This whole project came about because I fell in love, (...and, well, lust...) with Clayne Crawford. I initially figured that this narrative would be fan fiction. I'd write a fantasy and cast Clayne as the hero.

At first I thought that the feeling was the typical celebrity crush, but it became obvious that this is truly love. I have the stomach flutters, can't concentrate on anything else and think about Clayne all the time, get teary-eyed for no reason, just crave every tiny opportunity to see or hear him, and spend way too much time fantasizing. I chase every article, every blurb, and every photo, cutting them out and making them into a scrapbook of sorts. One of my searches found an article named An Open Letter to Clayne Crawford's Hair. It was much the same sentiment that I experience every time I look at him. His hair was what got to me to start with, and then he spoke, and I fell so hard it hurt. (The man's voice is at least two octaves deeper than most men I've heard. My guy's voice is that deep only late when we're about to go to sleep, and he's speaking our last murmurings of the day. Generally his voice is at least one octave higher than Clayne's.)

The picture collection includes his hair in various forms of disarray. My current favorite is from an episode of Lethal Weapon. The show opens with him lying kind of on his stomach in bed, his shoulders and his upper back bare as he hugs a bright white pillow, with his hair spread out on the pillow all around his face. Something wakes him, and he opens his eyes. It takes my breath away just thinking about it.

I pull out my scrapbook several times a day just to see his pretty face. Besides the "hair collection", there are pictures of him sad (...tears in his eyes gets me every time...), laughing (...his smile and laughs look just like my husband's...), serious, (...solving a problem, resolving a case [ He plays a tough-guy cop, if you're not familiar with Lethal Weapon.], or flashing back to his tragic past [This one also brings on the tears occasionally...), beautiful, (...standing in a subway tunnel, the train rushing past blowing his hair back front both sides of his face...bite my lip gorgeous...) and just a basic portrait. One of the photos is a full body shot of him walking toward the camera in tight jeans that emphasize his, uh, "bulges."

Even in the middle of the night, I get up, toddle to my magazine rack (where I've stored my collection), and look at every picture before I go back to bed and fantasize some more. I have the basic portrait shot in my wallet, and look at it whenever I need to get anything out of my purse, or just want to see him and can't get to my scrapbook. In open-collared shirt and jacket with his hand running through his gorgeous hair, he's the wallpaper on my laptop and my PC.

You will see that my "memoirs" are not edited, but mostly just condensed. I don't shy away from those events that may be possibly illegal, probably immoral, or just plain embarrassing. If I worked my way through all the "exciting" things I did in my life, I would bore even myself to pieces. The events portrayed are here only to forward the story "Phrases and Vignettes: Loving the Towers", or are relative to my obsession with Clayne.

I haven't felt this giddy since I met my real-life husband years ago. I realized only recently that my Clayne (as my story hero, Lane ) actually reminds me of my husband and our deliriously wonderful love affair when we first met. The physical resemblances are obvious, and my Clayne has the hair, the dimples, the "fur," the voice (My guy used to sing to me when we were in private, and when we were in a crowd or a club, sang softly in my ear - I get gushy thinking about it even now...), and the body that my real guy had back in our jukin' days. Watching my guy walk was a favorite pastime of not just me, but many of the women we saw on a regular basis when we were out. We'd be at some club or other, a bunch of women sitting at a table together, watching him come and go to and from the bar or potty, giggling and pointing like little girls. Everybody knew with whom he was going home, but that he was fair game for flirting anytime. (...And you know he didn't mind being ogled...)

Enhancing his image, my pretty guy wore Angel Flights, (...they're bell bottoms with no back pockets, the better to display a taut bottom), which were form-fitting everywhere (...I do mean everywhere...these pants helped me get him out of tighty-whities and into bikinis...), hand-painted silk designer shirts. (The shirts clung to his shoulders, chest, and abs [lip bite!], his biceps and forearms [sigh!] all the better to dip or lift or spin or twirl me...)

Those strong arms protected and supported me frequently. The type of work he performed made for very strong arms, hands, and upper body...His lower body was better suited to other things, uh...dancing among them. Some of those other things sometimes were all-day marathons. The boy really likes sex!...He's a Leo/Virgo cusp, which makes him a tender athletic lover. (Fanning my face!)

