Because a certain segment of the fandom really enjoys The Beard, I wrote this story for the The Man in June 2013.  This was quite the stretch for me since I’m in the Anti-Beard Brigade.  Enjoy.

*****

The man knew it was wrong the moment he saw the three women, but he couldn’t help it.  He’d spotted them as he left the studio, tired from a long day on the set.  From the sudden intense whispering and shy smiles his way, he knew they were fans.  Ordinarily, he felt pleased and a little gratified to meet fans, making small talk, scrawling autographs and posing for pictures.  But this promised something more – naughty. A thrill of anticipation rushed through him as he approached.

He scanned their faces, judging who could be The One.  The slight blonde, standing behind the two older women, didn’t seem a likely prospect.  She smiled and eyed him in a polite detached manner, lacking the “fan” aura.   She likely accompanied her friends to the studio just to observe.  The youngest of the trio looked ready to burst with excitement, shoulders scrunched in tension, hands clasped in front of her tightly, and the widest smile he’d ever seen.  He would have been able to see her shining eyes but she could barely look him in the eye. No, she wasn’t “it.”

As he turned to the oldest of the trio, his heart sped up.  The tall brunette stood nearly eye to eye with him. She regarded him in a more subdued fashion with a crooked uncertain grin and cocked head.  The eyes gave her away: they darted from his and away. Ordinarily, he’d think she was stealing sneaky glimpses of his mouth, but he knew that wasn’t it.  It was the BEARD.

He reached up reflexively to touch it.  This was the beard’s second stretch for his character.  After four weeks, it had grown in but hadn’t reached it’s full potential.  Commentators on Alia’s blog called it “the baby beard.”  He smirked.  When the itchiness of the growth subsided, he quite liked the surprising silkiness of it.  He also liked another thing: the fans touching it.  That discovery occurred when a fan had asked to touch it on a dare.  He’d posed in amusement for the photo but had been secretly shocked by one thing; the frisson of tension he’d felt the second her fingers stroked his face.  It was as if another part of himself had leaned forward figuratively to luxuriate in her touch.  It had felt so – sensual.  He hadn’t regarded himself as a particular tactile person in this touchy-feely business, so he’d been caught out by the fleeting intense surge of pleasure.  Friends did not produce the same effect; the touch of a fan seemed somehow thrilling and – forbidden, yes, deliciously forbidden.

His hand’s motion quickly drew her eyes.  Her top lip sucked at the bottom.   Surely news of the earlier fan had gotten out; she wanted to touch his beard too.  Her eyes darted back to his questioningly.  His smile widened as that naughty part of him tempted her by leaning forward.  She took the bait.

“Would you like to?” He leaned tantalizingly close, marveling how he could invade her personal space like this.  Who was he and what was he doing?

“May I?”  She didn’t seem to mind.

Her hand seemed to move in slow motion as it rose from her side. The anticipation stretched as she came closer and closer and then – just the barest, lightest touch. His eyes fluttered closed as her fingers left a trail of subtle sensation across his cheek and along the jawline.  He slowly exhaled breath he’d not realized he’d been holding and he shuddered lightly.  Delicious.  Simply delicious. The hand fell away suddenly.  His eyes opened.  Good grief, had she noticed?  She smiled, thanked him, and glanced in amazement at her friends.  No, she’d probably remembered she’d been stroking the beard of a stranger.  She’d been too enthralled in her own experience do notice his.   He collected himself and posed for the group photo, pretty sure that his eyes possessed a bit more twinkle.  He sent them off with a nod and smile.

He turned away, heading for his bike. Tonight, he would relive the moment over and over.  Maybe Alia would write a post about it – beard stroking by strangers as pleasure.  He reached the bike and stopped in his tracks.  Good grief. What was fandom doing to him?

He had a fetish.

This post hails back to March 2012 at the height of my Guy of Gisborne fascination.  Written for Fanstravaganza 3, an annual Richard Armitage fan appreciation fest, this madcap farce featured me, my psyche trio (mischievous id Jodi, nanny superego Jada, and enigmatic ego Quiet One), Patty the Pomeranian, Winston the black pug of depression, and my therapist Dr. G.   And let’s not forget Guy of Gisborne as played by Richard Armitage in Robin Hood. 

Be sure to read first parts 1 and 2 linked below to get the full picture of our heroine’s situation.

*****

We last left off here and here with our intrepid heroine not getting her money’s worth in therapy.  But her fantasy figure certainly is.

A Big City

7:45PM

I gaze at my watch again.  Has it only been 45 minutes?  Have we slipped into a crack in the space/time continuum?  Surely it must be next week.  On the upside,  Guy has covered a lot of ground but the session ends in five minutes.  What could possibly go wrong?

Guy sits slumped in his chair, his fingers still caught in his long hair – correction, much longer hair.  It falls in waves to his shoulders, obscuring his perfect profile.  His black leather has changed for the designer Italianate variety.  He’s ready for the cover of Medieval GQ.   Oh dear.  I have a bad feeling about this.

