what’s inside pt 1

A well designed interior stimulates me to no end and these men have incredibly well designed interiors.

Mr. Philip Seymour Hoffman meets Santa Claus

‘s house makes me too giddy to even stay focused long enough to write about it. There’s stare worthy modern art everywhere, exposed wood rafters, Heath Ceramics tile, clawfoot tubs at least four feet away from all surrounding walls, swan faucets, a life size sculpture of a little boy peeing, views, and a gigantic bed covered in textiles that make me mentally scream, “Who gives a flying fuck if you look like a dead guy mixed with a fat folklore? TAKE ME NOW.”


Mr. Why Aren’t You Using Your Potential

lives in a Restoration Hardware catalog. He’s best buds with Gary Friedman so it’s only fitting. Catalog rooms typically don’t take me to horny town, but I’m a sucker for trimwork that’s not white, tone on tone, and distressed leather. It’s all there. Plus he has an untouched Wolf range (I want Wolf stovetop grate imprints on my ass SO BAD), does the modern art thing well enough, and has a no wait water heater. He’s one of my favorites, and unfortunately, one of the busiest, so who knows when he’s going to show up next, but he does need to redo his water damaged roman shades and wants me to save the day. If we never see each other again for “that”, at least I’ll get an actual career enhancing transaction out of it.

OH. AND HIS BEDS. They are stacked with layers of thick blankets and comforters, my absolute favorite as I have this Princess and the Pea fantasy/life goal. The last time I slept over I left his master in exchange for the guestroom (snoring puts me in nomad mode) and it ended up being the perfect decision. He had just returned from a trip and practically had his whole closet on top of the guest bed. Sleeping in a pile of clothes immediately makes me feel at home.

When he came to get dressed in the morning he sweet talked me to new levels. “Call me up any time. Say ‘I want hot weight.’ I’ll put everything in the dryer when you call and by the time you get here it’ll all be on the bed nice and warm for you and you can go to sleep.”

SERIOUSLY? I’ve never met a man so goddamned dreamy.


Mr. I Show Up to Five Star Restaurants in my Gym Clothes

has spent one too many nights in swanky hotel rooms and decided to turn his house into ONE GIGANTIC HOTEL ROOM. All the fabrics are commercial grade and shiny, the windows are covered with sound and light absorbing layers, all the artwork is commissioned (he has a painting that depicts his current art collection, but in his dream house…kinda weird and inspiring at the same time), all the light fixtures create soft pyramids of sexy, and he has a steam shower, a gigantic wine fridge, and black bars of soap. Actually, his interior doesn’t do a damn thing for me except enforce that he will invest high sums of money in things that make him feel pampered. Ahem. That’s my cue.


THEN THERE’S Mr. I Already Love You, but I’m Not Going to Say It who brings it all back to reality.

He opens the door and what do I see? A part-time dad with a full-time job and a full-time divorce.

Another favorite, but toys and kids shoe sizes don’t get me there. Thank goodness I was able to handle his minimal snoring because when I told him I might have to sleep in another room, the response was, “Either the bunk beds or race car. Your pick.”

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