One Saturday evening, my roommates and I go to Sligos, the diviest of dive bars in Somerville, MA. Complete with scraggly locals, cheap beers and a jukebox, we always left Sligo’s with a good story-- this one being my very favorite.
I spot a guy that looks JUST like a young, longer-haired Paul Rudd. I’ve always been smitten by Mr. Rudd, and am unsurprisingly drawn to his doppleganger. Eventually, my friends and I start chatting with him and his friends. After some time my roommates have to leave, and seeing that I’m mercilessly flirting with Paul (just gonna straight up call him that), they ask the group of guys: “Will you take care of our friend Kelly? We have to head home.” Totally safe.
I spot a guy that looks JUST like a young, longer-haired Paul Rudd. I’ve always been smitten by Mr. Rudd, and am unsurprisingly drawn to his doppleganger. Eventually, my friends and I start chatting with him and his friends. After some time my roommates have to leave, and seeing that I’m mercilessly flirting with Paul (just gonna straight up call him that), they ask the group of guys: “Will you take care of our friend Kelly? We have to head home.” Totally safe.
I learn that Paul is visiting from NYC for the weekend, and that’s literally the only thing I recall about him as a person. The lights flicker-- a sobering reminder that it’s last call. Paul and I are hitting it off, so he offers to walk me home. We’re both drunk, and make out sloppily all the way to my place. We arrive at my apartment and I actually had planned on sending him on his merry way at my doorstep, but he “really has to pee.” Okay, fine. He comes up, does his business and we kiss some more. I still fully intend on kicking him out: I even ask him, "Where are you staying tonight?" to which he replies, "Hopefully here!" But alas, his juicy lips have me hypnotized, and in our drunken states, we straight up pass out.
I wake in the morning, my world a bit foggy, my brain a bit confused. I'm fully clothed-- socks, belt and all-- and haven't even removed my contacts, the biggest indicator of my inebriation. But I have a clear memory of last night’s events, and while I hadn’t succeeded in kicking Paul to the curb, I feel a pang of pride for having stuck to my drunken guns about not sleeping with him. I just wasn’t feeling a one-night stand, not even for Paul Rudd’s exact replica.
So I’m coming to grips with reality, which is delivered with a double dose of hangover. I look to my left.
Paul is naked.
BUTT.
ASS.
NAKEY.
That was not the way I left him pre-pass-out.
I pretend everything is totally normal, that there is not a naked Paul Rudd in my bed after a night of non-sex when I am fully clothed. He wakes and we make awkward small talk.
Then:
“I like how I’m just naked,” he muses.
And then…
“Would you care to join me in Naked Land?”
I guffaw, and neglect his generous invitation. He gets dressed and walks through the door and out of my life.
While his Naked Man routine didn’t work, I can't help but think: That guy’s got balls.
I wake in the morning, my world a bit foggy, my brain a bit confused. I'm fully clothed-- socks, belt and all-- and haven't even removed my contacts, the biggest indicator of my inebriation. But I have a clear memory of last night’s events, and while I hadn’t succeeded in kicking Paul to the curb, I feel a pang of pride for having stuck to my drunken guns about not sleeping with him. I just wasn’t feeling a one-night stand, not even for Paul Rudd’s exact replica.
So I’m coming to grips with reality, which is delivered with a double dose of hangover. I look to my left.
Paul is naked.
BUTT.
ASS.
NAKEY.
That was not the way I left him pre-pass-out.
I pretend everything is totally normal, that there is not a naked Paul Rudd in my bed after a night of non-sex when I am fully clothed. He wakes and we make awkward small talk.
Then:
“I like how I’m just naked,” he muses.
And then…
“Would you care to join me in Naked Land?”
I guffaw, and neglect his generous invitation. He gets dressed and walks through the door and out of my life.
While his Naked Man routine didn’t work, I can't help but think: That guy’s got balls.
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