George Clooney

You climbed down off him and sighed, tumbling into the Egyptian cotton imbroglio. The catching of breath, small laughs of disbelief, skin touching and legs intertwined–the usual post-coital tender moments. And then, preparing for the tandem bathroom trips, fishing around in the sheets for your underwear…it must have fallen on the floor? Or ended up over there, whoa, ha ha. No? Really? Seriously, it’s not over on that side of the bed? Where is it? Is it underneath you? It’s not in the sheets, you’re laying on it. Move. Move. No? It’s not just gone. Well then where the fuck is it?

Now up, out of bed, high and low, but no underwear, like anywhere. What the hell. Like it vanished or got consumed by the heat of your passions or something? Fucking weird. And it’s definitely not just tangled up in the sheets? We’re sure? (He just shrugged, and did that smirky thing. God, is anything not a joke with him? Jesus.) You rolled your eyes, got dressed (everything else right exactly where it had been put or flung) and drove home, light one pair of not inexpensive underwear that you’d just bought especially for this occasion, thanks.

Did he steal it? No, come on. Was there even a time when he could have? He was right there the whole time. You had your eyes squinched during that last orgasm, but didn’t he, too? He stole it. He must have stolen it. WTF OMG he stole your underwear and stuffed it under the mattress. Was it like some kind of weird trophy or something? Did he have a whole secret room full of the underwear of former lovers? God that would be some creepy shit. Nah. No. Come on. George Clooney. It’ll turn up the next time his maid changes the sheets.

Right? Won’t it? It will, won’t it?