Lego My Pengo

All right, I’ll admit it: I’m always weary to meet an architecture student. Sure they’re great people to hang around. I mean Yesteryear’s lego artists are today’s aspiring skyscraper designers. They always have cool projects to show off that are mesmerizing to the common eye but only adequate to their own.

Then why the hell did you show me it to begin with if you’re not going to take my compliments?

Back to the point, I’ll agree they have the best “I’m a stressed college student and hate my life” stories, and when they drink, they drink to get drunk. I’ve decided it’s a side effect from staying cooped up in their respective university Halls for days on end. Then there’s that whole thing about most of them being filthy rich later in life, but who’s counting down the days?

Aside from being probably the best party animals on campus and a great target to remember when you want to feel better about your “millions of papers to write,” a gay architecture student makes an awful potential boyfriend. Think I’m wrong? Hear me out.

Most of the gay architecture students are either too busy to date and only want sex, or they’re battling inner psychosis problems beyond a psychology student’s wildest dreams that disable them from coming out. You’re gay! You’re gay! You’re gay! And guess what? Nobody cares.

Trust me, I’ve dated a few architecture students, so I know my way around the whole “come to this party with me but don’t talk about your sexuality, nor anybody’s for that matter” scenario. It’s exhausting.

I once dated an architecture student for five months. He had no problem showing me his latest designs, drawings and sexual positions, but when it came to partying together or meeting his friends, I was simply “a friend from school.” What was so strange about the whole situation is that his friends knew exactly what I was, but simply jumped on the bandwagon and gave a socially acceptable nod that said, “yeah … right.” Then the bane of my existence was never discussed further. As if it’s actually baneful! I had stories, I had funny gay jokes, and I had a childhood filled with awkward, gay moments that could make a table full of college kids laugh their ass off. I’m really not a stereotype or anything.

Anyway, I’m sure I don’t need to say this, but while the sex was amazing, I had to say next. And saying next is always like seeing a feature-film movie after reading the book first. It fills you with both self- defeat and a strange sense of liberty.

Then I just so happened to start fucking an actual architect. And let me tell you, established architects have the best homes for

adult sleepovers. Ever want to take a shower in a space surrounded by imported glass walls and immaculate, granite floors? Not to mention a shower with a built-in satellite radio and two to three different water dispensers that have voice commanded pressure changers? Fall in love with and marry an architect, people.

I didn’t have that option, though. This man was pushing 40 (but had the body of a 25-year-old runner. I’m a sucker for a great runner’s body), and was already in an open relationship. I just didn’t know about the other dude until after the architect had been inside me, let me sit on his fantastic, reclining leather sofa and fed me vanilla ice cream with fresh peaches (I know, right?!). I didn’t want to date him, anyway. He was 40! Try explaining that one to your best friends.

But again I ran into the typical self and work-absorbed architect. When I woke each morning after staying the night, he was on the other side of the bed with an architectural book in one hand and speedily typing away at his laptop with the other. I can’t lie, though, I was impressed and instantly turned on from his ambition. But I only let this happen for a week’s time before I realized I was just a young, cute replacement for his boyfriend who just so happened to be 10 years his junior.

And then I said something very simple to myself while driving out of the architect’s long, tree-filled driveway that I swear I’ve only seen in cheesy romantic comedies. I said: Self, you can never date an architect again.


*My views are not formed from society’s stereotypical views of a gay architect, rather pure observation. However, if you’re a fun loving, hopeless romantic gay architect, well, now you’re a double minority.

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