MY FiRST EVER CELEBRiTY CRUSH
A crush is equal parts mirror, equal parts compass
Thank you to for inspiring this piece with her own, “being sydney sweeney’d”.
BARCELONA, SPAIN
It was a 92 degree day in Barcelona when I discovered my first ever celebrity crush.
Ever? Ever, ever.
I was halfway to my new girl. The end of summer one. She lived in a gothic city and here I was doing dress rehearsal with La Sagrada.
Lisbon to Brussels could have been a straight shot. 2 and a half hours from wheels up to wheels down.
Took me a week by train. Madrid, Barça, Paris. (Plus I liked making her us wait.)
Flipping my passport to the page with the faded Tangier visa before I handed it over. The one that had the right math that made me Schengen compliant. And when I spotted an official who looked like they took their job seriously, who looked they cared about enforcing the letter of the law...well I just did the dash. Crossed the platform like I was catching a connection, ducking in and out of cars and fading into the crowd.
So there I was, stepping off the CATALONIA metro stop. Green polo already starting to stick to my back. Three days before I had gotten my first tattoo with my older sister, for her birthday. A gothic cross. I could feel it on my neck itching. Healing. Like I was.
Promised my mama I’d send her pics of the cathedral. The sun was beating down but that sandstone masterpiece looked like it could handle anything. I wanted to birth something like that. Something that was still under construction long after my lifetime. Something that drew long lines into eternity. Something that was equal parts organic, equal parts human arrogance, and most of all—divine.
I wished my mom was here to see it. She’d understand what I felt. I’d understand what she felt.
Her? God first, God only.
Me? God first, me second. The way she raised me.
Tome una foto. Le mande a mi mami. Ya, vamos.
I wandered down, deeper into the Gothic Quarter. Stomach rumbling so I stopped in the market my older brother recommended. He warned me but yea: tourists, tourists, tourists.
That’s okay. We’re from New York, baby.
Elbow, elbow, elbow.
Shoulder, shoulder, shoulder.
Tapas, tapas, tapas.
Vale.
I stepped out and the sun was even more ferocious. An angry Irish mom yelling at her husband. Little kids downing water bottles. Hand fans galore.
Put on my headphones. It was loud. I wanted to control my own overstimulation. I knew the soundtrack for the occasion.
My current favorite. The glittering playboy. The boyish seducer. The young hedonist. Showing up to interviews with Pounds, capital Ps. Sunglasses on, covering up those blitzed eyes. Not remembering what city he was in the night before. I missed those days. The drugs were in my past. (Mostly.)
I pressed play on my song of the summer. Heard it in April for the first time, the day it dropped and I knew. 400+ plays later.
Steady reggaeton pulse. Round, heavy kick. Crisp snare. And ooooh that shimmer. A glistening synth palette. The main chords—silky, prismatic. Like neon light reflecting on wet pavement. Luxurious. Seductive. Little bells, chime accents. Just enough delay and reverb to hang in the air. Champagne bubbles.
And his voice? Laid back croon. Autotune as color, not correction. Starting strong with an assertive invitation. Then large pauses between the lines in the verses. And the whole last minute...he disappears. Only instrumental. Too busy enjoying himself.
All together you felt it. Nocturnal. Glamorous. Indulgent. Party as dreamscape. Anyone can move to it. And for some of us, we were trapped in its glow.
Tú te moja', tú te viene'
Encima mío a lo maldito
No te vaya' que vo'a extrañar ese totito
Ere' mía y tu cuerpo completito
Mami, ven al party de lo' MJ
Pa' guayarte y dártelo
La va' a pasar bien, en su cara se nota
Te lo voy a metértelo sin máscara
Mami, ven al party de lo' MJ (tra, tra, tra, tra)
(La va' a pasar bien, en su cara se nota)
TRANSLATION
You get wet, you’re coming
On top of me, all wild
Don’t leave, I’ll miss that little pussy
You’re mine, all of your body belongs to me
Baby, come to MJ’s party
To grind and give it to you
You’re gonna have a good time, I see it on your face
I’m gonna give it to you with my mask off
Baby, come to MJ’s party (tra, tra, tra, tra)
(You’re gonna have a good time, I see it on your face)
I spotted the unmistakable crest of the Blaugrana. Already I had seen dozens of LAMINE YAMAL jerseys across the whole town. The young phenom. Was probably going to win player of the year in a few months.
Just turned 18 (fellow Cancer)—on a yacht. Partying all night with IG baddies ten years his senior. And some dwarfs. Partied so hard the national association of little people was suing him (really).
Not my desired lifestyle, but it was great to see a young man coloring outside the lines. Embracing the shadows, the id. And still showing up to practice the next morning, hungover of course. Flashing his braces as he ran circles around his older teammates. The game was back.
Plus he didn’t play for MY team. Chelsea had an 18 year old Brazilian— never drank, never smoked, never fucked. Went to Bible study in the morning and the evening. Everyday. That’s my boy.
The world needs its poles.
The OFFICIAL STORE OF FC BARCELONA WELCOMES YOU. I crossed the street and let myself be sucked in by the air conditioning. A rare commodity here in Europe.
Sure enough, Mr. Yamal’s towering cutout greeted everyone in the lobby. The upcoming season’s jersey had just been released. Get it while it’s hot.
Blue, red. Blue, red. Blue, red.
Everywhere you looked. Some yellow sprinkled in too. Lots of little kids dribbling balls through the aisles. Balls that had Spotify logos on them. 300 million Euros for that privilege.
I escaped to the second floor, wanting a little more breathing room. Up the escalator. I got off and turned the corner. This part of the store was neon green. The alternate colored jerseys, for when they played someone that wore red or blue.
And there she was.
