by Maria Benson
“I’m here,” she said, leaning forward and emphasizing her words with her right hand, “to tell you to stop planning on any life with my husband. We’re ending our separation, and we’re making another go at this marriage. Ian’s career is too important to be complicated by divorce proceedings, and frankly I’m not interested in having a man other than their father living with me and my girls.” She held up her left hand, pointed at the rock Ian had put there. “We said for better or worse,” she said. “I look at you, Aimee, and I just see the latest example of ‘worse.’ Stop waiting for Ian to choose you over me, okay? It’s not happening.”
I turned on my heels wordlessly, aware that any reply would give Nadine too much satisfaction. Exiting the suite, I was horrified to spy Ian and his young daughters, Maddy and Abby, standing not fifty feet away at another suite’s entrance. He did a double-take at the sight of me, but I dutifully turned away and headed toward the nearest elevator. Moving as quickly as possible, I tried to wipe from my memory the reality of how flawlessly built Nadine was despite birthing two babies, right along with Ian’s oddly airy, animated tone as he loved on his two beautiful little girls.
Humiliated by the sweat on my brow, I stood at the elevator and closed my eyes. More than anything in the moment, I just wanted to stop shaking. As I stepped onto the car, I distracted myself by pulling up Michael Blake’s voice mail again. Despite the cruel things he had once said to me, his tone and his words on the message felt like what I needed right then. Would he have left such a friendly message if he’d known that I had bypassed him to intrude on Ian and Nadine’s marriage?
Who was I kidding? I was a would-be home wrecker, too enamored with forbidden territory to give Michael a chance. Happy to have the elevator to myself, I whispered aloud as I jabbed a thumb onto my phone screen. “You had me pegged, Michael.” Message deleted.
CHAPTER 14
Michael
I had spent the past week enthusiastically seeking the series of rejections–or lucky hook-ups–that were the first step in my transformation plan. I had spent days being laughed at, ignored, cussed out, slapped, and lectured by women of all hues, heights, races, and socioeconomic classes. And I wasn’t limiting my attempted pick-ups to low-hanging fruit like the waitresses or the gift shop girls in the mini-mall in my office building.
Amidst all of this masochistic behavior, I wasn’t sure how to classify my call to Aimee Chase, who was back on my hit list after ignoring the friendly voice mail I had left her. It wasn’t like I was trying to win her over; I knew there would be no need for that once I was a well-established playboy. I just figured while I was still Michael Blake, Nice Guy, I would check in on her. Our network’s grapevine was humming with rumors about her being sideways with her cool but cocky boss, Todd J. Terry. If she didn’t want to acknowledge my outreach, wasn’t woman enough to call a man back, then whatever.
Thursday night provided the perfect opportunity to continue thickening my skin with one of the more Beautiful crowds in Chicago. Because my company, Star Studio Technologies, manufactures cutting-edge equipment used in major music studios from coast to coast, our annual investor conference drew significant West Coast and New York traffic, along with a couple dozen household-name music celebrities representing nearly every major genre. Given that my Investor Relations team owned the details of each year’s conference, I got to attend all of the annual festivities and over the years had met folks like Blake Shelton, Jennifer Lopez, Snoop Dogg, James Taylor and John Legend among others.
This year’s celebratory gala was held at a cavernous Gold Coast clubhouse owned by a trio of retirees from the Bulls, Cubs and Bears. A crowd of nearly five hundred executives, sales reps, investors, stock analysts, business journalists, and local “Who’s Who” types flooded the place. On top of all these special people, of course, was ladled a noticeable crowd of what we in the marketing business call “booth babes,” the fetching, articulate young women who can simultaneously pitch a product and fill lonely men’s heads with dreams of getting lucky. Bingo!
Surveying the dynamic crowd, I plotted how to handle business professionally while completing my homework. Club music pulsating in my ears, I glanced at an email from Scott and Bobby which documented the formal rules underpinning my transformation course:
Project strength. Bill Clinton, a member of the club, once said that voters want the candidate who is “strong and wrong, not weak and right.” The same is true of women; when in doubt, project strength and you will win every time.
