The Boy Friend

by Mika Jolie

  In a few minutes, both of us will be coming. “That’s always the goal, baby.”

  For fuck’s sake, I can’t remember this woman’s name.

  And how hasn’t she picked up on the fact I never call her by her name?

  How is she listed in my contact list?

  Red Head.

  That’s the name I used to enter her information in my contact list when we first hooked up. I kid you not.

  Yes. I’m a fucker.

  Ladies, if a guy keeps calling you honey or baby, flip him the bird and tell him to go stick it where the sun don’t shine.

  Wait. Don’t tell him that. Some of us enjoy the backdoor very much.

  A part of me is dying to lift her up and sit that delicious body on top of me. At this point, my cock is ready, but I also like the foreplay part of sex. The anticipation, there’s a sexiness to it. After I finish protecting both of us, I roll to my side and catch one nipple between my teeth.

  “I mean, I want to go to New Hampshire with you,” Red says as her fingers skirt along my thighs. “The event is during the day. We can leave after.”

  My dick freezes. The impact of her announcement knocks all desire out of my system. Bracing my weight on my elbows, I force myself to concentrate and focus on Red. The moon drifting through the window has cast a soft glow on her face. She’s gorgeous: dark-blue eyes like the ocean, strong cheekbones, with plump, medium-sized lips, and a small, pointy nose.

  I take her hand in mine and sit her on the empty side of the bed; then I flick on the lamp on the nightstand.

  “What are you doing?” Red asks with a frown.

  “Going home.” I’m on my feet, buck naked with a condom on my dick. With a swift tug, I pull the condom off, then start gathering my clothes. She’s watching my every move. I don’t really give a damn. I hang like a fucking elephant, and that’s not bragging. My body isn’t too bad, either. A little over six foot. About one hundred eighty-five pounds of lean muscle. Broad shoulders. Ripped abs. Little to no body fat from hours in the gym, playing basketball, football, and skiing. And she’s done enjoying it, for now.

  I find my black boxer briefs and slip them on.

  “What the hell’s your problem?”

  There’s a strange note in her voice, annoyance, irritation. I don’t dwell on it. Instead, I say, “You knew the deal when we first started this.”

  “This? We’ve been sleeping together for a month.”

  Grabbing my jeans, I slip them on. ESPN, here I come. “We stay casual.”

  “Casual doesn’t imply you and I can’t do things together outside of fucking.”

  The problem is, even if you tell a woman it’s only sex, eventually her emotions get the best of her.

  A huge part of the solution lies in the understanding of the way we feel. Ladies, another piece of advice: if you want a relationship, establish that at the get-go. Stop fucking settling.

  Really. It’s because of your passive-aggressive ways that men like me exist. If you know you want more than the little bit a man is willing to give, don’t waste your time trying to change him. That’s not going to happen. Leave him and find someone else who will love you the way you should be loved.

  My phone dings. Cori’s name appears on the screen. Grabbing the device, I skim through the text.

  Made two dates this week. Guess I just had to put myself out there, huh? BTW, need a rain-check for Wednesday night.

  Two dates already? Today is fucking Sunday. Only two days since we met at Une Pression. What’s the rush?

  A chill runs through the house and in and out of the room. As much as I want to text Cori back, I bury the phone in my back pocket.

  “What if I want more?” Red asks, snapping me back to reality. “That’d be the end of us, I take it?”

  “Yes,” I answer without any hesitation. Crossing the carpeted floor, I grab my button-down shirt and put it on. Hey, I never said I was one of those guys completely in touch with my feminine side. I just said I wasn’t a total dickhead.

  By the way, this is where she should be kicking me out of her house, but she’s not going to. Remember, passive aggressive.

  “It’s because of her.”

  “Her?” I know who she means. I’m not dense.

  “Coriander.” A small sigh of annoyance leaps out of her mouth. “That’s who texted you. Your face couldn’t hide it.”

  This catches my attention. I let my gaze linger on Red, lying naked on the bed. She has a Coca-Cola bottle figure—large breasts with a tiny waist and enticing hips. “What’s the problem?”

