Trophy Husband

by Lauren Blakely

  Our public education system is much worse than I thought. After all, is it really that much to ask for one’s potential next mate to be able to make a noun and verb agree? The answer, evidently, is yes. I try the next entry.

  “Let me be your boy toy. I will obey your every order and serve your every wish.”

  At least his grammar is correct. And his writing has a nice rhythm to it, so I click through to his photo.

  Ouch.

  I am just going to pretend I didn’t see that.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. I remind myself that I am not a prude. I am not a priss. I am not weirded out by sex, or sexy people, or public displays of affection. But I am pretty sure – and I wouldn’t have known this before because I have never seen one – that I am not into penis piercings.

  So I move on to the next entry, trying my best to un-see what I just saw.

  “I have a job, my own place in the city and am clean and well-kept,” the next one writes.

  What, like a lawn?

  I hit the home button on the browser, returning to the safe haven of Google, then lay my cheek on the edge of my desk, wondering yet again if I am out of my mind. Because clearly I am not cut out for a Craigslist match. As much as I’d love to end my streak, I also wouldn’t mind a bit more than a fling. I’m almost embarrassed to admit this because I’m supposed to be an independent woman – hear me roar – but I would really like to have a boyfriend.

  The word sounds so high school, but I don’t care. I don’t want to be alone any longer. I want to be in love and carefree and have someone to talk to, laugh with, make fun of other crazy people in San Francisco with. Someone who would never even think of leaving me with two mixers and a vintage white dress.

  I can picture it perfectly – a night out on the town, then we’d come home, turn on some torch music, he’d take me in his arms for a slow dance. Touch my hair in a way that sends sparks through me. Then a hand on the back of my neck, bringing me closer, lips meshing with mine. He’d slide his hand down to the small of my back, while laying a smoldering path of kisses down to the hollow of my throat.

  We’d slow dance and sway, the kind of dance that’s not for anyone else to see. The kind that’s a delicious tease of foreplay, where every subtle move, every brush of the fingers, and dusting of the lips on shoulders, is the promise of what’s to come. That dress straps will be pushed down, that zippers will come undone. Clothes will fall in the floor in a heap, tugged off quickly, as the dance moves to the couch and shifts into something horizontal. Slow and tender and tantalizing, each move, each touch turning me higher, sending me further into a dizzying state of longing.

  My breath catches at the thought. Not only the prospect of kisses that ignite goosebumps all over me, but the possibility of someone who wants only me. Who only has eyes for me. Who wants to look at me, longing and lust in his perfect green eyes, and then throw me down on my couch, strip me naked, and bury his face between my legs.

  Okay, so evidently, I both want a boyfriend and the kind of oral plundering that makes you quiver, and roll your eyes in the back of your head, and grab the guy’s soft, shaggy hair, and shout his name over and over into oblivion.

  Then curl up in his arms, safe and warm, and know he’ll be there the next day and the next and even then some

  Is that so much to ask for?

  Love, and a talented mouth?

  I close out of Craigslist. I’m not going to find what I really want there anyway.

  Chapter Four

  I model for the camera a cute little ‘50s style bateau neck blouse. Then, I step out of the shot, swap that shirt out for a form-fitting black V-neck with one purple shoe design emblazoned on the front. I step back in front of the camera that Andy holds as he shoots today’s episode in my living room.

  “What’s it going to be, my fellow fashion hounds?” I point to the camera – the viewers. “You get to vote on how I’m going to dress for my first ever date with a Trophy Husband candidate. And be sure to watch the outtakes from my very first phone call to a potential candidate.”

  I pause for a second or two because this is the spot where Andy will edit in a few choice clips from my iCam-captured conversation with the Meter Boy. The clips include my awkward ask-out: “So should we meet in the Golden Gate Park near Shakespeare Gardens on Saturday?”

  Am I the world’s biggest dork or what? I couldn’t have just asked Meter Man out for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, or even, God forbid, something as simple as lunch. Nope, I had to go nuts and ask him to meet in the frigging park. He’ll probably bring champagne and strawberries too.