Stand out. Until they’re looking for a husband, women prefer a man with a distinguishing physical characteristic. You don’t have to clear six feet in height, have a washboard or have perfect facial features, though any of these will help. The rest of us can get over with distinctive wardrobes, a strategically placed earring, an arresting haircut, or well-groomed beard.
Don’t be easy. Men succeed with women when viewed as a challenge. Playboys attract them by making clear that the woman will have to hustle to win them over. The woman should always be made to feel she is one more step from winning the player’s time, love and commitment. This elusive quality is publicly labeled as a negative, but in truth keeps women coming back in hope of a final victory.
Treat conversation like a competition. Playboys use conversation as a strategic weapon. Size up your target based on age, hairstyle, quality of clothing worn (as well as the amount of it) and environment. A strong, animalistic sense of perception is applied to match opening lines to the woman’s needs. When in doubt, start by showing her that you’re willing to offend – see # 3!
Keep them guessing. The appearance of a murky, complicated life matched by a mysterious past sells every time. Examples of activities that increase desirability, depending on the woman in question, include successful recovery from drug or alcohol addiction, surviving a horrific or compellingly underprivileged childhood, and a convincing, professed desire to commit to monogamy despite a promiscuous past. It should be stressed that many desirable women will not stand for any of these issues in the present tense; rather, they may be desirable only as evidence of what she will accomplish when she tames you.
Be in demand. You must appear to have other women and children already vying for your attention. No woman wants a man who is not already in demand. Women aren’t as shallow as men when it comes to appearances; how else, then, are they to judge a man’s worth, if not by how many other women want him? Every dog worth his salt will always have a long-suffering girlfriend or wife. The drive to compete for your attention is too much for some women to resist.
Leverage technology. Not even the most astute Player can carry on with multiple partners without the efficient use of cell phones and social media identities. Wise use of all the above includes the fact that the best use of digital technology is to use almost none. The phrase “staying under the radar” is popular for a reason.
Disclaimer: Attaining any or all of the above characteristics will not guarantee success with any one specific lady. As quiet as it is kept, there are some women holding out for men who display almost none of these traits. They’re in the minority, though: Otherwise you wouldn’t be here!
After making an initial set of rounds with my “responsible investor relations officer” hat on, glad-handing with a few senior executives and Maxwell Walker, my boss, I set out in search of celebrity hangers-on. These were the people who had no direct stake in Star Studio and would never identify me as a company employee.
In addition to my orders to collect rejections and see if I could luck into a one-night stand, Scott had insisted that I also apply Rule Two and learn to affect some sort of distinguished walk. He and I had argued so much over this point that I revoked my offer to get him a ticket to the gala. He had insisted that I try to affect a bowlegged gait, a suggestion I found ridiculous. After that we’d played around with several other methods: the Al Pacino-as-Tony Montana Strut, the affected-disaffected saunter of a young Bruce Willis, the cocksure glide of “Saturday Ni
ght Fever”-era John Travolta, even the George Jefferson Waddle. None of them worked for me.
I freelanced instead. My own walk is an amiable, slow-paced style, one in which I slowly raise one foot and swing the opposite arm. Unfortunately it lacks the rhythm or brutality that Scott says most women like to see in their men. I tried to compensate by swinging my arms widely. I figured it would at least make me look more arrogant, like I owned the personal space of everyone around me. That had to snag a few ladies’ eyes, right?
A half hour later, I had downed a few beers, made some small talk with Stacey, a bubbly young accounting clerk at Star Studio, and otherwise held up the walls. The night was getting away without my collection of the required number of rejections. It was time to make my moves on some of the most impressive women, so I decided to start with the throng of groupies surrounding the singer Bruno Mars’ table. The crowd of women in skimpy skirts, low cut shirts and see-through tops made it impossible to even glimpse Bruno and his handlers, but then I wasn’t there for him.