Jada makes an observation. “Dr. G. seems to be putting him through changes.”

Jodi licks her lips. “I’ve always liked this version best.”

Quiet One … is quiet.

Winston and Patty paw through my copy of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, (Fourth Edition), chuffing and apparently arguing with each other.  Clever pooches.

I glance curiously at Dr. G. as she scribbles notes in earnest.   She has pulled books off the shelf behind her, including her own DSM manual.  Her eyes have a strange light, the kind I get when I think about “peaches.”

Jada eyes the manual.  “She’s probably thinking about how many diagnoses she can cram into her medical journal article,  plus her best seller and a slot on Oprah’s new network.”

Jodi ogles Guy as he turns his glamorous face to the therapist.  “She’s probably thinking about the ethical question of treating and shagging a fantasy figure at the same time.”

Quiet One snerks.

Dr. G. stops scribbling.  “Let me get this straight, Guy.  You craved the love of your mother, hated your father, and eschewed love and security for status and power.  Despite your childhood experience, you accidentally abandoned your baby in pursuit of that in the fear that your lady love would find out?”

Guy’s lovely brows furrow in confusion.  “Aye, er… nay… er… aye?”

Jada interjects.  “Well, it’s a little bit more complicated that…”

Jodi adds gleefully. “Yes, don’t forget about the love/hate relationship with Vasey.  Oh, the Freudian  implications there!”

Quiet One actually nods.

Winston and Patty rip pages out of the DSM manual.  They have an impressive pile.

Dr. G. sighs.  “Vasey?”

Guy looks away grimly.  “The Sheriff of Nottingham.  He was my liege lord since I was made a knight.  I was duty bound to carry out his orders.   He promised me return of my family lands, status and power that was taken from us when King Richard took the throne.  His ways … were not always well received.”

Jada nods.  “Guy was the black knight.”

Jodi elucidates further.  “Guy was the sadistic, lying, cheating, hand chopping, murdering black knight.”

Is Quiet One holding her breath?

Guy flicks his hair and snaps defensively.  “I only chopped off one hand, killed a few.  My sins were middling as far as black knights go.”

Jada ponders this.  “Yes, he does have a point.  He was fairly average.”

Jodi scoffs. “Average?  He couldn’t shoot an arrow straight, lost every fight with Robin Hood and was a lousy swordsman!”

Quiet One is … yes, that was sporfle.

I almost sporfle as well.  Jodi, as usual, makes a point;  Guy was not only pretty, he was a pretty bad black knight.  Who knew?

Guy jumps to his feet, shaking in impressive manly umbrage.  “I did the best I could, you accursed… id! I did not wish to do it at all! I could not get away from Vasey.  At least Marian could see the best in me.”

Jada clears her throat uncomfortably.

Jodi harrumphs.  “And look what happened there…”

Quiet One heaves a long sigh.

Winston and Patty pause in their page ripping.

I gaze anxiously at my watch.  “It’s time, session is over!  Let’s go!”

Everybody ignores me.

Dr. G. can’t help herself.  “So what happened with Marian?”

Guy’s lovely features scrunch heartbreakingly, sapphire eyes welling with tears.

Jada begins hesitantly.  “Well… there was an unfortunate knifing…”

Jodi puts it out there. “He ran her through with his sword.”

Quiet One is … very quiet.

I hold my breath.

Guy erupts in a rage, hair flying gorgeously as he shakes his head.  “It was an accident! I did not mean to do it.  I would never harm her!”

Dr. G. leaps to her feet cooing.  “Of course, now calm yourself.”

Guy continues in his angst. “It was truly an accident!  But such words that came from her mouth … she said she would rather die than marry me, that she would marry Hood!  I wanted to stop those words.  I had my sword like thus -”  He whips out the broadsword.  ” – and reached for her like thus -… GOD’S BLOOD … !”

We all gasp, including surprised Dr. G. with the sword sticking out of her.

She stares up into Guy’s face.  “I – I think … I know … what your problem is.”

We all lean in close.

She gasps out.  ” You – You … You’re a fuck-up.”  *THUD*

To say there is a long silence is an understatement.

Jada states the obvious.  “This isn’t good.”

Jodi considers the remark. ” It sure isn’t!  Is “fuck-up” even in the DSM manual?”

Winston and Patty gape and shake their heads.

I’m beyond words.  On the downside I have a dead therapist on my hands.  On the upside, I won’t have to worry about the bill.  It’s always best to think positive.

Guy stares in angst at his sword, probably wondering how it got there, too. His magnificent shoulders droop in resignation. “I am cursed! I have killed another innocent maid.  This cannot stand.  I must throw myself upon the mercy of your law.”

Jada is ever pragmatic. “Point that thing elsewhere, Guy.  Actually, you’re not real.  None of us are.  So only Judi can go to prison.”