  “Your Coriander. She’s going to be there. You don’t want us to meet.”

  Here we go again. She isn’t completely wrong. But the fact that I never bring a woman on our yearly ski trip isn’t about Cori. Cam and Lucas have brought a woman with them on occasion, and hey, more power to them. My hook-ups are temporary. If I start bringing the women I sleep with into my social life, I’m creating a connection, giving them hope.

  In general, I don’t mix my sex life with my personal life. The women in my life don’t get to meet my friends, my family.

  Never. Ever. Period.

  “No, darling, Cori has nothing to do with me saying no. This is a guys’ weekend.”

  “She’s not a guy.”

  “Leave her out of this.” There’s steel in my voice, a silent warning. Without a word, she rolls on her back and focuses her baby blues on the ceiling. I can see I hurt her, and remember the part of me that’s not a complete dickhead?

  Well, this is where it downright screws me over.

  “You want to come with me to New Hampshire?”

  “Yes.” She glances at me and smiles. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Text me the time of your event.” Ski, beer, and sex. Maybe she has a point. “I’ll pick you up afterward.” I stride over to her side of the bed, pull the comforter over her body, lean over, and brush my lips on her forehead. “Gotta go.”

  She wraps her arms around my neck and lifts her body off the bed just enough to tempt me. “Spend the night.”

  Did I mention I never spend nights at a woman’s house? That leads to trouble. Lucas started spending nights at a woman’s house. A year later, they were walking down the aisle. Three years later, divorced.

  “Sorry, babe, got work in the morning.” I unlock her arms from my neck. “I’ll call you.”

  I’M BARELY INSIDE MY HOUSE, when I pull my phone out of my coat pocket and tap the screen. It lights up to Cori’s message. Quickly, I compose a reply.

  You’re dumping me?

  We have a standing date every Wednesday night, either at her place or mine. It’s our hump day tradition. This week, she’s the hostess. My phone lights up with Cori’s response.

  Never :) Tomorrow night? You. Me. Chicken cutlet. Netflix. Think about it.

  Nothing to think about. I respond.

  It’s a date.

  Cori confirms.

  Perfect. See you tomorrow.

  The chambers of my heart contract and relax.

  “Friends are born, not made.”

  QUESTION 1: DO YOU enjoy sending dick selfies?

  This is one of the most crucial subjects to cover early when getting to know a guy. My cock is pretty handsome, but I’ve never felt the need to text a picture of it to a woman. A dick picture requires an immediate fuck you.

  The title of the document I’ve been working on for the last hour glares back at me: Questions to ask on a date.

  Cori did agree to let me help her in this.

  Stop rolling your eyes, and no, I’m not a control freak.

  Okay, I am.

  My point is, as a man, I have the innate ability to sniff out douchebags. More importantly, the world of dating—online or whatever—is full of faux pas and pitfalls. Some things can probably be negotiated, but dick selfies should never be one of them.

  I know, I know, I don’t date. So, who am I to talk?

  While the concept of dating might be foreign to
me, this isn’t rocket science. I don’t have to actually do something to know about it. We all know drugs are bad for us, right? Some of us do it anyway. Me, I never touch that shit, never been curious. So, trust me on this one. If I ever yearn for a committed relationship, I know how to woo a woman.

  And this is why I’ve compiled this list of thought-provoking questions, to eliminate losers and make this experience as smooth as possible for my little Moonchild. This is a work-in-progress, but I’ll share it with you.

  Question 2: Have you ever kept a New Year’s resolution?

  If the answer is yes, dump him. No one keeps New Year’s resolutions. One year, I toyed with the idea of starting to date, you know, taking my time getting to know a woman as a prelude to actually being a fully-fledged couple. That lasted a day. Fine, thirty minutes. Any chance of keeping that resolution went out the window right after the woman next to me kissed me at the stroke of midnight.

  Question 3: Do you have any special dishes that you cook?

