And some people, look like incredible, dressed-like-Lara-Croft-only-with-
chains-on semi-naked babelicious freaks. Not that I stare. Or even look, or 
think about them, or anything ever. I only know about their existence 
because when these people walk into a room, all the straight boys nearby 
give out this universal telepathic deflatory pained sigh. It's like the 
sound of a wolf-whistle, only backwards, sucked in. Ooohhhhhh. 

The sigh has a meaning. All my life, it says, I have been told by my
superego that dressing like a Marvel superhero will not get me laid. And, 
here, here and now in this temporary saturnalia, surrounded by other males 
who are - at best - my equals in the ugly league division table: here is my 
perfect woman. But the world knows that this mad girl's flickering eyes 
craves just one thing. A man dressed as Galactus, Eater of Worlds. And not 
only have I left my Galactus costume at home. I never made it. Worse, I 
threw those biro drawings of me in the Galactus helmet away the moment I'd 
drawn them, ashamed to show them even to (say) Dave. And now I know: I'm 
not a virgin because I'm a geek. I'm a virgin because I have pursued 
geekdom with a less than pure, directed gaze. I have faltered, and now I'm 
just another guy at Baycon. And some other guy in front of me will be 
Galahad with the Holy Grail because he spent two weeks measuring out huge 
papier-mache clamps to fit on the side of his head. And I did nothing but 
stare at my Lara Croft pull-out poster, in the belief that she was not real 
and that I could not ever meet her.

Pursue your enthusiasms. Because if you're doing them right, you know 
exactly where they end.
	-- Danny O'Brien