  Anyway, after my three-count pause, I give my traditional sign off, with a tip of the hat to my dog, who sits dutifully by my side. “That’s all for today, you fellow fashion hounds.”

  Andy turns off the camera and I ask my usual question. “How was it?”

  He gives me a thumbs up, his standard cameraman-slash-videographer response.

  “That’s why I like working with you. For the wordless thumbs up,” I tease as I wind the cord to the microphone around my fingers, barely paying attention, doing the routine by memory. Then I hand Andy the microphone and wipe one hand against the other. Done.

  “I’ll have that online in thirty minutes,” he says as he breaks down his gear, carefully folding up the tripod and shutting off his camera. His curly brown hair is a little shaggy as it hangs close to his brown eyes. Andy clucks his tongue a few times but says nothing. Uh oh. That’s what he does when something’s bugging him.

  “What is it, Andy? What’s bothering you?”

  “I dunno,” Andy says with a shrug, his hair flopping down in his eyes as he leans in to put his camera into its sturdy Port-a-Brace bag. “I guess I just don’t think this is such a good idea.” He zips his camera bag, averting my gaze.

  “The bateau top? You really hate it that much?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You looking for this, this…” His voice trails off. He can’t say the words.

  “Oh c’mon. You probably want a Trophy Husband as much as I do.”

  “Ha. But not funny.”

  “Fine. Sorry. But I’m twenty-seven, you’re twenty-nine. Don’t you like a hot young guy?”

  “Who I like is not what I’m worried about.”

  “Andy, what are you worried about?”

  “Anyway.” He hoists the bag on his shoulder and heads to the stairs.

  “Hey.” I follow him. “This is not how we have conversations. This is not how we talk. Don’t walk away. Talk to me.”

  “McKenna.” He sighs.

  “What, Andy? What is it?”

  “I don’t think you should look for a guy on TV.”

  “One, I am not looking for a boyfriend. I’m looking for a husband,” I say, correcting his word choice. But, to be honest, the two words are kind of interchangeable for me: A Trophy Husband feels a hell of a lot more like a boyfriend right now, especially since husband is a term I’m not terribly fond of, given how the almost husband I had dumped me. But Trophy Boyfriend just doesn’t have the same ring to it. “Two, it’s not TV. It’s the Web. Three, it’s not even about the guy. It’s about making a point.”

  “Look, I’m just worried. You don’t know what sort of problems this is going to create. I gotta go.”

  Then he shuts the front door behind him.

  Later, after the video posts, Erin calls from work. “You are so totally wearing that bateau top. It’s you. No question about it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I loved it and Julia loved it. I couldn’t reach Hayden because she was meeting with a client, but I say two out of three ain’t bad.”

  I laugh as I step away from the computer. “You’re crazy. I can’t believe you called the Brain Trust to survey them on my wardrobe choices.”

  “We’re your inner circle. We are part of this project. We watched the video together. Well, on the phone, but together. And i
f viewers get to have a say, we get to have a say as well in every single aspect of the Trophy Husband quest, including how you dress.”

  “So it is written, so it shall be.”

  “And details, McKenna. We all wants details on the date.”

  As I say goodbye to Erin, I keep thinking how my girlfriends are always the ones who know what’s best for me.

  * * *

  I told you so.

  When I see those four words in my text messages, I tense. Was Andy right? Are there some weird problems already?

  Then I see the name. Chris. The Video Game Guy with the green eyes and the smile that both melted me and made me want to climb up on his body and wrap myself around him.

  I tap the message, opening it fully. There’s a close-up picture of my camera, zoomed in on the the green on-button. He pulled it off.

  I write back. Wow, you are Mr. Fix-It.

  Minutes later he replies: I’m having tee-shirts made up with that saying. In any case, your camera works again, so let me know how to return it to you.