  All men should have a secret dish to use as a weapon to knock a woman’s panties off. No need to doubt my culinary skills. I’m only second-generation Italian-Danish American. My first two words were manicotti and frikadeller. Needless to say, I can cook my ass off. I have great culinary skills.

  Question 4: What is in your fridge right now?

  If a man says beer, or I don’t know, dump his ass. Sure, I believe in bachelorhood and enjoy a nice meal out at a fancy restaurant. I’m also a health nut, and home cooking is essential. No, I don’t believe a woman’s place is in the kitchen, unless it involves the kitchen counter or the floor, and me between her thighs. Or behind her. You get the picture.

  Question 5: Are you a big fan of any major pro sports team?

  That should be a given, right? Wrong. There are men who actually don’t watch sports. Cori loves sports. Most of the time, you can find her at the bar, squeezed in between my male buddies and me, drinking beer and screaming at the television screen.

  Question 6: When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?

  One of the kicks I get in life is when Cori and I sing karaoke to “Summer Nights.” She loves Grease for some reason. We can thank her grandmother for introducing the movie to her. We’ve watched it a couple of times. For a total chick flick, it’s not bad.

  Question 7: What does friendship mean to you?

  My office phone buzzes. This is a decisive question, but we have to put the list on pause for now. After clicking “Save” on my desktop, I press the speaker button and greet our favorite office manager. “Are you calling to tell me your granddaughter is here to treat me to lunch?” A little background about Nora. She’s our office manager and Cori’s grandmother.

  “Unfortunately, not today,” she says on a laugh.

  I release a heavy sigh for drama.

  “Greg Armstrong confirmed for four o’clock this evening,” she says over the tip tap of her typing.

  Under the Dogbert stress ball, I eyeball the stack of folders that contains a proposed acquisition of a start-up alternative to Uber and Lyft. This is a huge opportunity for my client to capitalize on the car-for-hire service market. “Perfect.”

  “Oh, your mom is on line two.”

  I love my mom; we have a great relationship. But lately, she’s been on a let’s-get-you-married quest. “Got it.” Tapping the blinking red light, I greet my mom. “You have any more of that chocolate pie?” The other night, Kate and I had dinner with our parents. For dessert, Mom surprised us with one of our favorites—white chocolate pie with berries and licorice. That required an extra hour at the gym, but so worth it. That shit is delicious as fuck.

  “Any other guests I need to include at your birthday party?” my mom asks.

  Okay, no more chocolate pie. Got it. Back to my mother’s question, what she’s not saying is, do you have a girlfriend? I love the fact my parents are one of the few who have found that elusive everlasting love. But marriage is the last thing on my mind.

  I stretch my arms above my head, cracking my shoulder blades, allowing my mind and body to relax for a second. “Nope, I’m flying solo.”

  She sighs. “Dean Conrad Morello.”

  Uh oh. Whenever my mother uses my full name, she means business.

  “Your father and I want grandbabies.”

  Dad, too. Well, I’ll be damned. “Dad wants grandbabies,” I say after a long beat. To summarize my relationship with my father, when I was a kid and had to write about someone I admired, I wrote a ten-page essay about my dad.

  “Yes,” my mom confirms.

  Well, damn. That’s news to me. My father, Dean Martin Morello—yes, his parents cursed him and named the guy after their favorite crooner from the legendary Rat Pack. Like old Dino Paul Crocetti—that’s Dean Martin’s real name—my father is the eternal essence of cool and success. I take after him.

  As the legend goes, my dad is what the Italians called a menefreghista—one who simply does not give a fuck. For most of his life, he lived without rules or consequences and embodied the glorious excess of the world—women, women, women.

  See the similarity?

  The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.

  Needless to say, the big guy eventually fell from grace and became completely pussy-whipped when he met my mom, Ana. Let’s not dwell on the fact I just said pussy and my mother’s name in the same sentence. Moving on.

  I see you smiling. I know what you’re thinking. One day, that’ll be me.

  Don’t bet your last dollar on that one. You’d lose.

  “What about Katharine?” I ask, desperately trying to bounce the pressure off my shoulders.

