My Dream Date With Benedict Cumberbatch


Benny (as I affectionately call him because we’re really quite close now after our three hour long text conversation that was largely comprised of insights about the origins of the universe, preferences on British cheeses, and the smiling poop emoticon) picks me up at my house in the Batmobile. He announces his presence by whispering softly into the breeze and letting his voice carry across the yard, waft into my open windows, and perch gently just inside my ear. “I’m here, my darling.” I turn toward the rich timbre, like the brass section of the London Symphony Orchestra hanging thick in the air around my head, and see him leaning against the Batmobile, wiggling his fingers in a wave.

I can only assume he had been swaddled in his black suit by a team of anthropomorphized household rodents who sang a merry tune while they worked. Benedict! Oh Benedict! Your suit is crisp and clean! Benedict! Oh Benedict! You’re so handsome, tall, and lean! Benny gallantly opens the passenger side door of the Batmobile for me; it’s one of those swingey-uppey doors like all the cars in the future and some of the more garish cars in the present have.
I ask him where we’re going. He cocks an eyebrow and asks, “Where do you think we’re going?” And my eyes get wide, because I already know the answer. Benny takes the time to explain the history of one of Bach’s lesser known concertos playing through the car speakers, and we shortly arrive at our destination.

“You just know me so well, Benedict my darling,” I say as I look up at the combination Taco Bell and KFC in front of us. “And is that…?”

“Yes my sweet, Lake Michigan. We traveled at approximately 2,620 kilometers per hour to dine at the KFC/Taco Bell in Chicago, because I know after this you’re probably going to want an authentic Chicago-style hotdog, and also because the Batmobile just had its turbo boosters turbo boosted.”
I smile and gently caress his face, at a loss for words.
Benedict and I order enough tacos and chicken legs that we could eat some regular, but also eat some tacos topped with shredded chicken leg meat. He periodically reaches under the table to squeeze my bare knee, because I’m only wearing jean shorts and a tank top; he insists on my always being as comfortable as possible. I open my mouth to thank him for the lovely dinner, but before the words escape he presses a finger firmly against my lips. It tastes like the cream cheese filling in a Toaster Strudel.

“No, Katie. Shh. Your charming presence is all the thanks I need,” he says as I burp out of the corner of my mouth.
He loosens his skinny black tie, leans over the table and takes my hands. The corner of his mouth curls up, making him look almost sinister. As an idea forms in his head, his face contorts even more like in that one monologue scene in the new Star Trek in which he was actually kind of scary as fuck, but that’s awesome, because it’s like the hot sort of scary. You know what I mean. “Come, my sweet,” he says, as a lock of hair falls onto his forehead. “I’ve sneaky brought that swimsuit you like so much because you think it manages to hide, through some sort of optical chicanery, the poochy middle section you think you have but you most definitely don’t have. Let us take a nighttime dip and make out in water up to our necks.”

And we do just that. We walk out into the lake past the point where I can still touch bottom, so he lifts me up and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me out a bit further. He kisses me, gently at first and then with more strength. His rough facial hair tickles my upper lip and I sneeze right on his face, but he doesn’t mind. He whispers tales of his brave exploits against the Saracens in the Holy Land, pitting English steel against scimitar, having once sat the round table under King Arthur’s command, because he’s 1100 years old and quite valiant.

“And then I ran Richard III straight through with Enzelhofflerplöeüen, my trusty sword forged in the fires of a fire my dad once started in the back yard and made a sword in. I effectively ended the Wars of the Roses and united the houses Lancaster and York, but Henry VII took all the credit. It’s ok; I’m not a jealous man.”

Benedict carries me out of the water and gingerly lays me on the warm sand. “Not here,” he says, stroking my hair. “I’d like to go back to your place and team-spoon your dog, if that sounds alright to you.”

We skip, still soaking wet, back to the Batmobile in the KFC/Taco Bell parking lot. He requests that I read aloud to him from my Twitter feed, because he finds me so funny and insightful.

He pats my belly as I nod in and out of a food coma, and says he loves me so very very much.

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This post originally appeared on The Tangential.