Standing near the back of the throng was a typically intimidating supermodel type. Nearly six feet tall with legs longer than mine, she peered imperiously around the room, likely judging other women as inferior and calculating the likely net worth of each male. She was one of those exotically beautiful women–likely a recent immigrant from Eastern Europe–that drives a man to feign indifference. You know, the ones where we sit back and slap hands with our boys and say, “Damn, is she fine.” Then we just sit there and theorize on how fucked up in the head she is, all because we’re too freaked out by her beauty to take a step in her direction. I don’t think I had ever even held a conversation with a woman like this. I usually figure there’s no point; she won’t want me for her boyfriend, and I damn sure couldn’t be satisfied being her “friend.” As I stood inches from her, though, my recent training began to kick in. It was time for a change.
I reached forward and tapped her shoulder. When she continued to paw those in front of her for a glimpse of Bruno, I tapped again. After four more taps, she whirled around and glared at me like I stole something. “What?”
“Okay, I’m not feeling the love yet,” I said. “Excuse me, but would you like to dance?”
She tossed a hand through her wavy curls and had a good laugh. “Yeah, right.”
Before I could respond, she waded back into the crowd around Bruno’s table. As I toyed with how to respond, I looked down at my outfit. Was it my clothing? Hell, I was wearing my most expensive Tom Ford suit. I checked my fingernails. Clean, not that she even looked at me long enough to see them. I did the breath test. I knew I wasn’t the best judge, but all I smelled was the Mentos I popped a minute earlier. I glanced over at the wall-length mirror behind the bar. No, I hadn’t turned into an ogre in the short time since the party started.
Dusting myself off, I dove back into the crowd. Methodically moving from one floor to another–there were five–I introduced myself to every female groupie and hanger-on who crossed my path. Each time, I tried a suggested opening line of Scott’s or Bobby’s before quickly asking them to dance. Without fail, the lovely ladies either shooed me off or made conversation long enough to come up with an excuse why they couldn’t dance right then. Once I had reached the fourth floor and been shot down by a dozen beauties, I felt that desired callous of thick skin developing. I officially had nothing to lose.
Weary but oddly emboldened, I bellied up to the nearest bar and ordered a Scotch on the rocks while plotting my next move. I wasn’t sure what to think when two people central to my work life stumbled across my path.
Maxwell Walker and Beverly Barrister had each clearly had their share of adult beverages, but it didn’t stop them from recognizing me as they passed. “What’s up, Mike!” Maxwell collapsed onto the bar stool to my left as Beverly flanked me on the right.
I gripped Maxwell’s extended hand, enduring his vigorous handshake. He punched my shoulder as if he were my best friend, not the boss who had told me weeks earlier that I had already hit my career ceiling in Investor Relations. “Where’ve you been all night? Beverly was just saying you and I are usually joined at the hip at these things.”
Fueling my resentment, I took an inappropriate chug of my Scotch. “I’ve been mingling, Maxwell, quite liberally.” I glanced over and winked at Beverly, who despite being an influential buy-side stock analyst maintained a pretty chummy relationship with our team. “See, Bev, one of us gets the easy assignment of catering to you big fish. They send the one with real people skills to mix with the common man.”
A smile on her thin lips, Beverly raised her wine glass towards mine. “Well, you do have skills, Mr. Blake.” The amusement in her blue eyes was warmer than anything she had emitted in our recent meetings. Beverly and I had a positive rapport, but between the fact that she was old enough to be my mother (if she’d had me at fourteen) and that she had a direct line to our CEO, I always operated with a little extra caution around her. She glanced between me and Maxwell. “I don’t want to compare, Maxwell, but this one can be pretty charming when he wants to be.”
Either she’s picking on me, I thought, emptying my glass, or she is definitely drunk.
