If you’ve ever tried to have sex or even just petted heavy with a guy who got hooked on porn too early,
you know they’ve got some fictional notions of what intimacy looks (and sounds) like. I, for instance,
don’t repeat the phrase, “Oh yeah, give it to me!” while in the throws, nor do I treat his member like an
edible God.

But ladies grew up with some equally ridiculous ideas about relationships. Like fighting with a guy
then storming out because you just KNOW he’ll run after you, pull you close and say, “I was wrong.
Please. I can’t lose you,” then kiss you passionately and the fight’ll suddenly disappear like the smoke
monster on LOST? In reality you end up standing outside his door alone or sitting in your car waiting
for a guy who’s probably playing video games and wondering why you’re such a nut. That behavior
doesn’t work in the real world. It only works on the WB. The WB is porn for chicks.

Buffy’s bedroom was on the second story so, that Angel showed up at her window after every fight
showed great motivation you’re not likely to find in a real guy, unless he’s a stalker with impressive
upper body strength (who wants that combo)? Also, he was a VAMPIRE – a fact I overlooked when I
filed that relationship under “Ideal,” in my bank of sad delusions. Finally, she was a SLAYER. My
ideal relationship: being the most special person on earth and being adored by the most special
vampire. None of this has to do with love, it has to do with popularity. Flash back to the social
torment of Junior High. Flash forward to moving to LA to act. The picture becomes clearer.

Buffy and Roswell both promoted this: tragedy equals the perfect romantic setting. In Buffy, the world
needing to constantly be saved plus the “I’m a cheerleader, you’re a 250 year old vampire” dilemma
was material enough to create tragic circumstances. Roswell: Teen soul mates, Max and Liz, are in
intergalactic planetary chaos for 99% of their lives; no wonder the kissing scenes were so hot. But if
you’re not lucky enough to be struck by tragedy naturally, you have to force it. This is when things get
ugly. It’s tough work in the form of taking everything he says the wrong way, crying pretty, and
creating situations where he must confess deep emotions or it’s over. Most guys drop out after scenario
one. The good ones stick around but they end up hating you for it.

It’s a major suck in the real world where you have to sacrifice demon chases for movie nights, “I have
to save the world. Again,” for mature conversation, and hot aliens for aspiring comedians. But it beats
sitting home alone at 30 with a bottle of white and the complete collection of Dawson’s Creek poised
for yet another night in. Don’t get me started on Joey…