hook up that often.” I’m confused. I had totally pegged him as a total player. The day I met him at a mutual friend’s BBQ, he had gotten in a fight with a drunken straight guy and called him an asshole. All while hopping around on crutches. He’d broken his left foot jumping down a fence and had to get a cast, but that didn’t stop him from provoking a riot. So I figured that the testosterone that muddled his temper also filtered down to his crotch and fucked up his libido – encouraging every impulse to “hit that.”

It had definitely fucked with mine. I was instantly attracted to this Potential Player and his straight guy-like bravado. And I refused to watch from the sidelines.

But playing with bad boys is a dangerous sport, and I didn’t want to end up getting hurt and calling foul. So I didn’t think much of this guy with the sexy dimples and messy hair who always wore his shirts wrinkled. I wasn’t even expecting him to call me, even though we did have an intense, shirtless make out session on my friend’s couch the night of the BBQ. With his foot in a cast, I had to lift him up and support him on my shoulders when we started to dance, swaying slowly to “Electric Feel.”

And then three weeks later, there he was: free of crutches and inviting me to his birthday celebration. Potential Player has this way of making every guy feel

like the only one on the team, which solidified my first impression that he would pitch to whomever was willing to catch. And that’s what caught me at the

beginning. He has the confidence of a Casanova, never mind that he prefers LMFAO to MGMT.

The night of his birthday, he brought about 25 guys to his party at Trigger. Impressive considering we live in a city often unwilling to commit. The sexy bartenders flowered him with even more attention in the form of drinks. But I kept sober. Despite the fact that it seemed as if I were playing Marco Polo in a pool full of men wanting to swim up the birthday boy’s trunks, I felt a little like Michael Phelps, for I had already won. I’d hooked up with Potential Player the night before. See, I don’t do sidelines.

So the next night at Trigger, I felt quite secure in my position as starting player on his team. A little past midnight, I gave him a hug and made up the excuse that I had to meet up with some other friends in the Mission. I didn’t want him to think that he was a starting player on my team. Before I exited the club, he gave my number to one of his friends, a tall, hunky blond. “My phone is about to die, and I forgot my charger,” Potential Player explained. “I’ll call you tomorrow on his phone.” And he did, and we hooked up again. But this time with the lights off. And I felt like the only one on the team.