I have an epic, passionate love affair every Monday night. It’s not one of those affairs that takes place in the dark of the night, in some seedy retro-‘70s hotel room with flickering lights and paisley-flowered sheets. It’s not even the type of affair that could get us into trouble for our ‘unfaithfulness’, or even worse, could find us getting served with divorce papers.
It was absolutely nothing like that. In reality, it resembled more of a slow dance, a tango between two strangers who just happened to meet in the dimly lit shadows. And just like a scene out of a black-and-white 1920s love story, we slowly walked up to each other, probably through fog – me wearing a long dress and hiding under an umbrella while he struts (in a suit and tie) with the confidence of a bold, determined gentleman – and just as our hands mingled ever so slightly, his whispered those three little words into my ear.
"I'm Chuck Bass.”
It’s the allure of Chuck Bass quaintly summed up in three words that sends me into a head-over-heels tailspin for Gossip Girl’s resident bad boy. Interestingly, the single statement all at once reveals so much and so little about the Upper East Sider who has come to revel in his posh existence.
Honestly, I can’t help but feel a bit guilty about the whole thing, like I’m on some sort of voyeurism trip using Chuck Bass for my own selfish gain. But the second he uttered those three words – and he inevitably does at some point in each episode – my face would turn as red as my favorite polo shirt. Yes, I had fallen in love with a fictional character.
I find myself a bit unprepared for this one, though. This time was different; I could feel it, or should I say, I couldn’t feel it. After all, falling for someone like Chuck was completely out of character for me – this new sense of adventure had never been in my nature. I’d lived my life by the rules: No talking to strangers, walk in the crosswalk, honesty is always the best policy.
But Chuck never had rules like that. He must have thought he didn’t need them. Everything from his retro fashion sense (think brightly colored shirts that seem more appropriate for a golf outing than trotting around Midtown Manhattan) to his blatantly low sense of modesty flew in the face of every social convention I had ever known. He made up his own rules: the Chuck Bass way.
So it just seemed natural that, the more we got to know each other, the more any hint of emotions or vulnerability was conveniently absent from those carefully crafted rules. Obviously, that’s the way he wanted it. No intense soul-baring moment. No slow dancing in the parking lot under the spotlight of the moon. And of course, no waking up snuggled in each other’s arms, his feet dancing with yours under the satin-white bed sheets.
Frankly, part of me (mostly the cynical part) can’t blame Chuck for calling the shots and keeping everyone at an arm’s length. In fact, I sort of feel…no, I can’t say it…don’t say it…don’t believe it…resist…resist.
I feel sorry for Chuck Bass.