Her Perfect 10

by Brianna Cash

  Sarah invited me out dancing with her and a bunch of her friends.

  Megan is having people over for a party at her parents’ place, who are currently out of town.

  Roxy, one of my best friends from high school, is going clubbing, but at one of the upscale joints that has an expensive cover.

  Kelly, my ex-roommate, invited me to her sister’s bachelorette party.

  Amanda, my cousin, is having a game night with a bunch of co-eds from her women’s studies course.

  What to do, what to do…

  I can’t stand Sarah, but it seems like she hangs with an interesting crowd, one I’m not familiar with. It might be fun to try out a new locale. But if her friends are as fake as she is, I certainly won’t have a good time.

  Megan’s parties are usually pretty rockin’. But I know all the people she normally invites, and none of them are good for anything except a drinking buddy.

  Roxy’s always a good time. And we usually don’t have to buy any drinks once we’re in the club, it’s just getting in that’s the issue. The guys are a bit older, more mature. They know what they’re doing and they’re not as desperate. But they also want more than I’m willing to give at a meet and greet.

  Amanda’s game night sounds fun, but tame. I can’t imagine things getting too exciting with the crowd being from a women’s studies course. Definitely not exciting enough to add any insight to my little black book.

  It’s sounding like Roxy’s going to be my company for the evening.

  Or Sarah.

  Ugh, she’s annoying. Clive’s going, though, and he’s a good guy. Not always the most serious, definitely not the smartest, but he’s sweet and fun, and he’ll watch out for me. I really don’t know what he sees in Sarah. Actually, I do. She has huge tits. There’s no way they’re real, but Clive’s a boob man, so it makes sense.

  The timer on my phone goes off. My break is almost over.

  If I don’t set my alarm, I’m late, every single time. As it is, I only allow myself the exact amount of time it takes to get back into the building. If anything out of the ordinary happens, I’ll be late anyway. I give a small wave to the hotdog guy—Dan, Stan, Wayne? I have no idea. He’s in my book as the hotdog stand guy.

  Stepping behind the counter at work, I eye the twenty-dollar bill sitting on the keyboard with a post it attached, my name written boldly in black marker across it. Guess I won the bet. Martha got fired, not David.

  Roxy is sounding more and more like the winner.

  Chapter 2

  Assignment #2

  When is lying the right thing to do?

  To: oc736@solc.edu, profmereeder@solc.edu

  From: sd275@solc.edu

  Subject: Assignment #2 When is lying the right thing to do?

  Dear Person Who Doesn’t Work Well Under Pressure And Had Better Give Me More Than A One Hundred Word Answer:

  When is lying the right thing to do?

  This is a tricky question.

  When your friend just got dumped, and she’s crying on the couch with a huge glob of rocky road ice cream smeared across her shirt, and black rings under her eyes from her runny mascara, asking you if there’s something wrong with her because everyone dumps her, and she can’t find the right guy no matter what she does, do you lie?

  Of course, you lie.

  There’s no way you can tell her she’s the clingiest person you’ve ever met. That sometimes you feel like she’s suffocating you, and you’re not even in a romantic relationship with her. There’s no way you can let it slide that springing the L word on a guy within the first couple weeks in a new relationship isn’t normal. Or that when she asked the poor guy if she could move in with him instead of renewing her lease on her apartment, it was way too freaking fast since they’ve only been out a few times.

  You lie.

  It’s what we girls do for each other, right? It doesn’t matter that it’s all bullshit. It matters that, in that moment, the lie makes her feel better.

  Then there’s the guy at the hotdog stand, who flirts with you every chance he gets. You know he’s into you. You know he’d love to not only take you home and show you his version of a good time, but he’d also like to actually get to know you, which in this day and age, can be a rare thing. But you’re so not interested. No matter how wickedly handsome he is, his smile does nothing for you. There are no butterflies. Your thighs don’t clench together at the thought of his hands touching your skin. Your heart rate doesn’t pick up when his fingers linger too long against yours. When his deep, melodic voice whispers hot, dirty, sexual innuendos in your ear as you turn away, you don’t even give it a second thought.

