If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, he would, in secret, change his listing in your phone all the time. You’d have added him in simply as “H,” but one day you’d get a text from someone called “Henry IX.” And then a whole chain of them: “H. Balls,” “Jack the Zipper,” “Codpiece von Rodgerer,” and most awkwardly of all, “Prince Andrew.”
Prince Harry would order takeout a lot. You would always end up paying for it, because he doesn’t have a credit card, and he’d promise to pay you back and then never would because he also never has any cash.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, on Sundays he would taste like rugby and Guinness. You wouldn’t mind. He would also live primarily in Adidas track pants. The sound of them rustling when he walks would only bother you when he paces anxiously during Game of Thrones.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, fancy dress parties would be a tender subject. “Granny set the corgis on me after the last one,” he would mope. “Look, I have the scar.” You would not be sympathetic.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, there would be a surprising amount of Puppetry of the Penis. He would start on a lark after a night out at the pub — it’s 2 a.m., you’re snacking on packets of Prawn Cocktail crisps in bed, and he decides to make you laugh by making a “prawn cocktail” genital shadow puppet just because he liked the pun. But then another night there would be a rabbit hopping along. Maybe a horse. And then, just straight-up wang origami. A sailboat, Dracula, Margaret Thatcher. After a while you’d ask him exactly how many times he’s seen that show. “What show?” he would say, blankly, tilting his head to the side. “This is just how we spent Sundays at Eton.”
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, you would be reminded that the tongue is a muscle, and it can indeed get sore.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, he would sometimes steal William’s Knight of the Garter costume and ask you to play The Tudors with him. You would never be able to look a turkey leg again. It would be worth it.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, Bea and Eugenie would talk about Cressida Bonas in front of you. A lot. It would start out small, but then suddenly they’d be waxing rhapsodic about the way Cressy’s hair smells — like vanilla and strawberries — and some apocryphal-sounding story about how she once used a scrunchie to save a dog’s life. Harry wouldn’t notice your discomfort until you’d had a few too many pints, but while you ralph into some Buck House porcelain, Harry would whisper tenderly, “I don’t even like hair that smells like food.”
Prince Harry would prank call people from your bed all the time — old schoolmates, distant relations. David Cameron. You’d find out months later that they were all international long-distance calls. “Wait. Isn’t the telephone free?” he would ask, before offering, semi-seriously, to invade British Telecom and make the bill go away. But then the bill would go away.
Prince Harry would never assume you are too dim to understand or appreciate sports, and you would appreciate that he’s not a stereotypical retrograde doucheface about that. He would find it totally normal that you own a team jersey, and there would be no quizzes to see if you can back that shit up, and no insulting discussions about how American football should be called handsball — except for one time when you wore your jersey to bed, and he turned that particular joke into an elaborate piece of foreplay.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, one day he would turn to you and say, “I’d like to take this to the next level. I want to introduce you to… my pet goat, Bridget. Wear your best hat. She’s very particular.”
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, he’d occasionally go on furtive outings by himself, always lying badly about his destination (because you know he is never actually off to the library). “I’ve been visiting Bridget without you,” he would confess at last. “I just don’t think you quite clicked. She didn’t think your hat was sincere.”
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, eventually you’d have an argument about why you hadn’t met David Beckham yet. He would make a lot of ball jokes in his excuses — Harry would have a ball joke ready for any situation — before shoving his hands in his pockets and saying petulantly, “I barely even know Beckham, all right? He’s actually William’s friend. Is that what you wanted to hear?” Two days later he would return from his tantrum with a copy of Bend It Like Beckham because he thought it was a kind of soccer Kama Sutra.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, the makeup sex would be scorchingly hot. But also sometimes scorchingly quick.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, you would give in one night and filch his phone while he slept — passcode: 24601 — so that you could write down Ryan Lochte’s number. Just in case. It’s not disloyal, or anything. It’s just practical. You might need to ask him about breaststroking someday.
Prince Harry would turn out to be a sleepwalker. You’d often find him standing in the living room brushing the air with a dopey smile on his face. “I’m washing an elephant, Dad,” he would tell you. “Tell Bridget I’ll call her later.”
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, he’d talk about his latest project for the Chelsea Flower Show for hours and hours. Mostly this is charming, but sometime — like when you point out that you really like the azalea section — it will cause him great agita. “What is that clod thinking,” he’d mutter, erasing so vigorously that he tears a hole in his blueprints. “Everyone knows you can’t put azaleas there.”
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, he would occasionally try to use your cleavage as a toast rack.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, you’d get a rapid increase in Facebook friend requests from people you were pretty sure hated you in high school. You would never accept, but you’d poke them regularly just to be irritating.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, he’d ask very innocently if he could please have a turn poking your old classmates.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, you would have to sit through so many Michael Bay movies. You would unintentionally learn all the words to The Day After Tomorrow (“Our environment is in a terrible state. My father says this is practically a documentary”) and one day, you’d catch him sniffling over Pearl Harbor. He would pretend he was crying with mirth at Ben Affleck’s cheesy highlights, but you’d both know the truth.
Prince Harry would get extremely defensive every time you mention how much you love Ron Weasley. As a gesture of love, you’d remove “Roonil Wazlib” as the name of your wireless router.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, you’d notice that he moves your hand every time your fingers drift toward his hair. You would be more amused by this tic than anything, until the day you caught him in the bathroom using your brush to tease up the stuff in the back. “Hang in there, old boy,” he’d say to himself, with a flutter of trepidation in his tone.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, he would answer the door one day to the mail carrier who reads all your magazines and then delivers them late, with coffee stains. You would get them early every week hence.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, you’d be the last people to leave any party you attended, but he’d always give you a piggyback out to the car.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, he would tell you that you looked hot in whatever you were wearing and you would be able to tell that he sincerely meant it, which would both be gratifying and also make you wonder if maybe he had Outfit Blindness.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, you’d just have to accept the fact that Vegas was off the table as a weekend jaunt, like, forever.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, you would discover he has what he calls a Fucket List, comprising all the places in the UK where he wants to nail someone. You would be really into the Hampton Court hedge maze idea, until he would shift in his seat and say, “Er, meant to cross that one off. I’ve lost three people and four pairs of trousers in there.”
Prince Harry would also have a Shitler List, tracking all the things he needs to do as compensation to his grandmother for that aforementioned ugly Nazi costume incident. It would in fact be a binder, refreshed once a month for the past decade, with no end in sight. He’d whinge occasionally about youthful stupidity and the power of forgiveness, but you would just raise your eyebrow at him in stony silence, and he’d go back to reading Sensitivity Training for Dummies.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, you finally would know whether or not Kate Middleton has hair extensions.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, you might one day find a lock of that aforementioned hair tucked away in a souvenir porcelain box with a rose on top that he claims was a gift from his grandmother.
If Prince Harry were your boyfriend, you would never tell him about this discovery, because whatever, marriage is not in the cards with this one anyway. Why end it before its time? Just enjoy the ride. So to speak.
Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan are the creators of the Internet’s wittiest celebrity fashion blog Go Fug Yourself, which draws millions of eyeballs a month and made Entertainment Weekly’s Must List and the Guardian’s list of 50 Most Powerful Blogs. They are the authors of two young adult fiction novels, Spoiled and Messy, and the adult novel The Royal We. They have contributed to publications ranging from New York magazine to VanityFair.com to InTouch, Cosmopolitan.com, Rolling Stone, and Grazia. They both reside in Los Angeles.