It's a different question every day from an inquisitive stranger on the street since the world knew you were Superman's girlfriend.
Your family, friends, acquaintances.
Everyone wants to know what it's like to be Superman's girl.
Does he fly you to work? Does he chill your steaming hot coffee? Does he do all the heavy lifting?
They're all sweet, innocent curiosities. Because Superman is the symbol of hope. The embodiment of everything pure and good.
And yes, he flies you to work on his way to save a cat from a tree or toss a ticking bomb into space - or wherever it is he takes bombs to detonate.
He cools your coffee with a breath. Warms it, too. Whatever you need, whenever you need it.
And he definitely does all the heavy lifting. You can’t even remember what a grocery bag weighs — or a can of soda — not when he's around.
Not that he lets you drink as much soda as you’d like. He’s a sucker for clean eating and long-term wellness -- always nudging you toward whatever will stretch your life just a little longer.
So you can live a long time… with him.
He’s everything they say he is.
Your hope. Your shelter. Your salvation.
But there’s a side of him only you know.
His debauchery.
Nobody else knows how he likes to fuck you slow and deep while you’re floating mid-air in your apartment.
They’ve never seen the look in his eyes when he drops to his knees and makes little ice cubes out of your juices, then pushes them back inside you with his tongue -- melting them, lapping them up, again and again. Rinse. Repeat. Until you're spasming and clutching at his thick dark hair.
Not that it stops him. Super strength, remember?
He only stops when he decides you’re properly wrecked.
On cold nights, he warms your skin with his breath, tracing every inch of your body until you're loose and glowing.
His fingers know every vein beneath your skin. Every hidden nerve ending. He finds your pulse like he’s reading a map - a cartographer with one sole aim.
He knows when you want him before you even say it. Sometimes, he makes you say it. Just because.
Toys? You threw them out after the first night. Your vibrator couldn’t compare to what he does with his tongue. Or his fingers. Or both — at the same time — while holding you upside down against the ceiling.
You learned the pleasure of pressure with Clark. That slow, intentional way he squeezes and releases your softest parts, teasing sensations from you you didn’t know existed.
It must be something Kryptonian -- something coded into his cells. Because they sure as hell don’t teach that on Earth.
You know. None of your past boyfriends even came remotely close.
The first time he made you come just by using subtle pulses and rhythms across your body — unlocking erogenous zones like he was cracking a safe — you cried.
Real tears.
The kind that asked, Where the fuck have you been all my life?
The same blues that brim with kindness when he saves a stranger in need darken when they roam over you-- eyes squinting slightly as his x-ray vision peers through layers of fabric to find your skin.
And thank God he’s handy with tools. Because between the headboards, the wall fixtures, and the frames he’s broken, both your incomes would’ve gone to furniture replacements alone. But through it all, he’s still your sweet, sweet Clark. The man who holds you through every trembling high. The man who wipes you clean and tucks you in with kisses, even after he’s absolutely wrecked you. The man who brings you pancakes from your favorite spot after you both oversleep. Or makes them himself when he's feeling soft and smug. That’s Clark Kent. The whole package. And he’s all yours.
So next time someone asks what it’s like to be Superman’s girl… Just smile. They’ll never know the half of it.
