All the Single Ladies

He’s 26, he’s a lawyer, he’s nerdy cute with clothes on, he’s gorgeous with none on! I think he’s Clark Kent.

Except without the tights under his pants.

Here’s the story: Three months after moving in, my roommates and I threw a housewarming party. None of the other Single Ladies could come because I stupidly did not check to see if they would be around. In fact, they were all out of town. Sad sauce. The roomies were afraid no one was coming, because at 10:30, three people were there, not including us. By 11:30 though, we were in business. A friend of the Single Ladies came, and he brought a friend. Clark Kent. They were talking about which Star Trek is best. Voyager, obvs. Heyo Captain Janeway!

Anyway, I did not spend my entire night talking to Clark—I had other people to see and bodega runs to make. In fact, while I noticed that Clark was, you know, there and kind of cute, I wasn’t like, “zomg take me now—do you mind if I call you Jean-Luc?” I’m not a nerd, you guys.

Around, oh, two in the morning, I’d say, this guy showed up. He’s friends with one of the guys on my softball team, who thinks we’d be great together, so they’ve both been trying to set things up. I’m not that interested. He’s a nice guy, but as my roommate said, sort of seems like an extra on the Sopranos. Matchmakers suck.

So Sopranos is in my house, with no friends with him, basically to hook up with me. NO THANKS. I did invite him, but in the context of inviting the group of friends he was with the night before. Blerg.

I needed to get rid of him.

Strategy: cold shoulder. I plopped down on the couch next to Clark Kent and talked to him exclusively. Which was incredibly, surprisingly, awesomely entertaining. In fact, the next thing I knew, all the guests had left (Sopranos—did he say goodbye? Do I remember? Do I care?), my roommates had gone to bed, and we were still sitting on the couch, drinking the warm, half-finished beers of other party guests. Hawt.

He asked if he could take me out some time, and I was like, you better. But then he didn’t leave—we just kept talking. And he was tracing designs on my hand sort of absently, which was just… I don’t know. It was hot. Then we were making out, and then it was like, okay, this is happening. And look! My bedroom is right there! Convenient! And it’s even clean! Awesome!

So then I got to see Clark in the buff. He has a tattoo the size of a dinner plate on his back. I don’t know what it’s of, so I will reserve judgment, but at the time: hot.

Hot, hot, hot. Ugh. I think I’m still on an endorphin high.

He stayed over and we went out for brunch the next day. The weather was awful. If I had a functioning stove and some eggs for omelets, I think we would have stayed in bed all day. Oh my gosh, you guys.

I was so exhausted and hung over. I just wanted to sleep for a million years. But I had told him about this Improv Everywhere mission I was doing, and he wanted to know how it went, so I had to go. He watched football, I walked an invisible dog. He texted me to inform me about a brilliant Brett Favre play. I texted back about how conflicted Minnesotans are about having him on the team.

So that’s where we’re at. I don’t know where this is going. More hotness, hopefully.