On the big screen. The wall was covered floor to ceiling. Digital panels stitched together seamlessly. They played promotional videos on a loop.
I slowly walked towards the wall, my neck tilting back with every step.
Her.
WIDE SHOT.
She juggled a ball in a park, smile on her face.
MEDIUM SHOT.
She sat down on a picnic blanket with her teammates and laughed.
CLOSE UP.
She grabbed her necklace, diamonds dancing and pulled it up. Then laughed again and blushed, like that flex wasn’t her idea. In that all neon green trim.
More.
Ask and you shall receive.
Now videos of the season prior. BARçA FEMENí.
Her in the midfield. Face set in stone. Like a general commanding her troops. Her head always on the swivel, her dribbling magisterial, her foot picking out the perfect pass. The orchestrator. The maestra. She scored some goals too but her celebrations were modest. Let’s get back to work. But when her teammates scored? Ponytail bouncing, yelling at the top of her lungs.
More. More.
Dios mio. Her in full glam. Slick back bun. Radiant chandelier earrings. Red lipstick. Elegant white dress. Holding a golden ball.
That golden ball. The golden ball.
The Ballon D’or.
The best player in the world for that year.
A little turn of the head. A shy smile. As she walked off the stage, I spotted the crisp white Air Forces. Could my heart beat any faster?
Again. She won it...twice. Back to back. She held them both. The ball was as big as her head. A kiss to each trophy. Cameras flashing.
More. More. More.
Her running on a field with young girls. This was a team of refugees, the graphic said. Again, laughing, smiling. Giving pointers. Kneeling and hugging. Photos, autographs, high fives.
The videos looped again from the start. I watched them. Twice. Back to back.
Was this what it felt like?
In high school, when the girls fawned over Somerhalder, Bieber, Malik? When the boys were drooling over Rihanna, Gomez, Grande?
Crushes are mirrors. They project what we admire in ourselves. And also what we ache to integrate.
So why no celebrity crush for me?
I thought about it.
To begin with, a crush that wasn’t a real life woman in front of me always seemed foreign. I hardly used social media for most of my life and porn was never my thing. I was fortunate in having my romantic interests turn into realities from a young age. So the concept of a gap between desire and materialization was not familiar to me.
I lived in inevitability—in wanting and getting (and being grateful, of course). Even the high school sweetheart that made me work for it, made me wait, made me suffer—I saw her five days a week, texted her till 3 in the morning, kissed her and held her and stroked her hair in the forest. So there was that. I never learned to orbit a fantasy from afar—I’ve only ever known desire as something to step into, to live...not to pine over.
And then the celebrity part.
I’ve never thought of celebrities as greater than. Out of reach. Transcendental.
I fawn over great artistry. Of that there is no doubt. I’ve watched every Michael Jackson clip on the internet. Especially that Billie Jean performance (you know the one), and the Quincy/Rod Temperton/Bruce Swedien behind the scenes of Thriller confessionals. And they bring me to tears.
But nothing about a celebrity has ever felt like I should bow before them. They move me, they inspire me, but they don’t tower over me. The art stirs me and reminds me I’m playing the same game. Their genius doesn’t create distance—it simply reminds me what is possible.
So, why her? I sat on a bench next to the windbreakers to look her up.
AITANA BONMATÍ I CONCA
27 YEARS OLD
5’4”
Having won all major club and individual awards available to a European player by 2023, including the most-decorated season of any footballer ever for 2022–23, she is considered one of the best players in women's football, and one of the greatest of all time.
The back of my neck tingled as I read this.
Her parents are teachers of Catalan language and literature, and instilled a love of reading in her from an early age.
Her parents were involved in the movement to abandon Spanish naming customs (which had the paternal surname being listed first), but could not legally do so when Bonmatí was born.
Bonmatí was one of the first people in Spain to have her maternal surname as her first surname, and her paternal surname (Conca) as her second surname. In 2023, Bonmatí honoured her parents, saying: "You fought for change and you succeeded, I carry that fight and resilience in my blood.
Her father noted her to be competitive and self-critical since she was a young child, and worried that she did not enjoy playing due to being too focused on achieving more; Bonmatí said in 2023 that she is "never happy with what I do because I always want more.
FCF has described Bonmatí as "pure elegance" and has noted her versatility as a player, able to adapt to different positions, play centrally, as a midfielder or as a winger. ESPN said that she is "technically gifted like few of her contemporaries."
Joules Kounde and Aitana Bonmati are the only 2 Barcelona players that have publicly shown support for the people of Palestine.
Wow. Is this what it feels like to have a celebrity crush? I shoulda gotten one sooner.
I googled her name and switched over to images. Fucking beautiful.
The two kinds.
The surface level. I would do a double take if I saw her on the street. Try to catch her eyes.
And the deeper one.
The one that was earned, the one that was spiritual. A real person who knew themself and accepted themself and pushed themself to be the highest version of themself. Clean energy. True. Light.
Crushes are calibration.
This is my new bar. Intelligent, curious women there are plenty. Kind, virtuous women there are plenty. Gorgeous, confident women there are plenty.
But winners? Ballers? Living legends?
Frequency for frequency. Like for like. Band for band.
Call me a fan. Call me an admirer.
And if you see the ‘razzi shots in the future, hand in hand? Now that you’ve read this, you’ll know it’s not PR. It’s just two stars.
All I’m looking for is the one that shines brighter than me.
Crushes are north stars. As I’ve learned, you do not choose them. They choose you. And I couldn’t have a better compass.
AITANA IN HER OWN WORDS (THE PLAYER’S TRIBUNE):
I want to keep winning. I love this pressure, the feeling that you cannot fail, that you have to demand the best of yourself every single day. It has become part of who I am. Every year the goal is the same: Win everything.