Jodi grins saucily. “Exactly! So you’ll have to resort to getting blindingly drunk and indulging in wild forgetful sex every night again.”

Guy flinches.  “I remember not.”

Jodi winks.  “It hasn’t been written.  Yet.”

Jada finishes her assessment. “And Patty will be ripped from the bosum of her rescue forever home and thrown back into the clutches of foster care.”

Patty yelps and faints.  Winston whines at her.

I’m feeling a bit faint myself.  I could see it now: The new Twinkie defense! – woman says therapist killed by fantasy figure, only eyewitness is traumatized dog, news at 11.

Quiet One speaks, astounding us all.  “Look, if Guy isn’t real, then neither is the sword.  See, there is no wound at all.  I think she’s just suffered something like a psychic shock.  It’s going to be okay!”

We gawp at Quiet One for a second as the realization sinks in.  Much relieved backslapping ensues.

I am exhausted.  “Well, we’d better get out of here before she wakes up.  Hopefully she won’t remember a thing.”  Or I’ll need a new therapist.

Suddenly a male voice booms. “It looks like I have arrived just in time!”

We look around before finally looking down.  There stands a small, stocky, but very attractive fit figure with long flowing gray streaked locks and full beard, regal blue robes and a fur cloak. Blue eyes regard us imperiously.

Guy eyes the interloper, sensing competition.  “Who is this?”

The figure pulls himself up to full height.  He barely reaches Guy’s elbow.  “I am Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor, and King Under the Mountain.”  He turns to me and inclines his head.  “I am at your service, madam.”

Jada smiles.  “Ohhhh, it’s the Hobbit dwarf!  Are we moving on already, Judi?”

Jodi stoops, pinches Thorin’s cheek, and coos.  “He is sooo cute!  Wait until we get him some sexy time with that elven model.”

Thorin blushes and sputters. “We don’t do such things with elves!”

Jodi winks and strokes his beard. “Oh, but you’ll like what this elf does.”

Quiet One laughs.

Guy turns charmingly red in the face.  “You are forsaking me for a … a… a HOBBIT DWARF?”

I quickly try to smooth this over.  “I’m not forsaking you -”

Thorin interrupts.  “She promised to write me tales in which I regain my kingdom and riches.”

All eyes turn to me.

I shrug helplessly.  Oh dear.  I wonder if I’ll survive the next session.

[This was my first The Man story published in August 2012 as a stand alone piece.   I wrote it in one sitting in response to a policing blow-up in the ArmitageWorld blogverse.  Sadly, the policing still goes on today, although in other media. 

The more things change, the more they stay the same.]

*****

In the plate glass window, the man watched the reflection of three girls, young women actually, arguing across the road.  His own image reflected there revealed a fit, bearded, middle-aged man, dressed in black from his sunglasses to his boots, sipping black coffee and munching brioche in front of a Pret A Manger.  From their furtive glances and head tilts, he knew they recognized him.  He really wasn’t into the whole celebrity thing and had half a mind to get up and continue on his way.  But his new PR people had warned he had better get used to it, especially once the film hit the theatres.  So here he sat, watching a curious drama unfolding.

The shortest girl spoke sharply and turned as if to cross the street towards him.  The tall, bossy one shot out a hand to stop her, while the middle looked on helplessly.  Bossy wagged a finger in clear admonishment. The man frowned.  A bit full of herself, wasn’t she?  Bossy appeared to be making points as she ticked off finger after finger. Shorty’s face drooped a bit further with each one.  The man’s brow furrowed as he pondered what the problem could be.  Maybe they didn’t want to intrude on him eating.  He stood, pushing the last bite into his mouth.  Placing a hand casually in his pocket and still sipping the coffee, he turned slightly towards the girls.

Shorty’s head dipped a bit as her shoulders sank in defeat.  The man didn’t like Bossy one bit.  Look over here, Shorty, he thought. He turned fully towards them and smiled in open invitation.  Shorty and Middle noticed and stood, rooted to the spot, while Bossy kept lording it over them. Oh hell.  He had to cross the road and pass them anyway. He would be extra sweet to Shorty just to show Bossy.  Tossing the cup in a bin, he caught the green light and crossed.  He could see Shorty and Middle tracking his every step.   He rehearsed what he might say as he strode closer.  Good morning, ladies? Nice to see the sun today, ladies? What the fuck is going on here, ladies?   But before he could get within hailing distance, Bossy whirled around and spotted him.  The three of them turned and fled into the park entrance. The man stopped at the entrance in disbelief, watching their retreating backs.  They ran away!  He knew he was tall, but he didn’t think he was scary.  He rubbed the back of his neck. Well, there was no telling what went on people’s minds.  He shook his head, chuckled and went on his way.

