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Many colleges and universities are veritable playgrounds for liberal, artsy types. In fact, many universities are havens for people that just didn’t fit in during their high school years, and now have morphed into impossibly hip, geek-chic types. There are, of course, those people that were quite popular in high school, and still revel in those rather awkward high school behaviors; gossiping and drinking until they pass out every weekend. I happen to go to college at one of these havens, known as New York University.

Now, I happen to be attracted to those very geek-chic, bookish types with paint encrusted hair and clothes and chalk pastels stuck under their fingernails. There’s something about that paint-covered, devil-may-care, unintentionally fashionable attitude that I find extremely attractive. When I arrived at NYU, I was basically in artsy boy heaven.

One of these artsy boys who was in my particularly obscure gender studies class seemed to like me quite a lot, and he was basically the living embodiment of my “perfect specimen.” Throughout our class, we threw each other shy, rather coy looks, and the moment the our eyes connected, we perhaps-not-so-subtly looked away, as if we had never looked at each other in the first place. This ridiculous, totally non-verbal game went on for quite some time, until my art-boy took action. In the middle of a particularly dull class discussion concerning gender roles in modern society, I was passed a note from my neighbor. I could only guess who it was from. Now, this gesture was a bit off-putting at first, as I hadn’t been passed a note in class since sixth grade. I tried to open it as quietly as possible under my desk, and I felt twelve again. Once I had finally been successful in getting the artfully folded letter flat under the desk. I quickly whipped it up onto my open notebook. Hopefully, my teacher would simply assume it was notes from the previous nights reading....

The letter was amazingly crafted: there was only one phrase in the middle of a beautifully decorated, albeit lined, page: “Let’s go to the Whitney Museum today.” Around this simple phrase were beautiful, incredibly detailed sketches of flowers and various abstract designs. I was touched. I threw the art boy a coy glance. His eyes met mine, and for the first time, I didn’t actually look away. I nodded. The art-boy seemed pleased.

That afternoon, we went to the Whitney Museum; a very modern museum full of strange pieces that made for very interesting, in depth discussions. The date was great, except, when I attempted to inquire as to his interests and personal information, it was always about art. We decided that we both wanted to see each other again, and art-boy (whose name was actually Nome... strange, but true...) suggested that we go to a very obscure gallery in the Lower East Side. I was a bit “galleried” out, but I had no other idea, so I agreed to the venue. The second date was filled with nothing but art talk once again. I was beginning to be a bit frustrated by this. Much to my chagrin, the third date also was at a gallery, and the evening was filled with absolutely nothing but art chatter once again. Art-boy was a very serious young man, and whenever I tried to lighten the mood by making a silly or immature comment about a certain piece of art, he seemed deeply wounded. After five art-gallery dates, I had had quite enough. I let Nome/ art-boy go as gently as possible, using the deplorable but amicable line: “It’s not you, it’s me.”

After that rather brief fling, I took a break from the art-boys, but I don’t really know how long I’ll be able to stay away...

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