Many was the night my inebriated AND high self (...our drug of choice was biphetamine washed down with caffeine and blended whiskey...We were very high but wide awake...), that I would either fall or slip, and he kept me off the floor with his upper body strength. On his talented feet, he wore weightless three-inch Cuban Heels. His angel flights were cut West point with only about half an inch of the shoe showing. Damn, he was, in the vernacular, "fine." (My real guy's not tall like my story hero, but the shoes put him right at five-eleven, which, since I danced in two to three inch heels, was absolutely perfect.)

The physical traits still sneak up on me every now and then. I get the stomach flips every time, of all things, that he scoops ice cream for me. While he scoops, I stand and gaze at his handsome profile, admire the soft hair on his arms, the flexing of the muscles on his arm and forearm, and how his wristwatch just above his hand emphasizes his warm strong hand. (...His hands are always warm, love to have him hold mine anytime or caress and cuddle me in bed at night...) All of these things are so masculine to me and really sexy. He constantly has to playfully brush me off him.

The dance party deep in the story brought a lot of memories to the fore. My pretty man was that good on the dance floor, and was often complimented by other guys even! The women either tried to befriend me or permanently maim me to get me out of the picture. He and I both used to get accolades and were afforded celebrity status at many of the clubs we frequented. I was a giggly drunk. He was a happy drunk and could never say "no", when one of the ladies with whom we partied wanted to dance or just talk (...and on a couple of occasions go home with us...heh, heh...) .

Once in a while, a guy would "trade" us womenfolk for a dance, usually at the behest of the other lady involved. My guy always complied and usually made the lady exceptionally happy by toning it down or showing her to good advantage. Everyone knew that I wouldn't dance with anyone other than my guy, no matter who asked,  unless he had "traded me." (Well, that's not exactly true. I always danced with band members if they asked. One of my all-time favorite memories was when a semi-famous lead singer danced a slow-dance with me on a New Year's Eve. My guy and I were both big fans of this band, so much so that even he brags about my having danced with Anthem's Raoul.)

There were one or two couples that, like us, were regulars, and we always exchanged partners one or two times on nights that we were there at the same time. I remember that one guy and I were the only two who knew how to clog. He always asked if it was okay to dance with me when they played something appropriate. We always called his partner (his sister) "GooGoo Eyes," 'cause she was absolutely crazy about my guy. She actually broke us up...the longest ten days of my life. You would not believe how many people got onto him for that. He asked me to dance the next time he ran into me, and was abjectly "sorry for having hurt me", expressed "how much he had missed me", admitted that it "was such a mistake," asked "could I forgive him, "and (...this one got me...) "would I come home?" (...Not "home with him", but "home"...) Home...with him was home. I was so pleased that I bawled all over him, and went "home"...and have been there ever since.

Although he would never admit it, my guy is sensitive, feels things deeply, but works very hard to hide it. Just today, we had a disagreement in the car over something or other, and I don't know what I did to indicate that I was hurt, but after a while, when we were walking toward some store, he put his arm around my waist, pulled me close, and apologized for upsetting me, and then stopped me and hugged me and very sweetly apologized again. He must have thought that it had been a pretty grievous offense, because he apologized two or three more times during the course of the morning and begged me not to cry. His sweet attentions made me want to cry more than whatever sin he had committed.

The one subject that actually hit me in the weirdest way is that the Clayne and my guy were born in the same state and the same county! (Must be something in the water there ... snicker...) All the physical similarities struck me most when I was doing my daily obeisance to the Clayne's picture and happened to have it next to one of my husband, shirt off, tiny waist, broad shoulders, the beautiful blond "fur" on his well-formed chest, beautiful brown-blond hair on his pretty head, and those gorgeous dimples. The Clayne does look like my guy did. (...and the way I see my guy in my mind's eye now...)

And now, I want to share this excitement of new love with somebody, but don't know how. Hence I started writing my "memoirs." Some folks may determine who I am by recognizing one or two of the incidents described herein, but no one person knows about all of these events, (...or the two to which I just 'fessed up to today , and 'no!' I can't tell you [...more on these later...]) not even my husband nor my daughter, the two who know me best.