  If he says, “Are you ever going to let me take you out?” You don’t lie then. You tell him the truth. You give him a hard no. And then you pray he’s not one of those guys who believes every girl’s no is a secret plea for more attention instead of less.

  Ok, what else?

  The standard how are you greeting? Lie. Lie, lie, lie. The other person usually doesn’t even hear what you say in reply. Here’s an experiment for you. The next time someone asks how you’re doing? Smile and nod, all while telling them you just found out you only have three weeks to live, but how the hell is their day going?

  You’d be surprised at how many people just say, “I’m good. Nice to see ya again!”

  People don’t care about your answer. They want to seem polite, friendly, caring. But they’re so wrapped up in their own lives, the words people say rarely register in their brains. Unless it’s about them, of course.

  We are a very selfish society.

  When people ask about my parents, I always lie.

  My mother’s a great woman, one who worked two jobs for most of my childhood to make just enough money to raise me. My father is a no-good piece of shit who beat my mother. She got us out before he turned on me. Life was rarely easy, but I grew up knowing I was loved. And when people ask about my parents, they don’t want a sob story. So, I tell them my dad died when I was a baby and I don’t remember him. If they ask questions and don’t immediately drop it, I tell them Mom was devastated, but she moved on to have a full life taking care of me, watching me grow and excel at all the things that matter.

  Which is another lie. I don’t excel at anything that matters. And while Mom was devastated, she didn’t move on to have a full life. She escapes her reality as often as possible through the written word and all the characters she temporarily believes herself to be.

  The worst part? She loved my father with everything she had. She still does.

  Love is a worthless emotion.

  At least when it comes to romantic love.

  What else do I lie about?

  Oh, of course. How could I forget?

  I lie about my little black book. I tell people it’s a journal. That I like to jot down ideas as they come to me. But that’s not at all what I’m writing in my LBB.

  To really answer this week’s question, I guess I’d say lying is ok when it does more good than bad. Or when the other person doesn’t really want to know the answer in the first place.

  Sincerely, Entirely, Me.

  To: sd275@solc.edu, profmereeder@solc.edu

  From: oc736@solc.edu

  Subject: Assignment #2 When is lying the right thing to do?

  There’s never a time when lying is the right thing to do.

  There are many prime examples of how lying made history. Look at Richard Nixon and the Watergate Scandal. Bill Clinton and his insistent refusal about having sexual relations with Monica Lewinsky. Or Donald Trump and all his many examples of untruth: spoken, tweeted, or simply implied.

  Not to dwell on politics, but George Washington and the cherry tree? The fable that he killed his father’s most beloved tree and fessed up to it when confronted is entirely false. A story meant to bring the lesson of truth is, in fact, a lie.

  Then you’ve got all the athletes out there that claim to be completely natural. Or all the actors, actresses, superm
odels, rock stars, etc. They use drugs, plastic surgery, makeup, and Photoshop to make sure they always look like perfection. And it’s a lie that’s teaching our younger generations what they’re supposed to look and act like.

  All the propaganda we see every day through billboards, magazines, commercials, the radio. The pills that will give you a better sex life. The teas that will supposedly make you lose weight. The natural remedy that will clear your mind and help you focus better…

  Most of it, if not all, is false.

  Sometimes it seems everywhere you look you’ll find nothing but lies.

  In a world filled with lies, I choose to tell the truth. I wish everyone else would do the same.

  To: oc736@solc.edu

  From: sd275@solc.edu

  Subject: Still needs work

  Ok, that was better-ish. I got more than a hundred words, but it still kind of sucked.

  Do you have children? Or do you ever want them? Are you not going to let them believe in Santa Claus? Or the Tooth Fairy? Or the Easter Bunny?