***

The man walked in the mist, the collar of his jacket turned up against the unusual summer chill.  He’d been a bit glum since the last project ended.  He knew this was to be expected; he’d been gone a long time, the longest in his career.  The next project did not begin for a few weeks, so he felt caught in a limbo of sorts.  Reasoning that he simply needed to get re-acclimated, he had taken to walking around the city.  He kept his head down and avoided eye contact, hoping nobody would recognize him.  Since his return, practically nobody had, except for those girls near the park, the ones who ran away.  Down Under, nobody knew him, so he blended in easily.  Here, at least one or two fans approached him weekly for an autograph or picture.  But for the past month, nobody at all had come near him, not on the Tube, on the buses, in the parks, or even here, in Leicester Square.  He relished his new-found anonymity; it would disappear soon enough in a few months.  But if he were honest, a tiny, eg0-driven part him worried that he might have been forgotten. He smirked; ah, the insecurity of actors. As if to prove the point, he lifted his head, squared his shoulders and sought to make eye contact as he walked through the square. He’d darkened the hair again and shaved the beard. This should be easy.  He thought he’d caught a few glances, but their gazes slid from his and back to their own worlds.  A tired-looking woman approaching in a sodden-looking Burberry looked his way and did a double take, her eyes widening in recognition. An instant later, he chided himself.  Feel better now?  Remember, *you* started this.  He readied a charming smile.  She stared for a few seconds before suddenly averting her gaze and striding by quickly.

The man stopped in his tracks and glanced over his shoulder to make sure she hadn’t simply lost her nerve.  Nope, still walking.  Hearing a gasp, he glanced at two young women standing by a theatre door with bored-looking boy.  They stared and whispered, clearly recognizing him, but none approached.  He took a deep breath and walked on.   He felt glum again.

***

The man’s head throbbed.  On the agent’s desk in front of him sat a pile of scripts covered in post-it notes.  In his hand, he held a sheaf of paper detailing recommendations in close, cramped writing.  He had asked for the stack to be delivered to his house.  Then he had asked for his fan mail.  That’s when the headache started.  There was no mail.  Well, there were the usual requests from autograph seekers, but no long missives, no gifts, not even complaints – none of the stuff that had kept him connected to his fans for years.  He, the agent and the marketing strategist stared silently at the stylish sweater, mangled in the post, sent for his birthday as the fandom’s communal gift.  They thought his profile might require some upgrading. He was unable to follow the marketing strategist after that.

***

The man poked at the dry cake with his fork.  He glanced over at his lunch mate, an outgoing, gregarious, affable bloke with a high forehead and a wave of reddish blonde hair.  This guy was a hot property, touted as the Next Big Thing, who was beating him in entertainment polls.  They were eating in the most chic, but not appetizing, restaurant in the city, a place to be seen, according to his strategist.  Their lunch date was discreetly broadcast to arrange a casual meet and greet with photographers and fans. The bloke had already chatted up the staff and half the restaurant, all of whom seemed to adore him.  His date pushed aside his own dessert shrugged and smiled wryly.  Showtime, he sighed.

***

They rode in silence.  The photo and fan op had occurred without a hitch.  The man felt ridiculous relief as a handful of fans waited for him to approach.  He found himself trying to chat longer, but they seemed content to collect their autographs demurely and pictures and eager to leave quickly.  Meanwhile, the other bloke’s fans swarmed him; everybody chatted and laughed as if it were a small, impromptu party.  The man decided to wait in the car.   It had taken awhile for the thing to be over. The man thanked the bloke for taking him home.  The bloke waved away the thanks, saying any time.  As the man turned towards his house, the bloke rolled down his window.  Hey, I’m really sorry about your fandom, he said.

***

The man stared at the monitor, willing himself not to move again.  He’d gotten up ten times and gulped two glasses of wine.  His fans had all “defected?”   Well, yes, he had been away, engrossed in that long project he couldn’t talk about, but he’d sent a Christmas message, and a birthday message, and some other message, he was sure.  He jumped up, sloshing the glass of wine.  So those fickle bitches left me?  After all these years?  For the latest, youngest hot totty?  He wallowed in self-pity for a moment before chiding himself.     That’s the ebb and flow of things, fans come and go.  There was bound to be some attrition while I was away.  No matter what the bloke said, he still had people who liked his work.  Resolute, he sat, set the glass down none too gently, tapped at the keyboard.  He would visit his fan sites.  Years ago, he had sworn he wouldn’t, to avoid getting his feelings hurt and being swayed by opinion, but he had to know.  He had to see for himself.

Thirty minutes later, he sat back.  The three main fan sites still existed, all following his career and updating with the latest releases. He checked the membership rolls at the bottom.  Yes, they seemed troublesomely low, but they all didn’t defect, so there, red-haired bloke.  The participants in general forums chatted about his work, interviews and public appearances, all in glowing praise.  They chatted about themselves, a lot about themselves.  There was nothing remotely critical.  It was very pleasant and wonderful and well, uninteresting.  When did that happen?  He gulped more wine.  Clearly these sites would tell him nothing.  Time to google himself.

