On Boys Who French Press and Breaking Patterns

For the past three years, every guy I’ve been with uses a French Press as their main source of coffee making. Dudes I bang for a night, Dudes I bang for multiple nights, Dudes I’ve chosen to bang, exclusively, for years-the one thing they have in common (besides being selfish, insecure, perpetual men children who I am obsessed with) is that they all love to French Press. It took me until this last guy to figure out how to use one without a tablespoon full of stray coffee grains at the bottom of our mugs and at the end of a very drawn out break up, I look at that small accomplishment as the one positive thing I took from him…along with his parent’s netflix account.

I’m an actor. Most of the guys I date are actors or artists of some sort. One of the great things about living in Chicago as an actor is the sheer amount of theatre we have and the size of the artistic community. While the community is big, for a girl who grew up and went to college here, it can seem pretty tiny. It sounds cliche, but everyone does know everyone. As a single person you can either make an active, yet difficult choice to not dip into that pool or, if you’re like me, you’ll take your chances swimming with the sharks. Thus, I find myself, more often than not, underneath (or on top if I’m really into it) some hipster actor I saw tear up the stage in a new adaptation of Sophocles’ Antigone on Roller Skates. I’m a sucker for it. I’ve never been too impressed by the big stages, but show me some theatre in a dark basement with shoe-string lights and a crap ton of stage blood and all of a sudden I’ve dissolved into a fangirl who is not ashamed to practice her surfboard** skills on the lead actor in honor of his performance.

The first non-actor I’ve ever been with was Jon, a barista in Logan Square who looked like the poor man’s Gael Garcia Bernal. After using his cafe as my personal rehearsal room for about a month, I ended up naked in his bed one afternoon listening to him cry about how much he missed his ex-girlfriend. Who was also his roommate. I started laughing out of complete horror and he offered to make me coffee before I left. That was the first time I encountered the french press and all I could think during his sob story was how amazingly fresh and rich it tasted and if his misplaced tears were worth a perfect cup. It was. I stayed with him off and on for the better part of three years.

I was never a big coffee drinker until I lived in New York. Every corner, no matter what time of day, had coffee readily available for a buck. So I got used to drinking crappy coffee loaded with sugar and cream until I started seeing Greg, a graphic artist who was squatting in this loft in Harlem with a bunch of his friends. Being with him was like living the theatre dream: Here I was, in New York for the first time, coupling up with this dude who was living the real life RENT. Greg scoffed at the idea of replying to all those notices left on their doors about paying back-rent, but he’d be damned if he was going to drink Folgers drip coffee on any given day. He never had a phone that was regularly on (damn you boost mobile) nor did he ever have any money to go anywhere for dates, but what he did have was bougie taste in coffee…and an air mattress. I was in love.

I’ve always dated the same type of guys. I like to be needed so I’m a magnet for boys who need someone to take care of them. I’m incredibly attracted to dependency and talent, which makes me prime real estate for an artist looking to park his cock somewhere safe for the winter. While I’m not, in any way shape or form, ok with being some dude’s stepford chick, I do enjoy taking care of the men I’m with. Even as I type that I get a little nauseous, but it’s true! I  have this deep need to be the perfect partner in a relationship and I get pleasure in making people happy; whether that’s making them laugh or making them dinner, my natural inclination (in love) is to try to make the other person happy and in turn I will be too. But only after they are happy. I know this about myself and my sensors go into overdrive anytime I’m about to go down the path again. But I can’t help it, it’s habitual.

Until now.

A few days ago, I slept over another actor dude’s apartment and when I woke up he was making us coffee. Out of his French Press. In the agonizingly slow 7 minutes it took to make this perfect batch of dream coffee I saw our entire future:

He’ll give me his dirty Mickey Mouse shirt to wear one day along with a toothbrush to keep at his place.

I’ll start sleeping over every night, only seeing him between the hours of 11pm and 8am because we’re both in shows.

We won’t ever fight because I don’t like confrontation and he’s too high to care.

He’ll tell me he wants to move in together-because Rent.

We’ll get a place in Lincoln Square because that’s where people go to couple up and die.

He’ll wake up one day and decide he’s “not into it anymore”, and while he thinks I’m “very talented” he just feels he needs to “work on himself and rage while he still can”

He’ll be very close to 30 years old.

By the time he had poured my coffee in a mason jar to bring it over to me, I had my boots on and was halfway out the door.

I think I’ve learned my lesson.

So here it is, I’m breaking my patterns: I’m taking a break from banging selfish artists and I’m switching to Ginger Tea. I heard it’s good for cramps.


(no normal person should actually attempt the Surf Board. Leave it to Yonce)