I’ve always been fond Amy Poehler, of course. She’s likable, and adorable, and funny, and owns her sh*t. I’m not sure when it happened, though, but somewhere along the way I began to feel very attracted to Poe … no, I remember exactly when it happened.
What? Don’t blame me for being persuaded so easily. I am of the lesser sex.
Likewise, I won’t deny being attracted to Tina Fey’s snark and wit on Saturday Night Live, but it was a different kind of attraction, different from the kind of attraction I might have felt after she appeared in the Vanity Fair Women of Comedy issue.
The librarian thing didn’t hurt, either. I’m sorry! I’m weak.
I am not ashamed to admit that I’ve seen Felicity’s entire run. Twice. I even liked the weird, sci-fi episodes tacked on after the true finale. But Kerri Russell always struck me as porcelain. She’s beautiful in a way that’s meant to be admired, not in a sexy way, but like art. You’d have thought it was the Vanity Fair photoshoot a few years ago that might have changed my perception.
Nope. That wasn’t it. This was it.
I didn’t really give Lauren Cohan a second look when she debuted in the second season of The Walking Dead. She seemed sweet, but not particularly sexy. Was it the riot gear sequence in The Walking Dead that changed my perception?
No. But it certainly helped. Was it the photoshoot tour she went on after season three?
Not exactly, although that didn’t hurt, either. The clincher? Hearing her natural accent for the first time.
Sweet Annie Edison. She was too young, too Type A, too prim, too proper in the beginning of Community and too door-matty in the beginning of Mad Men to consider particularly sexy.
Then she did the Complex photoshoot.
But that wasn’t the clincher. The clincher was this paragraph she wrote about her college experiences for Nerve.com:
Exploring my newfound sexuality, there was, of course, the girl-on-girl action, the crazy threesome with the afros and whips, and the surreal ‘shrooms experience where I thought the tree was fondling me but it turned out to be my creepy male roommate with calluses on his hands… gross. You get the picture. I developed this (possibly misplaced) sexual pride, based solely on the quantity of penetrations of my vagina… and not necessarily the quality of the acts therein.
…. and click.