He typed in his name, leaned forward eagerly and scanned the page.  Blogs!  Yes, he’d heard about blogs and actually read a few theatre ones himself.  The bloggers were an independent, unpredictable lot.  They would tell him what he needed to know.  He eyed the top listed ones; his name appeared in the titles.  With another swallow of wine, he hesitated, then clicked.  404 page not found.  What?  He clicked the next link.  404 page not found.  The blog was gone?  He clicked a different blog link.  404 page not found.  He scrolled through several Google pages, clicking on blogs about him.  404 page not found.  He checked links on blogs not focused on him, but frequently mentioning him.  404 page not found.  He checked tumblr links.  404 page not found.

An hour later, he sat back.  All the blogs and tumblrs concerning him had disappeared.  Sometime over the summer, they had all vanished.  His fan forums were decimated.  What happened?  The only bit of information he found was a farewell post remaining on a defunct tumblr: I will not abide by The Rules. I will create a new account elsewhere.  If you know me, you’ll know where to look.  Rules?  What rules?  His fandom had no set rules. He returned to the main fan sites, searching for rules.  He found something on etiquette, but nothing to cause an exodus.   Finally his eye stopped on a section: members only.  Of course! Rummaging through the desk drawer, he found the secret name and password he had used to join the site years ago.  He’d chickened out and never used it, allowing that his fans should have privacy.  But he would use it now.

Entering the logon, he clicked.   There they were — The Rules — in large bold type.  Due to the defection of old fans and expected influx of new ones, in order to promote proper respect for our actor, a reorganization of this fandom is necessary. Compliance with the following rules is necessary for membership. He groaned as he scanned the lines: 2. Our actor is a busy man.  Approach him only at approved public events designated as publicity for his work. At these events, interact with him briefly, politely and respectfully, and leave as soon as possible.  But what if I have time to stay and chat?  the man thought. Don’t chase them away!  4. Our actor is a shy, private person.  He has stated in interviews that he does not care to give autographs in the street.  So if you see him out and about, leave him strictly alone.  He moaned.  That’s not what I meant!  Now they’re running away from me.   6.  Real Person Fiction in any form or access level is forbidden. Since it involves the person of our actor, character fiction in any form or access level is also forbidden. Such works are potentially distressing to our actor, his family, and friends, and thus disrespectful.  He pistoned back in his chair.  When in the hell did he say this? His eyes fell to the last line: 10. These rules are non-negotiable and will be strictly enforced.  Violators will be brought before a tribunal of their peers for the enforcement of appropriate penalties, up to and including exclusion from the fandom.

His mind reeled, confusion and wine overtaking him.  His head sank slowly to the desk.  What’s happened to my fandom? he thought.

[My mind wandered off today so I started sifting through the archives for ideas.  Then it occurred to me that there may be newcomers who might like to read some of the older posts.  Here is one written over FIVE years ago.  How time flies!  Please note that the chat room no longer meets, although you are still free to use it if you like.]

*****

I knew that would get your attention.

For the last few months, the regulars in the ArmitageWorld chat room (it’s the place to be 9PM – 1AM EST) have been asking, “Judi, when are you writing some porn? More porn! More porn!” (they are a classy bunch).  Each time I say I don’t know when I’ll write more *erotica.*   I encourage them to write their own, but they plead ignorance.

Let me start right off by saying I don’t have a clue how to write erotica either.  No, seriously.  Before posting my story over Christmas, it had been a long time since I wrote fiction, and never since writing erotica.  Since my readership is so demanding (I’m looking at you, chat room gals), I knew getting away with an erotica-free Guy story wasn’t going to happen.  No cutaway to exploding fireworks would work for them.  So I researched it.

After quickly realizing Google would take me places I really didn’t want to go, I headed to Amazon.com which turned out to be a vast depository of erotica and how-to books. I spotted one called literally How to Write Erotica and the other, The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing Erotic Romance.  The latter one had me at “Idiot’s Guide.”  I purchased them both and waited.   Since one was an ebook, I didn’t have to wait long.   By page 182 of the 266 page book, I was yawning and still hadn’t gotten to the “good part” – how to write the mechanics of explicit sex- which my readership explicitly requested.  When the other honest-to-goodness-paper book arrived, I noted its thinness and made short work of it.  An hour later, I came to a realization – I’d learned nothing.  So, how do I write good erotica?

Needless to say, this was no help to me at all.   But because I was running against a self-imposed deadline, I simply dove in and started throwing sentences and paragraphs together to see what sounded good.  Then I realized the books were absolutely right in what they had been trying to tell me all along.  They could give pointers, but nobody can really teach how to write erotica.   As one book suggested, you simply have to get over your inhibitions and write it.