Maxwell responded as if he wasn’t quite sure what to think. Leaning over toward Beverly, he laid a hand on my shoulder. “You’re telling me Michael’s already made you forget about me?” After having my duties confined to internally-focused responsibilities, I had only recently been entrusted to serve as lead liaison to a few key stock analysts, of which Beverly was the most influential. Her mutual fund company, Capstone Price, managed over four billion in assets.
Although my responsibilities had been expanded, it hadn’t been at Maxwell’s expense. He had taken on the more challenging task of cold-calling newly targeted analysts and investors, which had him on the road constantly. That hadn’t stopped the prick from trying to jealously guard his old turf, and he certainly viewed Beverly as his territory. He stood now, and I sensed his intent right away. “Hey Bev,” he said, nearly trying to elbow me aside as he got in her face, “I’m betting Conway is just one floor up from here. Let’s try and catch him quickly.” Marv Conway was Star Studio’s VP of Manufacturing, a gruff but highly competent guy that our analysts loved to interview whenever we let them get their hands on him. Beverly had been seeking a sit-down with him for months. It had been the one thing I had been unable to lock down for her. Clearly Maxwell was hoping to retain his primacy in her eyes by delivering The Holy Grail.
I stood, preparing to preserve my face time with Beverly, when to my surprise an olive-skinned young woman with French braids approached. It occurred to me quickly that I had approached her earlier–don’t ask me on which floor–in my ill-fated search for a dance partner. While my eyes were glued to her, I felt Maxwell’s and Beverly’s on me as the lovely lady stepped past Maxwell and over to me. Speaking loudly enough to be heard by all three of us over the thumping club music, she tapped my elbow. “Hey, you still wanna dance?”
I glanced over at Beverly, trying to protect work interests first. “Wow, this isn’t the greatest time, but–”
Beverly laid a hand on my shoulder, nodding approvingly. “A beautiful young woman asks you to dance, in a room full of willing partners?” She grinned at both me and the nameless babe as she patted my shoulder. “When I was her age, Michael, I would have been offended by any answer other than ‘yes.’”
I looked into my future dance partner’s luminous eyes, resisting the urge to sweep the entirety of her figure. “So, it looks like I’m under orders.” I extended a hand, then the sky fell in.
“What do you think you’re doing?” It was not a question but a roar, a declaration of war. The guy materialized seemingly from the ether, all six-and-a-half feet of him. The similarity of his skin tone, oddly pretty facial features and the bold similarity of his clothing to hers told me he had significant history with my intended partner. Never mind history, they had clearly come here together before something went haywire.
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The dude grabbed his girlfriend by the wrist, his movements so swift and brutal that he knocked poor Maxwell to the ground. Dude’s reaction, while casting a disdainful glance toward the crumpled heap beneath him: “Watch yourself, bitch.”
My reaction was pure instinct. “Hey, hey,” I said, one arm extended toward the attacker and another positioned to protect the girlfriend. “No reason for all the drama, man. Take it down a notch.”
The bully pulled his girlfriend further away while peering down so he was nose to nose with me. “I saw her over here flirting with you. She’s here with me- got it?”
From over my shoulder, I was somehow unsurprised to hear Beverly’s voice. “Trust me, he’s not worried about her,” she said. “You need to be less concerned about her choice of dance partner and more worried about the roots of your caveman behavior.”
Oh, she went all the way there. I pivoted, curious about the coming reaction.
Brutus stared in confusion for a second before gathering himself. “What are you talking about, sugar tits?”
Beverly, whose top-heavy athletic build shone through even in her professional pinstripe pants suit, planted hands against hips. “What did you call me, you bastard?”
That’s when Maxwell found his feet. As he stood, he went to Beverly and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Bev, why don’t you come with me. Security can handle this situation–”
“Bitch, you need to watch your fuckin’ mouth!” The Dude rushed forward, chest-bumping me back a few steps and applying a sharp elbow to re-acquaint Maxwell with the floor. He stood toe-to-toe with Beverly now, her black heels looking like Barbie shoes next to his white loafers. The girlfriend, understandably focused on her own safety, mouthed “Sorry” to me before melting into the crowd.