  Sometimes lying doesn’t hurt anyone. And it can make life a little more…magical. A better place to live in.

  I think you should be more lenient. You sound very uptight.

  And still boring.

  Me, SD

  To: sd275@solc.edu, profmereeder@solc.edu

  From: oc736@solc.edu

  Subject: Re: Still needs work

  I’m working on writing like I’m talking. It’s harder than I expected. It’s been ingrained in me to only write researched facts. I’m not used to writing about things that are completely subjective.

  I’m sorry you still find me boring. I consider you a rebel. You’re still communicating with me outside of the assignments when it’s mentioned several times in the syllabus that we’re not supposed to. Not unless we include the professor. Which I’ve asked you to do more than once. At this point, I’m taking it as a blatant disregard for the rules.

  When I have children, I will let them believe in Santa Claus and the others. I suppose technically, it is a lie, but I choose to look at that as an important part of childhood.

  OC

  To: oc736@solc.edu

  From: sd275@solc.edu

  Subject: Rules Schmules.

  I’m not taking this class as a requirement for a degree. I’m taking this class to further my writing, thus honing my proofreading skills. I believe the experience and guidance I’m giving you is worth any negative comments the prof might give me about wanting to tell you that you’re a sucky writer.

  Me, SD

  To: sd275@solc.edu, profmereeder@solc.edu

  From: oc736@solc.edu

  Subject: Re: Rules Schmules.

  I’m also not taking this class to satisfy the need for a degree, but I still care about my grade. Please refrain from further commentary unless you feel it is absolutely necessary, or you include the professor in the message.

  OC

  To: oc736@solc.edu

  From: sd275@solc.edu

  Subject: Like I said. Uptight.

  Fine. Give me your number. I’ll criticize your work through texts instead of using the school’s email system, and there will be no evidence of our of correspondence. Not that it’ll matter either way. The prof only needs your writing assignments to give you a crappy grade.

  Me, SD

  Sadie

  After waiting fifteen minutes for my partner’s number, I give up and walk over to my closet. I’m not going to get a number. Not that I expected to, not really. That uptight bitch is too goody-two-shoes to keep communicating in any way besides the boring email assignments. I was hoping to push her, get her out of her comfort zone a little. She’s gotta want to let go and do whatever she wants sometime, right? Who truly wants to live their life abiding by every single rule ever given to them? Does she not know that rule-breakers have more fun and live more satisfying lives?

  Whatever. Not my problem.

  Deciding on a pair of knee-high boots, I add the finishing touches to my wallflower outfit of jeans and dark, flowy shirt with sparkling, eye-catching accessories. Clothes are not the source of my attraction, my confidence is. And it always pulls in more guys than I can handle. The night is young, I have tomorrow off, and if my search for a decent prospect to add to my little black book falls flat, I have Jamison on standby.

  Jamison’s a solid 8.5 in my LBB, but I’m holding out for that perfect ten. Some days, I’m convinced I’ll never find such buried treasure, and I should give in to all of Jamison’s not-too subtle hints to form an actual relationship with him. Until I get a couple weeks, maybe even a couple months of those depressing days, I’m not committing to anyone except my perfect ten.

  If he exists.

  How does one accurately judge a guy’s overall worth?

  I’ve worked out an equation. There are five categories that a potential candidate needs to get rated in—and score highly in—to be taken seriously. This is, of course, after I’ve talked to them to figure out if I like them enough to give them a chance at a more permanent position in my world. Each category in my equation is weighted differently. Every girl has their own list of what’s important about a guy, so the weights I put on each of my categories will be different than anyone else’s. The next girl could have nine categories, or two, or thirty-six. But to find the perfect guy, once rated in each category, the sum of the parts, or the number calculated by the equation, needs to be very high on a scale of one to ten.

  Ten, obviously, is the magic number.

  My categories are: sense of humor, confidence, employment, ability to have a good time, and their junk.