Obviously I’m no expert in erotica with only one story under my belt, but this is what I found: what eventually occurs in the story reflects how comfortable you are with the scenes and how far you want to go with them.  If you’ve never read erotica, you need to find some and read lots of it to learn different styles of prose.  Do you want to the sex to be implied or explicit?  Do want a sensuous (of the senses) tone or a more sexual (carnal) vibe or something in between?  What words do you feel comfortable using in describing the human body?  How does the scene work to move the story along?

Basically imagine what you would like to read and write it.  If you like it down and dirty and it fits in with the story line, then that’s the way to go.  If using clinical anatomical words would throw you right out of a scene, then don’t use them.  If more romance with only implied sex is your style, then that is what you should write.  If you’re uncomfortable with an action, then don’t go there because your reader will sense it immediately.

If there is one secret I’ve culled from reading, it’s this – if it doesn’t turn you on, it probably won’t turn on the reader either.

I started this series in October 2011. It had numerous parts but unfortunately I never completed it or answered the ultimate question. Friends have encouraged me to repost and get on with it already. Since it’s been almost three years with a new influx of fans, I think it merits a new conversation. There are some similarities between and now. Does journeying to see the crush in a play sound familiar? Some things never change.

*****
So my last fandom lay in tatters, a ghost of its former self.  But it continued to limp along while I continued a growing disinterest.  I had a few brushes with potential crushes but no fandom in which I could actively participate.  Writing those words make me wonder: what is the purpose of any of these crushes?

Could it be as a boyfriend substitute? I don’t think of them as fantasy boyfriends and many fans have partners in their lives.  Could it be freedom from boredom?  A crush certainly creates a heightened level of interest in discovering the person and his work and a thrill in the newness of it all, but I can still become bored.  (Yes, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.  Blasphemy, I know).  I don’t know about you, Dear Reader, but I can’t enthuse endlessly, any more than I can read or draw or write constantly.  It takes away some of the novelty.

Could it be to fill something missing in ourselves?  This could very well be in some fans, especially those who take their zeal to the disturbing stage.  I suspect if everything possible filled my life, I would still have room for fandoms, mainly because I enjoy the surrounding community so much.  With each group I’ve made friends (or learned how not to make friends) who have lasted over the years.  I’ve also gotten invaluable insight into human nature and diverse experiences I otherwise wouldn’t have encountered.  By the way, it’s ironic that if an object is the interest, it’s approved as a hobby; but if a person is the interest, it’s called a crush and treated warily.   It’s okay to love the Chicago Bears but it’s odd to adore Mr. or Ms. Crush.   When you think about it, everybody has some sort of interest or hobby, whether a sport, or craft, or show. This demarcation is a bit unfair.

Is it a culmination of experiences, perceptions, brain chemistry that is sparked by the crush’s appearance, voice, mannerisms and personality?  I suspect this is more the case.  There are actors who I like that just don’t do it for me.  Then there are those I’m at a loss to explain, especially in hindsight.  “There was just something about him at the time!” I look back on my former crushes and scratch my head.  Obviously there was something about them that worked for me at that point in time.  Sometimes I wonder if my crushes aren’t an evolving ideal of what I would like in a real life man, something like a safe virtual Ken doll who I can dress in different combinations of qualities.  Hopefully, my taste is getting better, not worse.

But I digress.  Flash forward a few years.  I’m watching a television show with two buddies.  The New Guy appears onscreen. (You all know who he is, but I’ll keep him incognito for continuity sake).   “Isn’t he cute?’ gushes one friend.  “He’s repulsive,” shudders the other.  “Meh,” I say.  I didn’t like him.  I continued to dislike him for several episodes right up to the minute he got a cute shot, and another, and another, and “oh, could he possible be cute?,” and then “oh, this guy can act!,” and then – I was a fledgling fan of Mr Crush #3.

So, how to best articulate what happened next with Mr. Crush?  The last post described how the fan club enjoyed a boom and a sort of creative nirvana.  Things moved along swimmingly (always wanted to say that). Mr. Crush (and his wife) took a sporadic interest in the club.  We seemed to go from strength to strength as we traveled to London several more times to see him two more plays and lunch with him.  However, underneath it all, things were unraveling.

The reason why brings me to my first axiom of fandom:

Do not learn too much about your crush.

Crushing intrinsically carries a certain idealization of subject.  You know the person is human with foibles just like yourself, there is still a sense that this person may be more special than the next.  When the veil between subject and fan is pierced,  the allure, the specialness dissipates in the face of the person’s frailties. It can be illuminating, interesting, even titillating to learn whether your crush is worth the admiration, but there is such a thing as too much information.  Granted, it isn’t always easy to tell how much is too much;  by the time you learn that one fact that may be a deal breaker – it’s too late.

