by Knight, Jodi
Let’s get one thing straight; that whole parking lot brush off episode?
It was nothing but a set-back.
Being put in the friend-zone doesn’t mean that Ella rejected me. Sure, she’s with Tyler, but do you really think that it’s going to last?
I don’t think so, either.
Now, normally I’d never pursue a woman if another guy’s in the mix, but this is different. He’s an asshat. She deserves better. I’ve seen the signs; the stolen glances, the flicking of her hair, the licking of her lips. Ella Bryant has a major ladyboner for me, and I’m willing to undertake any number of machinations to get inside her panties again.
So, what is my next move?
I have to prove to Ella that I’m willing to be friends.
Simple, right?
Yeah … try telling that to my dick.
***
I didn’t always want to work in advertising. During high school, I harbored dreams of becoming a pilot. It’s true. It’s a fantasy that came true when my parents took me on a pre-college vacation to Europe. As my parents slept soundly in business class, I hit the liquor and worked my magic on the air hostess. Tara introduced me to the mile high club somewhere over the North Atlantic.
It was awesome.
Anyway, I’m telling you this because my expertise in attracting the opposite sex is the primary reason why my father lets me take the lead when we’re pitching for ad campaigns, specifically those in which the primary target is women. I’ve had years of experience. I know what they want.
I know what makes them tick.
An adman worth his weight in gold knows that before you can sell anything to a woman, you have to focus on getting a reaction. I’ve been mulling over ways to grab Ella’s attention. She’s ignoring my calls, so I’ve sent an invitation for our next date via special delivery to her office.
Not flowers. Not chocolates. That’s so fucking nineties.
Women want personal.
Now I’m just sitting on the couch in my office and patiently waiting. I check my watch. Twenty past eleven. Excellent. I should be hearing from her any minute now …
Bzzzz.
Here we go—like clockwork.
I answer, but there’s no time to exchange pleasantries because she’s already yelling. “Are you trying to get me fired?”
Feigning innocence, I ask her. “Why would I do that?”
I pace the room, and listen to the commotion coming from the other end of the line.
“Quit messing around!” She’s really fired up now.
Nice.
Christ, I wish I could be there to see her erupting—I bet it’s spectacular.
I try my hardest to not sound smug. “Ella, if you’d returned my calls this would never have happened. You told me you loved Twilight. I fail to see how you could find a sparkly vampire stripper so offensive.”
She interjects. “Tell that to my boss. She just dialed security to have him removed from the premises. There’s glitter everywhere!”
Sparkly vampire strippers are pretty hard to come by, even in the city that never sleeps. It took me three days to hunt down something so personal. He cost me a goddam fortune and she had him evicted?
Women.
“He’s supposed to sparkle, Ella. He’s a vampire. Listen, get a cleaner. Have your boss mail me the bill.”
“And the kittens? Do you seriously expect me to keep all seven of them?”
Yeah, I also had the stripper hand-deliver a basket of kittens. How could you refused to accept that?
“Ella, did you get my invitation?”
I settle down into my Dr. Evil chair. By the way—it’s awesome, isn’t it? It’s where I sit when I bark out orders during meetings. “Ella, I’m attending a charity function at the AMNH this evening. I need a plus one. I’d like that plus one to be you.”
She’s silent for a few moments. “You’re joking, right?”
I chuckle. “Don’t be paranoid. Nobody knows about our kitchen encounter. Or what happened in the parking lot. Sorry about that. I’ll keep my hands to myself, tonight. I hope you will, too.”
I’m crossing my fingers, by the way.
Her voice is stern. “Seriously, quit while you’re ahead. You do realize that I have the power to knock you off the bachelor list completely, don’t you? Imagine the effect that will have on your pulling prowess.”
My, my, haven’t the tables turned?
Ignoring her threat, I fire back, “I also know you like Mr. Darcy. And swans. I’m in a giving mood. You know what? I’m in a giving mood. Perhaps I could send another gift to your office?”
I’m just teasing her, but she doesn’t know that.
She’s silent for a few moments. “This is blackmail.”
“I know. That’s why you’re going to meet me at the seventy-seventh street entrance at seven thirty. It’s black tie, so dress appropriately. Or naked. Either way is fine by me, but you might be cold.”
She snorts. “To think I was actually beginning to entertain the idea that you’re actually a decent guy.”
I roll my eyes. “C’mon. Tyler wouldn’t want you sitting on your lonesome while he’s away. I’m offering to keep you company. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”
Her voice is softer now as she resigns to her fate. “Fine. Whatever. Mail me the details. Just promise me that there will be no tap-dancing Darcy-gram sent to the office?”
“I promise.”
Click.
***
Planning and executing a liaison that will result in sex is not an easy feat for many guys. Why do you think so many single men wind up at salsa class? It’s because they lack the charm and cunningness to execute a date that will lead to successfully burying their bone.
Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that. Ask any guy what he considers to be the perfect end to a date and I guarantee that you’ll get the same answer.
Sex.
We’ll wine you.
We’ll dine you.
We’ll dance with you.
But, don’t be fooled, we’ve got one goal in mind.
Nailing you.
Don’t shoot the messenger. It’s the truth.