  Sense of humor. A guy could be the ugliest motherfucker in all the land, but if he can make me smile, he immediately gets upgraded to an overall rating of at least five. Sense of humor is everything. Laughing is God’s gift to us mortals, who have to endure what this world has become, in a time when one-uppance is the norm.

  Confidence. If he comes across as confident—as knowing what he’s doing, as believing in himself enough to go after what he wants, and believing he deserves it—he is so much more attractive than a good-looking guy who’s too shy to even introduce himself.

  Employment. This is not a highly weighted category for my equation. Basically, can the guy hold down a job and pay all his own bills? It’s important, considering a lot of guys are enabled to the point where they can’t even dress themselves in the morning. They should at least take off the sweatpants they slept in and pull on some jeans before going out in public! But a guy certainly doesn’t need to be a millionaire or anywhere close. I just prefer that he doesn’t live in a cardboard box in the park or, frankly, with his mother. Unless it’s very temporary, or she’s disabled.

  Ability to have a good time. A guy can be funny, confident, and have an awesome job. But if he can’t have a good time, that’s it. There’s no future for us. I don’t want to sit on my ass crocheting until the apocalypse brings us all to a violent, bloody end. If he can’t come up with some exciting date ideas, I’m moving on.

  And of course, last, but certainly not least, a guy’s junk. The goods. The package. Their manhood. The very thing that makes them genetically—or surgically in this age—male.

  This category is so important, it’s split into four sub-categories: Appearance. Size. How well does he use it? What does he expect me to do with it?

  Penises can be ugly. Hideous even. Is a guy’s penis something I’ll be able to look at a couple times a week for the foreseeable future? And does he take care of it, and the general surrounding area? Does he keep things looking fresh and neat? Or, the worst, do things smell down there?

  You can get the best-looking shaft and dangling balls around. But is his package the miniature size, or the real-life version? Or did you wind up with the larger-than-life version that makes you run for the hills like a duck with a stick stuck up its ass, because you’re squeezing your thighs so tightly together it’s hard to run anywhere, but you need to get away from that mons
ter?

  ‘Nuff said.

  Possibly the most important sub-category: how does he use it? Basically, if he’s granted entryway into my pearly pink lips, is he able to get me off, and does he care about getting me off?

  Lastly, the kicker: does he expect me to go down on him every single time? Does he think he can fuck my mouth like I’m an inflatable doll he bought at the adult store, one that he only plans on using to get off whenever and wherever he likes until I pop? Or is he respectful and jumping to return the favor?

  My LBB is separated into three parts. The first one is where I rate guys in the first four categories. The second section is where I rate the lucky ones who are granted access to the fifth category. The last mostly-bare pages of my treasure book hold anyone rated over an eight after being put through my invasively thorough equation, which takes account of all the categories and subcategories.

  The guys at the end of my book are the ones that deserve to be remembered.

  Unfortunately, there aren’t many listed in that section of my LBB.

  Jamison is there. And he’s already given me the go-ahead for tonight’s shenanigans. He knows my night may not end with him because he’s aware of my mission and my loyalty to it. He thinks he’s a ten, but what confident guy doesn’t? He’s got confidence in spades. In fact, his rating in confidence has been lowered, simply because he’s not just confident, he’s arrogant.

  But he’s also a lot of fun to have sex with, so I keep him on speed text.

  Kelly, my ex-roommate, is meeting me at a club tonight. She’s a lot more needy than Roxy is, but I can’t afford to go out with Roxy every week. My phone chimes with a message that says Kelly’s already there and getting smashed. And dancing. At least I think that’s what her non-sensical words mean.

  After paying the cover and finding her on the dark, crowded dance floor, I roll my eyes as she grinds on a poor soul she’d never give the time of day to if she wasn’t drunk. Cutting in, I sway my hips to the music, ignoring the pouty look on her face as Mr. Not-Good-Enough slinks away.