In our case, we got to know Mr. Crush all too well. He was not nasty or sarcastic or caustic like my previous crush.  Mr. Crush was an affable, likable man but  two aspects of his personality wore down the inner circle of which I was a part.  First, he was a flake extraordinaire.  He wasn’t deliberately rude; he simply marched to the beat of different drummer.  When we flew to London for an arranged meeting with him, he stood us up, seemingly having forgotten about us. A few days later, he called  the organizer wondering where we were.  He arranged a Q &A on his own initiative and then failed to follow through.  He was so unreliable, he became a joke and an annoyance in the inner circle.  We didn’t tell the rest of the fans although they were aware that events seemed to evaporate. Personally, I was anNOYed.  I abhor a flake and would never have one for a friend.  But I enjoyed the camaraderie of the group.  The club continued, almost in spite of him and then two big things happened.

This brings me to my second axiom of fandom:

Know what qualities you can and cannot respect in a crush.

If certain qualities would leave you appalled,  it’s time to walk away.  Here is where the telling gets tricky.  Let’s just say that Mr. Crush, who touted himself a family man, made an unwise choice at a convention which led a few of us to surmise that he was being indiscreet.  A short time later, his wife venting her spleen on Facebook indirectly confirmed our suspicions.  Our club blew  up.  Those who had not twigged were either deeply shocked and left, or sad but resigned.  Personally, I had lost interest over the flakiness but the cheating was beyond the pale for me.  Ordinarily I consider a person’s private life private.  But once I learn things, I cannot un-know them.  I cannot condone partner beaters, serial cheaters, bigots, and child molesters to name a few, and cannot admire a person I cannot respect.  I could no longer respect Mr. Crush although what he did privately was his own business.

The inner circle was done too.  The club limped along for a long time before the listmom jokingly changed its name.  The list still exists today but only as token to the past I suspect.  Somebody might post once in a blue moon. Upon reflection, it is likely things might not have disintegrated had we kept ourselves blissfully ignorant, more detached and not known Mr. Crush as well as we did.  But then again, who knows.  Today, I dig just enough to discover whether a person is worthy of admiration (i.e. not a creep as listed above) and stop.  As for the rest, I don’t need to know or want to know.  I prefer the fan innocence.  After all, my purpose in fandom is to have fun.

I started this series in October 2011.  It had numerous parts but unfortunately I never completed it or answered the ultimate question.  Friends have encouraged me to repost and get on with it already.   Since it’s been almost three years with a new influx of fans, I think it merits a new conversation.  There are some similarities between and now.  Does journeying to see the crush in a play sound familiar?  Some things never change.

*****

[I’m telling this story because it represents my background in fandom spanning a period of almost 20 years.  All observations and opinions stated are mine alone. This post has been months in the making because it’s been so difficult to articulate and pen.   It’s important to know this background so Dear Reader can understand upon what basis I attempt to answer the question of various bloggers in Armitage World: Why Richard Armitage?  This series will be posted sporadically as my thoughts gel.  Here are Part 1 and Part 2.]

In early 1998, we learned that Mr. Crush would be appearing in play staged in a small experimental theater.  British members formed an advance team and attended an early performance.  They approached him and told him about our club.  He was friendly and shared a drink with them.  After much brouhaha, 13 of us from the US, Canada and UK journeyed to London to see the play on 8 days notice.  If you can imagine the logistics of the situation, it was an exciting but crazy thing to do.  The play was indeed in a small venue.  I sat in the first row; I could have tripped him had I stuck out my foot.  The intimacy of the theater coupled with it being over a bar helped in arranging a meeting between Mr. Crush and us.  By that time, he knew we were an older mature bunch who would be respectful and polite.  He was flummoxed we would fly across the pond to see him and was quite gracious in spending the rest of the evening with us.  It was a lovely experience plus we got to meet each other, many for the first time.

The high continued upon our return.  Mr. Crush’s wife acted as intermediary with designated members and were eventually recognized as an official fan club. List mom set up a website.  The group continued to grow.  More fanfic and art poured forth on our mailing list.  (The contained aspect of the list made it quite nurturing, something I’ll discuss in another post.)  Over the next several years, a few of us journeyed to see him again in a bigger production, and a film premiere in Toronto.  We also organized a mini two day convention for ourselves also  in Toronto.  A small contingent began a yearly tradition of attending the Shakespeare Festival in Stratford, Ontario.  A few formed close friendships had get-togethers in different cities.  In 1999, I averaged a trip every other month.

That’s not to say things were perfect in the club.  Periodically we had interesting types join who did not fit in with the club’s laid back approach and they eventually had to be eased out.  We had flame wars break about about twice a year usually during the heat of summer or the dead of winter precipitated by personal issues which List Mom decisively doused.  We had personal crises with appeals and fundraisers for very serious situations.  Overall, it was a pretty cohesive group within.  Then problems started without.

NEXT: All good things must come to an end

I started this series in October 2011.  It had numerous parts but unfortunately I never completed it or answered the ultimate question.  Friends have encouraged me to repost and get on with it already.   Since it’s been almost three years with a new influx of fans, I think it merits a new conversation.