  My mother sighs. “Your sister is a lost cause.”

  A little background about Kate. My sister was once engaged for two hours to the world’s biggest bag of shit. The evening of their engagement dinner, she walked in on him screwing one of her closest friends in the coat room. That night, Cam and I had a field day with the asswhipe. Luckily, Lucas had some common sense and stopped us from committing murder.

  “Can’t blame her,” I say, cracking my knuckles.

  There’s a slight pause. I already know where she’s going with this. My gaze swivels to the framed diplomas from Columbia and Wharton Business School nailed on the wall, right next to the framed poster of LeBron James dunking over some dude. These are my prized possessions in my office. Check them out if you want.

  Let’s just put it this way. FINRA ain’t got nothing on me.

  “What about Coriander?” My mother finally asks.

  And there you have it. Ever since I graduated college, my mother has made no attempt to conceal her desire for Cori and I to transition from friends to more.

  “Cori and I are just friends,” I say for the millionth time.

  “She’s a nice girl and single.”

  Not for long. She already has two dates this week. Rubbing the back of my neck, I stare at the list of questions on my computer screen, and say, “Cori wants to get married and start a family.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I wish you’d want the same thing.”

  It’s like I’m ten years old again, listening to my mother explaining nocturnal emissions: That’s why they’re called wet dreams, they happen when you’re sleeping, and your underwear or the bed might be a little wet when you wake up. Nothing to be ashamed of.

  “Why won’t you date Cori? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Nothing,” I answer. “We’re just . . . not into each other that way.”

  My mother laughs softly. “Of course, love.”

  Sensing sarcasm, I ask, “Hey, what does that mean?”

  “Nothing. See you soon.”

  I release a deep breath after ending the call. How do I explain to my mother that ninety-nine percent of men view relationships the same way we regard our favorite car. Take my toy du jour, for example, the Ferrari California T in sleek black. This rolling art piece encap
sulates my priorities—sophistication, elegance, and versatility.

  Just like my women.

  I’ll drive it until I simply get bored, then I’ll either buy the latest model or invest in a different look altogether. No emotional ties. Just a fun ride. That’s where I am in life right now. No expectation. No disappointment.

  “Friends come in all shapes and sizes”

  MINUTES AFTER I END THE call with my mother, Cam and Lucas stroll into my office with smug looks on their faces. Something tells me I’m the butt of their joke.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Dude, I heard you’re officially off the market?” Cam teases. “Or should I be asking if you’ve lost your mind?” The fucker has a way of not mincing his words. He’s leaning on the bookshelf, arms folded over his charcoal wool sport coat, while he observes me with casual assessment.

  Other than Cori, these two are my partners in crime. Together, the three of us are a formidable force. Lucas has that tall, dark, and badass thing going for him. Cam, on the other hand, has the all-American boy good looks and charms.

  Yes, you’re right on point. We are legendary. We exude power and confidence. We are Adonises among men. One look, and women are swooning at the sight of us. The second a single word passes from our lips, pussies are running to us.

  Women wanna fuck us. We love fucking. It’s a mutual love affair.

  Alright, before we continue any further, let’s get one thing out of the way. Stop rolling your eyes every time I drop the P word. Would you rather I use another arguable-yet-hilarious slang word like the pink taco, twat, or beaver?

  No, I’m not going to use the word vagina. Last I checked, this is not an anatomy or physiology class.

  “Should we be planning a bachelor party?” Lucas drops his big frame on the leather couch across from my desk.

  I swivel in my chair to face Lucas. I’ve known this guy all of my life. Many moons ago, my dad, along with Lucas’ dad, Juan Manuel Bernal, left Wall Street and started a small investing company catering to sophisticated investors. Seven years ago, Cameron’s father, Ryan Daniels, joined the awesome duo to become the fearsome threesome. Together they created Morello, Bernal, and Daniels. This is where the three of us work as hedge fund managers. About two years ago, the founding fathers made us partners, passing the baton. Now, they spend most of their time golfing, while we run the place.