Do you know what’s even more difficult than planning a date which culminates in a nice long screw?
Planning a date where there’s zero chance of getting laid.
It really sucks.
It’s like taking a Hennessey Venom GT for a test drive when you have no intention of buying, or getting a lap dance during a black out. It’s an exercise in futility, so why put yourself through the pain?
I always liken sex to a game of bridge. If you don’t have a good partner, then you had better have a good hand. So I’ve made a date with Rosie Palmer before I hit the town.
That’s right.
I’m applying the handbrake.
Choking Kojak.
Faxing the pope.
Ella is off-limits. Out-of-bounds. I can’t go on a ‘date’ with sporting a fully-loaded sack, and still remain chaste. This is the only way.
Sadly, a simple hand job won’t cut it.
A guy with my vast experience, prowess, and desires always needs something a little extra, which is why I got myself some props.
Ask your husband if he’s ever tried the Banana Man. What about the Sargent Pepper, the Kiwi Delight, or the Mattress Sandwich? He hasn’t? Well, he really should. If he denies all knowledge of the latter then file for a divorce because he’s a goddamn liar.
I’ve been all about the blindfold fantasies since our restaurant date, so I wrap one of my expensive red silk ties around my head and lower it over my eyes.
I’m working late in the office, and I …
Scratch that.
I’m lazing on the deck of my luxury yacht, sailing across the Mediterranean Sea. It’s dusk and I’m drinking scotch straight from the decanter. I look up to see Ella emerging from below deck, wearing a boner-inducing pink summer dress. A gentle breeze whips up the hem of her dres
s.
Would you look at that?
She’s going commando.
I think it’s time for you to leave.
***
Though barely a five-minute walk from my apartment, I haven’t been to the American Museum of Natural History since seventh grade. The curator caught me making out with Janie Gough behind a woolly mammoth. We were supposed to be sketching fossil bones, but the only bone Janie had on her mind was in my pants.
Good times.
Anyway, tonight’s gala is in aid of an animal welfare charity. My father is a patron. As he’s still hula dancing his way around Hawaii, I’ve been asked to attend in his absence.
I’m sitting on top of the steps and waiting for Ella to arrive. She’s late. You’re probably thinking it would serve my sorry ass right if she stands me up. How dare I cajole Ella into joining me for this evening’s charitable festivities, blah blah blah.
You think I should give up, don’t you?
Never.
Anyway, tonight isn’t solely about me wanting to screw her. I do, of course, but I have something else planned.
And no, it doesn’t involve my penis.
I look up, and I’m speechless when a familiar figure emerges from a cab. She’s wearing a floor-length emerald gown that billows in the breeze. Her hair is pulled back into a messy up-do.
Fuck me. That’s my date.
Take a look around. Every guy within a fifty meter radius of Ella Bryant is salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs. I know I’m supposed to do the gentlemanly thing and escort her upstairs, but I can’t.
I’m rooted to the spot. Transfixed.
When she reaches the top of the stairs, all I can stammer is. “Y-you’re late.”
Ella tilts her head to one side and says coldly. “Just a couple of minutes. That’s positively early for a busy Manhattanite.”
I think I’m telling her how nice she looks. I don’t know. I’m mumbling like a teenage boy who’s just been caught masturbating by his grandmother.
I shake my head, trying to consign all my lewd thoughts to the back of my mind. “Ella, I told you that I’d behave, but you’re not making this easy.”
My gaze follows the thigh-high split in her dress. I lick my lips as I recall the sweet taste of her soft skin that night in my apartment. Beneath that frosty exterior I can tell she’s totally digging the black bow tie and my new Armani suit.
I give her one of my trademark dimpled smiles and can’t help but ask. “How are the pussies?”
She shakes her head, and I swear I see a flash of anger in her eyes, but it disappears almost as quickly as it came. “Don’t go there. My roommate is taking care of them for now, but you need to take them back.”
See, what did I tell you? It’s another win for the dimples; no woman can stay mad at me for long.
We head inside. I grab two glasses of Prosecco from a waiter and hand one to Ella. “Follow me. There’s somebody I’d like you to meet.” I lead her to a clique of elderly men in the corner of the lobby.
“Professor Bernstein, this is Ella Bryant. Ella studied veterinary science at Cornell.”
Professor Bernstein just happens to be the department head of a leading veterinarian school. He knows everybody who’s anybody in the world of healing sick animals. Can you see where I’m going with this? I’m helping her take that first step toward her dream career. I’ve got to get brownie points for that, right?
Or a blow job. I’d rather have a blow job.
Ella accepts his handshake, but she’s glaring at me like she wants to kill me. “Hi, actually I didn’t finish college.”
He adjusts his glasses, no doubt to get a better view of her rack. I’m not being rude—having a high IQ doesn’t preclude sexual deviance.
And now I’m staring.
Jesus, being this horny always makes me hungry, so I politely excuse myself and leave Ella and the Professor alone to discuss deworming strategies while I hunt down the canapé guy.
But I don’t manage to find him.
Why?
Because God hates me, that’s why.
“Alexander!”
Wait a moment ... I know that voice.
