I dated Rick Marin

Thu, 27 Feb 2003 23:14:00 +0000

Imagine this nightmare scenario: As a young reporter in New York -- a fact checker, actually, if you want to be technical about it -- you hook up with a divorced, older writer. It's a messy, booze-filled affair, because at the time, yours always were. You meet in bars (surrounded by your friends, who are almost a decade younger than he is) and end up in his bedroom every time, shagging away until you drunkenly lose interest and let him know that he's welcome to finish without you, thanks. He makes you nervous -- he's so much smoother, more urbane, more established than you are -- and you wonder what he's doing with you. But he also laughs at your jokes, praises your looks, has flattering predictions about your career. You figure that maybe babes his own age aren't interested in him because he's not that cute. In fact, to friends who haven't met him, you say he looks like Bart's glasses-wearing, asthmatic friend Milhouse on "The Simpsons."

Salon.com > Sandy M. Fernandez

I dated Rick Marin