[I’m telling this story because it represents my background in fandom spanning a period of almost 20 years.  All observations and opinions stated are mine alone. This post has been month in the making because it’s been so difficult to articulate and pen.   It’s important to know this background so Dear Reader can understand upon what basis I attempt to answer the question of various bloggers in Armitage World: Why Richard Armitage?]

Are you sitting comfortably?  Then I’ll begin.

Way back in the early 1990’s, I was involved in a major fandom. I was in my early 30s who had just left a bad long term relationship. I was still a bit naive and callow and frankly, not happy with my life.  I found a group (let’s call them Alice, Bea, CeeCee, and Daria) of what I thought to be like-mind fun women in a forum on AOL. (There might have been a few more of us, but these are the ones I remember).  Anyway, AOL was not so fondly called AOHell because lasting through the long connecting handshake and reaching the forum was a labor of love in the days of 4800 baud dial-up. This fandom surrounded a show that became a major convention industry.

Our group focused upon one actor on the show known to have an extremely dry sarcastic sense of humor.  We decided, sight unseen, to attend a convention in San Diego and meet.  It was a big affair and many of us had never attended such an event.  It was a beautiful city with fantastic weather and we all enjoyed the adventure of it all.  The actor was funny and in his element onstage.  The audience was not disappointed.   My job didn’t send me to industry conventions, so I thought this was a wonderful excuse to travel,  make friends and see new places.  I was terribly green and unschooled in the ways and personalities of fandom.  I’d never traveled before to see any celebrity, so it felt quite weird and daring.  It was a chance to get together, and be giggly, girlish and silly, a stage I missed out in my adolescence.  It wasn’t my first actor crush but it was the first I had ever actively shared with any one else. I don’t recall having any expectations of the actor aside from wondering how he looked in person and how he would present himself out of character.  At such a large event, I didn’t even expect to get an autograph or attempt it.   I perceived no “relationship” to him apart from being a fan which was a distant abstract concept to me and I was content to stay that way indefinitely.

It never occurred to me to examine some of my travel mates more closely or even the actor himself.  I assumed our only motivation was to have a good wholesome time because that was my mindset.  That brings to mind the old legal adage, “to assume, is to make an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me’.”  As I said, I was naive.

I was late joining the group and therefore didn’t know that a history already existed between Daria and the actor. She was a nice,  sweet, very unassuming woman who was something of a door mouse.  She was on a first name basis with Mr. Crush who knew her on sight. I was aware she’s lost a great deal of weight but not that she did it to impress him.  She lavished him with expensive presents but lived hand to mouth in garage back of her parents’ home while she toiled in a low paying job.  All of this information came out as we met from time periodically for the conventions.  After awhile the thrill of traveling receded and I could see the dynamics of this group.  Of the five of us, Bea and I were there for the camaraderie; Alice and CeeCee seemed to teeter on taking all this too seriously and Daria was disturbingly intense.

As my awareness of the dynamics grew, I became more uncomfortable as was Bea.  Things came to ahead when we traveled to be in the audience of a radio program starring Mr. Crush.  This was the first time I’d had a chance to have a one-one encounter with him.  Some in the group was thrilled about this and seemed a bit too in earnest in their pursuit of his attention which I found crossing the line.  On the fateful evening, Daria, Alice and CeeCee waylaid him in the corridor of the hotel.  From what I could see he was smiling and comfortable, so Bea and I approached.  As I stated, he has a very dry sarcastic personality, but in that moment something in his demeanor indicated that he was actually laughing at us.  I don’t know if I was being overly sensitive;  but life had taught me to recognize veiled contempt when I saw it. Maybe that’s not what he intended to exude but that’s how it felt.  I was turned off.  The three were clueless but the two of us were DONE with the whole thing. It was as if I’d taken a step outside myself and viewed the situation with a cold objective eye.  My fangurling dropped away.   I was disturbed by the trio, by me even being there and mostly by this actor. In a flash, I wondered what kind of man he really was and whether he was the type of person I should admire.  I recall thinking, “maybe it’s not a good thing to get too close.  Just who the hell is this guy?”  The group broke up shortly afterwards.

As far as I know, the trio are still fans, 18 years later.  I saw Alice on Facebook two years ago talking about seeing him in a play.  We don’t know if Daria was still hoping to be noticed.  We lost contact with CeeCee.  Bea confided a few months after the breakup she had similar misgivings.

I came away from the group a bit more savvy about fandom dynamics and with whom I should associate before jumping into a situation.  I also became aware that the object of my crush might not be who he seems but that I can never really know who exists behind that public persona.  Although I felt a bit more experienced, it turned out I still had a lot learn from my next fandom.

So what about you Dear Reader?  Were you part of fandom before Armitage World?  Is this fandom new to you?  Please feel free to share your stories.