  I stare at the message. For a minute. Then another. I don’t know what to say. Should I say “by mail” is fine? Or “Should we meet for coffee?” But that would be so weird. He didn’t ask to meet for coffee, just to give me back my camera. Am I supposed to suggest a meeting place? A means to return it? Carrier pigeon? Dog sled? I am entirely baffled, and so I stand at my kitchen table, the phone in my hand.

  There’s a scratching sound. I turn. Ms. Pac-Man is looking out the bay window at a squirrel racing across a tree branch. Then another buzz. It’s the phone. Chris is calling. His name on the screen startles me, and I’ve lost all capacity to react normally. So for some inexplicable reason, I toss the phone onto the couch like it’s a hot potato.

  Crap.

  That’s not what I wanted to do.

  It keeps ringing and I dive for it, hurtling over the back of the couch, landing on the cushions, and saving it from the disastrous fate of me having inadvertently thrown it away when a cute guy called.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey. So your camera is good as new, and I can get it back to you anytime.”

  “Great.”

  What do I say next?

  “So, I go surfing every morning, but could meet up with you after that.”

  “Ocean Beach?”

  “Yep.”

  “I actually have to go over in that direction tomorrow morning,” I say, thinking that Shakespeare Gardens isn’t far from the beach. “I could meet up with you tomorrow. What time?”

  “How’s eleven?”

  “Perfect.”

  We pick a location and say goodbye. I make a note on my to-do list to buy some fresh tuna for Chaucer as a thanks for peeing on my camera. Then I remember I need to make sure Chris isn’t an axe murderer who lures women with the whole “I can fix the camera your friend’s cat peed on” line, so I Google him.

  No wonder he knew so much about Halo.

  He’s not just some hard-core gamer. He’s an expert, and he’s a star in his field.

  I find articles about him, links to him, stories in gamer magazines. I click on his Web site and see the video for his show, Let the Wookie Win. It runs online, and also on a cable network for gamers. Damn, the guy with the beautiful eyes, and the hair I wanted to run my fingers through, and who kissed me in my imagination that day, has his own TV show.

  Impressed, I hit the play button and watch the most recent episode. Chris shares some inside tips on new games, from car games, to sports games, to shooter games. I watch as he demos a baseball game where you have to use your whole body and he simulates swinging a baseball bat. He looks like a star athlete, like a pro in the batter’s box. He’s ultra casual in a green Volcom tee-shirt, cargo shorts and flip-flops, demonstrating how to hit a hanging curveball. As he stands there in the batter box in his studio with feet apart and arms raised slightly, poised to hit, I can’t help but notice again that, even with his shirt on, his midsection looks fairly trim. I could eat every meal off of abs like that.

  Maybe he can be my video game tutor. Maybe we can play video games together, and laugh, and work on destroying bad guys as a team. And before we moved onto to the next level of the game, he’d turn off the Xbox, toss the remote onto the ground and slide me underneath him on my couch, one quick hand moving down to my hipbone, touching me there in a way that sends fireworks to every point in my body, before he smothers me in a kiss.

  It’s a kiss that doesn’t leave any questions. It’s a kiss that turns the rest of the world black and white, and only this, only him, is in color. A gentle slide of his tongue, an insistent press of his soft lips, and I am his, swimming in the sweet heat. I can feel the kiss in the center of my being, and then it radiates all the way to my fingers and toes. I want to be kissed like this always. By someone who knows how to kiss me, and who says in how his lips consume me, in how his hands hold on tight, in how he shifts his hard body against mine, that he wants all I have to give.

  I’ve become hypnotized as I watch him, mesmerized by the way his body moves with a fluid sort of grace. I place my palm on my chest, imagining my hand is his hand, that he’s touching me gently for the first time, that he’s exploring my body, eager to learn how I respond to his touch, to his strong hand on my breast, then my belly, then my hips. I’m him for a moment, fingers trailing across my mid-section, ready to sneak under the fabric of shirt, spread his hand across my stomach and…

  What the hell? I’m in some sort of trance, touching myself, pretending he’s touching me.

