THE LOVES I ONCE KNEW

IT'S a given that the clothes you wear say a lot about you...but what about the clothes that your significant other wears? Maybe you're into the prepsters, punks, or metro sexuals who are at the cusp of being gay, but not quite there yet.

This rule of attraction has made me reflect on my ex boyfriends, and what they say about me. So sit back as I give you a sado masochistic little story of loves I once knew.

M. was an oxy moronic, Ralph Lauren obsessed, politically conscious hip hopper who cried a little more than often. He was my first boyfriend, and judging by our seven year age difference, I should have seen a train wreck coming, but I was too naive to believe that there was something wrong with a 23 year old who had anything in common with a 16 year old, sure I was very mature, but this was just a bit odd don't you think?

Our "relationship" was over when the oxy moron...

was sent to jail for being caught with a little too much pot in his his pocket. He annoyingly continued to write me love letters from his "I swear this isn't a jail, it's a rehabilitation program" jail with sketches of random "art" with intricate shading, I never deemed possible of creating with a regular ol' number 2 pencil.

We shall call my college boyfriend Razor. I was a freshman; he was a senior about to graduate and move to Boston to work in finance. Razor was a great guy who wore Brooks Brother's shirts and Gap 1969 jeans with colorful Nikes (oooooh daring!) or New Balances. He had the "not quite there" but almost prepster look going on.

Razor was a gentleman and nothing crazy happened. We just grew apart.

Next up on my reality show life, came Mr. Jewish "hot shot" Hollywood agent who was always dressed to the nines in suits. I think they were Brioni. His weekend outfits were a bit lacking, and those white tube socks, killed me. Ironically enough, he dumped me for a celebrity fashion stylist who "possibly" had an STD (seriously). I was madly infactuated with this fool, and never got over this. NEVER.

After that traumatic experience came Mr. famous Norwegian painter. I loved him. I really really did, but his parading all around the world in tight snake skin leather pants and crazy Roberto Cavalli shirts and sex with 19 year olds after his fancy schmansy art openings and dinner with the royals didn't sit to well with me...

I wanted some sort of commitment... He wanted dinner at Megu. Needless to say, we weren't on the same page.

My current boyfriend Mr. OB Gyn sees more vagina's in a day than all the male readers of my blog combined... I don't mind. I actually find it kinda sexy when he calls me and tells me he just delivered twins because I'm a twin, and this kinda thing turns me on, okay?! He wears scrubs 90 percent of the time (even while lounging at home, in his "these are my home scrubs, NOT my work scrubs")attire. He can be found accessorizing those green atrocities with one of his 12 prescribed designer glasses which I find beyond sexy. During his clinic days (Mondays and Wednesdays) he wears Armani Suits. He ALWAYS wears tight Calvin Klein boxer briefs...

only grey of course, which oddly, are sent to him in care packages from his mommie, and even if he looks like a million bucks, he absolutely HATES IT when I complement him.

God I love the nerds...