It can’t be.
I spin around.
Yeah, it can.
Well, if it isn’t my very own fun-filled stalker triple-dripped in psycho: the one, the only, Lisette Strevens.
Live in person.
I shit you not.
Before you can say rat-down-a-drainpipe, I commando roll underneath the nearest table. There’s a horrified chorus of gasps; my stalker has just upended two dozen champagne flutes to get her hands on me. Now she’s down on all fours, too, glaring at me through mascara-streaked eyes like a rabid poodle baying for its bone.
My bone.
Have you ever seen the TV game show Gladiators? Good—well look at me go. I grit my teeth and make a bid for freedom by crawling through a gauntlet of broken glass under an adjacent table. I finally reach the end and look up to find a wild-eyed Lisette staring right back at me.
Wow.
My father wasn’t kidding around—Bunny Boiler really has tattooed my initials on each earlobe. She reminds me of one of those Dementors from the Harry Potter movies; one kiss and she’ll suck your soul dry. It’s a crying shame she didn’t apply the same technique while giving head, but I’ll let that detail pass under the circumstances.
And now here’s Ella. She clocks the proximity of Lisette and stops dead in her tracks. “Alex! Are you okay? Your hand is bleeding.” Stalker’s head turns Exorcist-style toward Ella and she unleashes a super laser stare so intense it’s capable of destroying the Death Star.
Lisette stutters before letting out an ear-drum busting wail. “You … you … and her?”
Ella eyes me with mock suspicion. “Is this one of your Sladies?” she asks in what I’m sure she thinks is a quiet voice. It’s wasn’t.
Watch.
Oh, God.
Lisette opens her mouth like she’s about to unleash a plague of locusts. I’d ask her to chill the fuck out, but it would be useless. Asking an angry woman to calm down is like trying to baptize a cat.
Anyway, I must be a lucky guy because it seems that I don’t have to. My stalker has just fled the building; no doubt straight home to her wax effigy and pocket full of pins.
I down the nearest alcoholic beverage in exasperation.
Ladies, please forgive and forget any of my previous boasts; being this handsome isn’t a blessing.
It’s a fucking curse.
***
Two hours later, and Ella and I are both pretty drunk.
We’re hammering the Prosecco and marveling at a stuffed giraffe in the safari exhibition. I see my relationship with Ella as being somewhat similar to the mating ritual of giraffes.
Let me explain.
Have you ever heard of the Flehmen sequence? If you have any kind of social life, then I guess the answer is no. Then allow me to enlighten you.
While mating, male giraffes take a mouthful of the female’s urine to determine if she’d be a good mate.
Sounds gross, doesn’t it?
The male giraffe approaches a female from behind and nuzzles her ass until she takes a pee. Not content with a massage, he’ll drink it to see if she’s keen to get down and dirty. If she gives him the come hither signal, the male giraffe will then proceed to stalk the shit out of her.
More often than not, the female will walk or run away from him.
Why is the female giraffe acting like a giant prick tease?
Easy.
She’s testing the persistence of her male suitor. She’s trying to see if she can attract a more worthy male. The giraffe that fights hardest, and chases farthest, wins. It’s kind of applicable to dating, don’t you think?
We all know Ella can attract a better man than that fucktard she’s dating.
Calm down—I’m not going to drink her pee. That would be gross. I’m all for whips and chains, but I don’t do golden showers.
The real reason why I invited her out tonight was so I could test the water. Before I knew about Jockass, I was going to ask her to be my Friday night girl.
But now the harem is no more?
I’m free to do her every goddamn night.
Kinda.
I need to wait until the campaign is over. Then I’ll make my move. And I don’t want to scare her away before then, so I’ll try to behave. Instead, I’ll show her that she can trust me. Call me deluded, but I can tell by the way she looks at me that she’s had naked fantasies about me on more than one occasion this evening.
She tugs at her silver necklace. “You know, I hate to admit it, but I’m having a great time, Alex.”
“Me too. And judging by the way Bernstein was checking your ass, I’m pretty sure he’d agree.”
She jabs my arm as she giggles. Yeah, she’s drunk. “Don’t punch me,” I tell her. “He’ll be a great contact to have once you go back to school.”
She smiles and rests her head on my shoulder. It feels nice, even though we’re not naked.
“It’s just a pipe dream, Alex. I’m too old, anyway.”
I chuckle. “Get out of here! Never give up on your dreams, Ella.”
I know what you’re thinking. Why is he spouting verbal diarrhea like a Mormon missionary? Blame the alcohol. Blame the raging boner I’m sporting. Truth is—I’d recite the entire Encyclopedia Britannica right now if it meant I’d get inside Ella panties.
Every. Goddamn. Volume.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to kiss her. It’s not easy, but like I said, I have to hold back. Play the long game. Prove I have some self-control.
So, instead, I whisper. “I like you.”
But she doesn’t reply.
She didn’t hear; she’s fallen asleep on my shoulder.
Chapter Eleven
After the charity ball last week, Ella wound up back at my apartment. Can you believe it? I had every intention of taking her home—scouts honor. It was only when I’d carried her halfway down the museum steps I realized I had no fucking clue where she lived.