Brenda Walsh had it easy. Being Brandon’s twin sister on the popular 1990s teen soap opera Beverly Hills 90210 never put her in the position of having to choose between these two heartthrobs. (Oh, how they still make my heart throb…)
For those of you who don’t know what the fuck I’m writing about Beverly Hills 90210 was, as I wrote earlier, a teenage soap opera based upon Brenda and Brandon Walsh, “The Minnesota Twins” leaving their quiet lifestyle behind and moving to the fast paced and big money city of Beverly Hills, California. Their father’s firm was transferred there, you see. It revolved around lots of sordid love affairs among the “gang”, some social issues like date rape, losing one’s virginity and suicide among others. Brenda and Dylan had a long and intense romance and seemed perfect for each other until her best friend Kelly stole him away while Brenda was studying abroad in Paris.
But back to my dilemma. Brandon and Dylan are both extremely hot, but complete opposites. Brandon is studious, All American, athletic and forced to work for his money waiting tables at “The Peach Pit”, a diner favored by Hollywood celebs and rich kids, as his father believed that hard work builds strong character. Meanwhile, he still found time to act as sports editor for West Beverly Hill’s High School newspaper and go out on lots of dates. Sure, Brandon fucked up twice-once getting drunk and totaling his car and though it wasn’t his fault, he took a hit of ecstasy (“Euphoria”) at a rave one night. His then girlfriend wanted him to get high with her. When he refused, she spiked his drink. It was curtains for her after that episode. Brandon cared about people. He was well liked and friendly. He helped those in need and was completely and utterly hot. Hot. Hot. Hot. Brandon would never go for a girl like me, then again, he was fairly open minded, so the dream is not dead.
Dylan McKay, on the other hand, was the wealthy son of a crooked financier. Left alone to live in the Bel Age hotel, drove a Black Porche 911 and spent his time brooding, boozing, surfing and reading great works of literature for his own pleasure. His Mom, Iris, was a bohemian beauty who lived in Hawaii and eventually, his father was sent to jail on a bevy of charges including money laundering and embezzlement–kind of like a low level Bernie Madoff. Dylan was angry. He smashed things. He cursed people out. He was wounded deeply and Brenda helped him to heal those wounds. The funny thing is, despite their differences, Brandon and Dylan were best friends.
Now onto my dilemma. I love them both, but I always wonder, if I had the chance, which one would I choose? Brandon would be reliable, kind, respectful and good in bed. Romantic, you know? Brandon wouldn’t fuck me, he would make love to me. Those lips would feel soft and sweet all over my body and he would cuddle up next to me in a post coital bliss, kissing my neck and shoulders and face. Dylan, on the other hand, would wrap one arm around my waist while using the other to swipe everything off the kitchen table and take me right there. He would fuck me and fuck me good. His lips not as soft as Brandon’s, but hard and strong. His hands would wander all over and inside my body. When it was over, Dylan would simply zip up his pants and take a seat on his couch, perhaps picking up a book, leaving me there wondering “should I stay or should I go?” Believe me, if Dylan wanted you to leave he had ways of letting you know. Then again, he was fucked up. He didn’t care all to much about other people’s feelings because he was too involved in his own. Dylan wouldn’t exactly welcome me into his life, but if he saw me in a bar, I would certainly pique his interest. I might even go home with him. He was emotionally closed off to the world. Selfish and sad. So many women tried to break through his ice layers and none could succeed. Faced with any difficulty, Dylan had the means to just pack a bag, hop into his Porche and take off to Baja or Paris or wherever the fuck he decided to end up.
So, who would it be? Brandon–ol’ reliable? Or Dylan, completely riddled with emotional baggage and boatloads of money.
I choose Dylan. It’s not his money. It’s me. I can’t resist a wounded bird.