  I put on the brakes. If I let this go further I’ll be a tongue-tripped mess when I see him tomorrow morning. And we just can’t have that, can we?

  * * *

  My timing is impeccable.

  I do not want to miss a chance to see Chris walk across the sand, so there’s no reason for me to be on time when I can be early.

  I park on Taraval Street along Ocean Beach, get out of my car, and wait. I try my best to look busy, fiddling with my phone, and checking compartments in my purse, but when Chris appears on the horizon, surfboard in hand, wet suit tucked under his arm, I freeze.

  And then I blush, remembering what he did to me in my mere imagination yesterday. I’m sure he’ll be able to tell, to read it in my eyes. I really should pretend I’m not watching him. But it’s impossible not to. I didn’t look away during that scene in Casino Royale either when Daniel Craig emerged from the water. He wears board shorts, low on his hips, and a pair of flip flops. I watch him as he walks through the sand, closer, closer and there, now I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I would like to lick all those water droplets off his chest and his abs and then run a hand down his body to sear into my memory the feel of that kind of firm outline.

  He’s lickable. He’s kissable. He’s chat-up-able. He’s precisely the type of guy a girl can fall into some kind of crazy crush for. He catches my gaze, and I should be embarrassed, I should act as if I’m not staring, but there’s this fluttery feeling inside me, and I want to hold onto it, especially because he’s looking at me and not letting go either. Those green eyes of his are the definition of dreamy, and if I were a writer, I’d find a way to pen a song about them, how they draw me in, romance me, entice me.

  Soon, he’s mere feet from me, scratched-up surfboard by his side, in all his glistening, ocean-ed up glory. Neither one of us says anything for a few seconds, and it’s the kind of silence that’s filled with unsaid things.

  With wishes, with hopes.

  Mine at least.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  “Thanks for meeting me here,” he says, as a wet shock of hair falls across his forehead. He pushes it back.

  “Thanks for being a surfer,” I say, then I want to kick myself for sounding so goggly-eyed.

  He flashes me a grin and walks to his car, a sporty red car that I recognize as being one of the newest hybrids. He stows the wetsuit in the trunk, then slides the board into the rack on the roof, s
tretching his arms to lock the board in place. I picture myself slinking into the narrow space between Chris and the car, the look of surprise on his face, then wicked delight, as he closes the gap between our bodies. He’s warm and wet from surfing and sun, and I’m warm and wet from him, and I imagine him lazily tracing a finger down my arm, enjoying the way the slightest touch sets me ablaze. I’d shift closer, my hips inviting him to become a puzzle piece that locks into place with me.

  I force myself to shutter those images, because they have no bearing to reality.

  He opens the passenger door, reaches inside and hands me a bag with the camera in it.

  “Good as new,” he says.

  “How did you fix it?”

  “I can’t give away all my secrets now, can I?”

  I smile. “I suppose not.”

  “But maybe you’d be willing to tell me your last name now that I’ve fixed your camera.”

  Another smile. Another nervous laugh. “McKenna. McKenna Bell.”

  “Well, thank you for letting me fix your camera, McKenna Bell.”

  “Maybe if I’m lucky, the cat will pee on my router next.”

  He smiles, then runs a hand through his wet hair. There’s something so effortless about the way he moves, so natural, that I don’t even think he’s aware of the effect he has on women.

  Of the effect he has on me. I want to run my hands down his chiseled chest, exploring the lines between his muscles, the way his stomach is outlined so firmly. I want to know what those arms feel like wrapped around me, pulling me in close. I want his hands on my hips as he teases me and taunts me with sweet kisses on my cheeks, my eyelids, my forehead. Then his tongue flicks across my earlobe, and I gasp with pleasure. He pulls back, a satisfied little grin on his face before he returns to my neck, burning up my skin in an instant with those lips that were made to mark my body.

  Then I stop the fantasy from going any further. If I don’t, I’ll just start panting right here on the sidewalk, and he’ll know I was this close to undressing myself for him.