All characters are 18

Shortly after graduating from art school, I suffered what you might call “a nervous breakdown.” My BFA in painting, it turns out, was akin to majoring in unemployment. Broke and lacking job prospects I was forced to move in with my parents, where I spent long winter locked in my childhood bedroom, watching Twin Peaks reruns and smoking marijuana… lots and lots of marijuana.

While I was enduring this season of discontent, I found an unexpected ally in the form of Lindsay Lohan. The revered actress who dominated silver screens when I was a teenager had fallen on hard times. A string of box office flops was followed by a series of DUI arrests and rumors of cocaine addiction. When I ventured out to the supermarket and saw her hungover face gracing the cover of every trashy tabloid magazine, I couldn’t help but think she was mired in the same existential crisis that for months had been swallowing me up.

Several hard years followed, but my clouds did ultimately lift. I moved back to New York and got a lucky break when I sold one of my portraits to a big time Broadway producer. Suddenly, I was the toast of the Manhattan elite, routinely catching six-figure sums for my canvases. But in my success, I never lost my affection for Lindsay; my imagined compadre in misery. She felt like a friend, and I always had the strange sense that I would one day meet her.

On December 23, an unexpected arctic blast barreled down on the U.S.; blanketing the midwest in snow and sending temperatures plummeting into the low teens. I was trying to make it to California for Christmas. My plane took off from JFK but was diverted mid-flight to Dallas. Flights were grounded across the country and I knew I’d be spending Christmas alone in a strange city.

I was still at the airport when I booked a room at the Four Seasons. They told me over the phone that a shuttle was already en route to the airport to pick up another passenger and my name would be added to the driver’s itinerary. Forty-five minutes later, a black van emblazoned with the hotel’s insignia came careening through the passenger pick-up lane. I climbed inside and that’s when I saw her; red hair, designer jacket, manicured nails tapping away at her iPhone. It was my muse, my paramour. It was you; Lindsay Lohan.

On the drive, we made small talk about our aborted travel plans and the sad holiday we were now destined to spend alone. Our conversation flowed like we were reunited friends instead of total strangers. Soon, we started flirting. We were still chatting when we strolled through the doors of the Four Seasons where a concierge was waiting to greet you.

“Oh, Miss Lohan,” he remarked, “I didn’t know you had a guest. Will you be staying in the same room?”With a cheeky grin, I side-eyed you and arced up my eyebrows. I was very curious how you’d handle this interaction… which to me, felt imbued with a touch of Christmas magic.

[Thanks for reading! Last night I watched the (absurdly bad) Lindsay Lohan holiday movie on Netflix and felt inspired to take a stab at my own Lindsay holiday story… with a hopefully erotic twist.

If you’re interested in playing the part of Lindsay — shoot me a DM. Feel free to either continue from where the scene leaves off or ask any questions you might have about the story’s trajectory. Naturally, be sure to let me know what Lindsay is wearing.

As for me, I’m 6’2 with a thin lean build and short but messy dark hair with a few wisps of premature gray peppered in. I have brown eyes, a square jawline, and fashionable glasses with clear thick rims. Despite my lean physique, I’m fit thanks to my running and rowing regimen. On this travel day, I'll be wearing a brown wool blazer, a blue button up, and black slacks.

Feel free to respond whenever you read this. I’m looking forward to celebrating Christmas with you!]