“Wher’re yoooou frommm?” I squealed to the metrosexual, British, GOD-of-a-man I met last night.  Sure, his shirt was probably two sizes too tight. Sure, he made comments that could make Howard Stern blush. Sure, he may have made that gross, I’d-like-to-shake-my-face-in-your-chest gesture.  Sure, he was engaged.

But he was British.

And I was drunkity drunk drunk.

(“Hey, they didn’t call you the boyfriend stealer in high school for nothing!” you all shout.)  Don’t get the wrong idea.  Nothing went on between me and the The Blond From Across the Pond besides some witty quips and very minor groping.  I met this fine gentleman (whose name escapes me at the moment) when I strutted up to a semi-circle of attractive men at The Jungle Room.  My line?

“What, what — is this where all the hot people sit?”

Smooooooth operator, eh?  Even I am baffled by natural inclination to be so suave.

Jenn, you all say, how do you deal with being such social slut lately? Not easily, readers.  Not. Easily.  Sometimes, when you play with the stray dogs, they also follow you home. I personally wanted to leave it at the bar, and  I don’t know who said it was a good idea to all head back to our place.  But Leah and I were opting out of the gang bang.  So we employed the brute force of our neighbors, Seth and Adam, as bodyguards (which is a really funny concept, if you know them).

Before leaving, The Brit confessed: “I told you I was from Manchester.  I’m actually from Sheffield.”

“Oh.”  He could have told me he was from Mars, with that accent.  “Sheffield.  Like in novels, by Jane Austen.”

“Yeah,” he shot back….”I fucked her.”