If Font Faces Were Lovers

If Font Faces Were Lovers

Times-New Roman: He’s the default for every college freshman. You don’t even like him, but he’s there, you’re drunk/writing a term paper, and you’re like “whatevs dude, let’s make it quick.” It’s firm, painless, he brings like 4 condoms and keeps the lights on. You will have sex with him approximately 45 times over the next 2 years until you enter a design class.

Courier New: He works at Gap, wears mostly gray and tight black jeans with sneakers, and is always pathetically imitating his older brother. One night after lemonade spritzers at an art installation, you find yourself back at his house, he falls on top of you, and tries to stuff his flimsy pixy-stick up your sugarbox. He insists you can make him bold, but this just leaves you really sore in the morning. You fake an orgasm, and he’s sniffing your hair when you wake up.

Futura: Who Courier New wishes he was. Really into indie bands and neon T-shirts with ironic images, Futura is one of those  counter-intuitive minimalists who subscribe to Dwell but keep an Altoids tin filled with designer drugs. He effortlessly unlatches your bra while whispering Tyler the Creator’s lyrics into your ear. It’s great sex, but afterward he wants to take your picture with a Polaroid and leave critical comments about your body as captions, so you quietly slip out around 3 a.m. as he uploads Animal Collective tunes to Rhapsody.

American Typewriter: He’s a fun copy editor, always making hilarious jokes across the newsroom about comma splices and John Boehner and one night at a Christmas party, you let him put his soft, moisturized hands on you. It’s a mistake. He begins breathing heavily in your ear, grabs your crotch like there’s a Snickers bar down there, and fogs up his glasses.

Comic Sans MS: The predictable, so-funny-I’ll-fuck-you kind of guy. He insists on wearing those Groucho Marx nose-and-glasses face masks. You think he’s into costumes, so the next time you dress up like Mary Ross and bring an American Flag with a strategic hole, except he’s still wearing the mask. You realize he can never fulfill you, and you go back to Times-New Roman one more time on the rebound.

Snell Roundhand: Private-school educated, trust-fund junkie, drinks the stuff that comes in little cups at the coffee shop. You drive up to his family cabin in his BMW. Everything is tidy: couple crystalline animals beside his bed, he applies some sterilizing lotion to his hand, puts on a kimono, and then makes you put on lingerie decorated in his family’s tartan pattern. It’s okay sex, because you keep having to ask him to make it bigger, and by the time he reaches like size 28 or 32, you’re completely bored with him and wishing you wouldn’t have deleted Wingding’s phone number.

~Dunstan McGill