The one who seduced you and fucked you over and broke your heart in a million pieces and laughed about it: Melvin Burgess, specifically for Junk, which I got to read when it was first released on an advance copy for an award it was submitted for. Shit was going down then with personal reinvention and this was a kick in the guts, especially the ending.
The old flame you don't see very often any more but whom you still really enjoy getting together with for a few drinks and maybe a pleasant nostalgic romp in the sheets: William Gibson. Sure, Neuromancer was fucking good in it's day, but I've out-grown him. I'm more technical now so when I do read I have to suspend disbelief far more than when I was growing up. On the other hand, every time I feel low on ideas I dig out Burning Chrome, open to The Gernsback Continuum, and feel things flowing through my brain.
The mysterious dark gothy one with whom you used to sit up talking until 3 a.m. at weird coffeehouses and with whom you were quite smitten until you realized he really was fucking crazy: Todd McFarlane, for Spawn. It was cool, it was dark, it was just weird enough to be good and had just enough angst. Then one day I was reading it and it just seemed to vanish up inside Todd's own arsehole to get a closer orbit to the Sun, or something. I never went back
The one you spent a whole weekend in bed with and who drank up all your liquor, and whom you'd still really like to fuck again although you're relieved he doesn't actually live in town: Garth Ennis, but that's what you get when you decide to re-read the whole of Preacher after getting your grubby paws on the last two TPBs. Not something I could do every day, but on occasion it's fucking amazing.
The steady: Neal Stephenson. Though he should enact bloody murder on whoever fucked over Interface at copy-editing. And I'm two-timing him with Warren Ellis, who has made me need Transmetropolitan rather more than I need oxygen.
The ex: Peter F. Hamilton, whom I love so very, very dearly. But even that love cannot make me ignore that the books released after Another Chance at Eden have been poor, poor shadows of what has come before.
The alluring stranger whom you've flirted with at parties but have never gotten really serious with: Grant Morrison. I've read his New X Men TPB's, and I've been meaning to start on The Invisibles for far, far too long but I've either never the money or when I do have the money, never the chance to pick it up. And this pisses me off.
The one you hang out with and have vague fantasies about maybe having a thing with but ultimately you're just good buddies 'cause the friendship is there but the chemistry ain't: Lovecraft. Say what you like about his ability to craft an image (which was excellent), his mythos (something which others chained together, but which was still excellent), his statements about the human situation in a universe which couldn't give two tugs of a dead dog's cock about our solar system (which more people should emulate), the guy just couldn't write a readable story to save his fucking life. H. G. Wells and Jules Verne are a walk in the park comparatively.
The one your friends keep introducing you to and who seems like a hell of a cool guy except it's never really gone anywhere: Damn, where do I start. Stephen King. I loved the SciFi channel adaptation of The Stand but I just can't get into him. He writes in a style I find to be too descriptive, it really hampers my enjoyment of his stuff.
The one your friend has fallen for like a ton of bricks and whom she keeps babbling to you about on the phone for hours, and you'd be happy for her except you just know it's going to end badly: Toss up between two. Robert Mother Fucking Jordan, the man who can't tell a story but sure as Hell will never ever finish one while there is milk left in the cash-cow, and Laurel K. Hamilton for being a bad enough writer that it shows when she finds a new source, and for starting with promise and then devolving into WoD-alike bad porn.