They’ll never let me serve on his jury now.
Yesterday, a friend called me after I texted him yet another photo of accused CEO-killer Luigi Mangione looking achingly, unbearably hot. This one was from his much-publicized perp walk upon touching down in New York City after spending ten days locked up in Pennsylvania, where a McDonald’s employee ratted him out to the police.
“Listen,” my friend said, sounding stern. (He’s a teacher; he’s got the tone down.) “This Luigi thing is getting out of hand.”
“I know. I know!” I said, guiltily. After all, I met this friend at church. Perhaps I’d gone too far. “He’s just so beautiful. I can’t help myself! I think I’m in love.”
My friend laughed. “What? Did you think I was calling to scold you? No! We need to dish! These pictures are insane!”
Relieved, I collapsed onto my bed. “Oh my god—right? INSANE!” We stayed on the phone for an hour, giggling like teenagers.
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I, like many of us, have been obsessed with Luigi Nicholas Mangione since long before I knew his name (and his date of birth: May 6, 1998—he’s a Taurus). As soon as the news broke that UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson had been gunned down on the streets of Midtown Manhattan at dawn, I was transfixed. Of course, I do not condone murder or gun violence, but as details emerged, my fascination grew.
Who was this dispenser of vigilante justice? This hero of the people who beamed at hostel clerks, rose bright and early to take care of business (a morning person, like me!), and utilized public transportation? The backpack full of Monopoly money found in Central Park hinted at someone with a playful sense of humor, but the shell casings left at the scene of the crime that read “delay,” “deny,” and “depose” told us he was making a serious statement about the abominable state of healthcare in our country, and the villainous complicity of insurance companies.
Last winter, I binged the “Mr. & Mrs. Smith” reboot starring Donald Glover and Maya Erskine multiple times; it was my go-to comfort-watch. This was a storyline that could have been taken directly from the show: a highly paid professional assassin carrying out a dangerous mission under orders from a mysterious, anonymous crime boss. They’ll never catch him, I thought, imagining him sipping a cocktail on a far-off tropical island, maybe rocking a pair of tiny shorts, like Glover is fond of doing, both onscreen and off.
When I met a new neighbor in my building, I posted to Threads on a whim.
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That was the first time I went public with my infatuation.
It was an exhilarating time to be a New Yorker. Many of us, it seemed, were united in our determination not to help in the manhunt for this charming CEO-assassin on the loose. When I first moved to NYC from Colorado, I’d never heard the saying, “snitches get stitches.” I was the kind of goody-two-shoes who always tattled, and worse, who felt pleased with herself for doing so. I was very into following the rules. But after 17 years in the city, I’m ready and willing to be the one who causes a snitch to need those stitches. What can I say? I’ve acclimated.
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Yes, killing is wrong. I go to church every Sunday; I know all about it. But on the heels of our country reelecting a criminal, and when children and teachers are regularly shot in their classrooms, it was refreshing to think that for once, someone was standing up to a system that was working against us. And judging by the public reaction, I wasn’t the only one feeling this way. People across the political spectrum could get behind this particular cold-blooded murder; being screwed by a health insurance company is a non-partisan experience.
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Imagine my disappointment, then, when our white knight was caught. Apparently, my fantasies of a Mr. & Mrs. Smith-style assassin were off base. This was just a kid who was dumb enough to get caught at a fast-food restaurant in Altoona. How unromantic. But then! Then the pictures and videos started flooding all our newsfeeds, each more glamorous than the next. When has anyone ever seen a more stunning mugshot? The internet went wild, as we all know. Those brows! That jawline! The six-pack! Devastating. And it wasn’t just his good looks; this was a young man with the courage of his convictions. He wrote a manifesto, and he followed through. What’s sexier than a man who can make, and carry out, a plan?
The reasons to adore him just kept coming: When someone posted a picture of Luigi standing in a doorway holding a pint of Jeni’s ice cream with a bow on top, writing that in college he was known for being “sweet” and immediately replacing a dorm mate’s ice cream after eating it, I swooned. So he ate someone else’s ice cream—relatable! Who hasn’t gotten super high and done the same? But then he not only fessed up, he bought a new one right away and tied a bow around it! And not just any ice cream, either, but a gourmet brand that costs upwards of $10 a pint. A true gentleman.
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Here’s the thing: I haven’t felt desire for a man—or really, for anyone—in a long time. After going out with what seemed like every toxic clown in New York City, I swore off dating, and I haven’t missed it. Now and then, I’ve wondered whether my heart was still capable of pounding at the sight of a beautiful face, if butterflies would someday flutter in my stomach again, if I’d ever feel a rush of heat followed by sudden dampness between my thighs, or if it’s just cobwebs up there now. Luigi has given me the answer.
When I got very high after work the other night and posted to Threads from the train (on my way to an Advent concert at my church) about my passion for this alleged criminal (let’s be real, we all know he did it—but good luck finding a jury who will convict him), it quickly became my most popular post, collecting nearly a thousand likes in a matter of hours, and dozens of replies echoed my sentiments.
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It’s clear I’m far from alone. Across the nation, we are universally lusting after Luigi. Men, women, and nonbinary; gay, queer, and straight; barely legal and post-menopausal—he has stirred something deep inside all of us.
“My uterus just grew back,” one woman posted in response to an especially compelling Luigi photo. (It turned out to be AI, but to be fair, Luigi’s face is already so perfect, it’s extremely difficult to tell the difference.)
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“I’m pregnant,” numerous others said, or some variation thereof, in response to one of the countless dreamy photos flooding the internet.
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The Luigi love has even gone international:
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When I look at pictures of Luigi (and there are scores to choose from; the man cannot take a bad photo), I imagine him holding my face in both his hands and slowly bending down to gently kiss me with those perfect, pillowy lips. I daydream about curling up in the crook of his arm, my head nestled underneath that chiseled jaw, and drifting off to sleep. He’d wake me just before sunrise with a soft kiss on my forehead, gazing into my eyes with the same intensity he showed when he shouted, “This is completely out of touch and an insult to the intelligence of the American people and their lived experience!” as cops shoved him against a wall on the way to his extradition hearing. We’d hop on Citi Bikes and go get coffees in the gray, icy dawn, wearing matching “Eat the Rich” sweatshirts and plotting our next move. Together. Crusaders for justice.
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As one of my childhood heroes, Cinderella, said, “They can’t order me to stop dreaming.” Vive la révolution! And to my perimenopausal libido, I say: Welcome back.
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Elizabeth Laura Nelson has been airing her dirty laundry online since she wrote an “It Happened To Me” story for the late, great xoJane. Since then she’s worked at websites including YourTango, Elite Daily, Woman’s World, and Best Life. When she was 12, she kissed the George Michael poster above her bed every night before she went to sleep.
