Sure, it sounds implausible.

by Shelly Leachman

A longtime out lesbian with Matthew McConaughey for a boyfriend. And this, the same gay girl who also happens to simultaneously boast actor Ryan Phillipe, wild-haired Spanish tennis phenom Rafael Nadal and alt-country rocker Ryan Adams as boyfriends as well.

Right.

Right?

Wrong.

It's true. All in her mind, yes, but still, true.

Welcome to the strange and wonderful world of Lesbian Fantasy Boyfriends, in which we wacky gay women intermittently and often assign various men the moniker “my boyfriend” or, as is sometimes the case when we notice a friend appearing particularly platonically enamored of any one guy, “your boyfriend.”

Ere go:

Three friends, all lesbians, and surfers to boot, make a holiday trip to Southern Mexico for some wave-riding, tequila-swilling, suntanning, face-stuffing, et al. Positioned on a rented palapa every day for two weeks, in exactly the same spot every time, they at some point notice three guy surfers who are perpetually nearby and boast a similar routine as theirs—surf, rest, eat, get drunk, repeat.

Also regularly seeing these same guys at the bars they had begun to frequent, somewhere along the line the girls start saying things like, “OMG! Our boyfriends are here!”

And so it goes.

The busser at the Mustard Seed who never lets your coffee cup get empty: boyfriend!

The extremely-hot-despite-or-perhaps-because-of-his-femininity man-god of a server at the Abbey, who hugs you warmly every time you're there, comps you a cocktail for every third or fourth one that you order and always tells you you're beautiful and looking hot even when you're pretty sure you look like ass: boyfriend!

The sommelier at your favorite wine bar who asks where you've been if you haven't been in in a while, always remembers that red you love whose name you yourself can never remember and fawns over you and your girlfriend like you're Brangelina: your boyfriend!

And, speaking of Brangelina, and because he's so beautiful and seems so nice and gets to sleep with luscious-lipped Angie J. every night and, as you learned in Us Weekly, likes to drink vodka and pineapple juice just like you do, inspiring you to thereafter invoke his name each time you sip such a concoction and attempt to convince local bartenders to follow suit, Brad Pitt: your boyfriend!

Who says lesbians don't like men? Shoot. We are all about the boys.

Maybe we don't want to have any close encounters with their parts, if you get my drift, preferring such extremities in some form of high-end latex and strapped to a hot girl, but we can still recognize and adore a great guy when we see one.

Call it the Mona Lisa Syndrome.

So maybe you can't wrap your brain around the hype and see why it's the most famous painting ever. You can actually stand right before it at the Louvre and stare and stare and still be completely unconvinced that you'd ever want her hanging on your wall, under any circumstances.

But you can nonetheless fully appreciate the artistry and completely understand why for some people, she's the absolute shiznit.

In other words, guys, we may not want you, but we freakin’ love you.

Somebody write me, at TheBroadcastLA@gmail.com.