by Lauren Rowe
“What’s his signature song?”
“’Pony’ by Ginuwine.”
I snort with laughter.
“Hey, dude, don’t be a Judge Judy. It’s a beloved classic.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” He stuffs more popcorn into his mouth. “Frankly, I don’t give a shit what you think of my song selection. You’re not my target demo, remember?”
“Yeah, well, I guess the pickles and puppets and earthquake-sensing dogs in your target demo are easy to please, like you keep telling me.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I never said women are ‘easy to please.’ What I said was they’re not complicated once you’ve got the owner’s manual, which I do.”
I hoot with laughter. “You think you’ve got the ‘owners’ manual’ for all womankind?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“And you’re the only one who’s got it, I presume?”
“Not the only one. Of course not. But from what women tell me, guys with owner’s manuals are definitely few and far between.”
“Well, gosh, Ball Peen Hammer, maybe it’s your destiny to supply the owner’s manual to the ignorant masses, huh?”
“Maybe it is,” Keane says, his tone not matching mine at all.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up—one of the surefire signs I’m having the initial stirrings of a brilliant idea. I pull out my phone. “Let’s do it,” I say. “’Ball Peen Hammer’s Guide to Sex.’ We’ll do a bunch of short videos in which you tell the men of the world everything they need to know.”
“Meh. It’s not like I know any government secrets. All the info’s out there on the Internet—all a guy has to do to figure this stuff out is a little research followed by testing out the techniques for himself to figure out what works and what doesn’t.”
“But that’s the thing, Keane. Most guys don’t have pickles falling at their feet like you do, so they can’t test stuff out the way you can. And, yeah, maybe the info’s already out there, but the sheer volume of information on the Internet is overwhelming. Guys need an expert to curate the information for them—someone to tell them what works and what doesn’t.” Oh, man, I’m suddenly getting very excited about this idea. “I think this could be really cool,” I say, holding up my phone. “You willing to give it a whirl?”
Keane purses his lips for moment, apparently considering what I’ve said. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”
“Awesome. Oh my God, I’m so excited.” I hold up my phone. “Okay, for the first video, let’s keep it short. One concept per video. Really basic. I want you to assume you’re talking to a guy who knows nothing about how to ‘operate’ a woman. Like, literally, nothing. Just give him a basic primer.”
“Okay,” Keane says, shrugging. “But this is gonna be me talking, just plain ol’ Keane Morgan. Ball Peen Hammer doesn’t actually partake in the dabble, as you know.”
“Yeah, but ‘Ball Peen Hammer’ is marketing gold. He’s way better for branding. Plus, you might want to maintain some anonymity if this thing gets huge.”
“Branding? What the fuck am I branding?”
“You,” I say matter-of-factly.
Keane chuckles. “Okay. Whatever you say, Scorsese. But it shouldn’t be ‘Ball Peen Hammer’s Guide to Sex’—it’s more like ‘Ball Peen Hammer’s Guide to a Handsome and Happy Life.’ Because no one can be truly happy in life unless they’re having awesome sex.”
I can’t keep a massive smile from spreading across my face. “Every damned thing you say is entertainment gold. Okay, fine. ‘Ball Peen Hammer’s Guide to a Handsome and Happy Life.’ Start with the absolute basics, okay?” I train my phone on Keane and press record. “Action.”
Keane takes a big breath and then launches right in. “Hey, dudes. Listen close because what I’m about to say is gonna change your life and make you a handsome and happy lad. I want you to imagine a world where you’ve got the hottest girlfriend in the universe. And this hot chick of yours, she wants to ride your pony every single day—three times a day—morning, noon, and night. Yee-boy! But, check it, your cowgirl’s got one condition to the rodeo: you’re not allowed to come when you bone with her. Oh, she’ll let you hit it as much as you want, any position, any which way, as dirty as you like it, but never with a pay-off for you in the end. Torture, right? I’m guessing it wouldn’t take long before you’d say, ‘I love ya, cowgirl, but this ain’t working for me.’ Because no matter how hot your chick is, or how sweet, or how much you like foreplay, you’d start feeling like something major was missing for you, sooner rather than later, right? So, okay. Now imagine that same hot girlfriend of yours says, ‘Okay. We can do the chitty-chitty-bang-bang as much as you want, any which way, blah, blah, blah, but you can only come once in ten times.’ Still not gonna work for you, right? What about five outta ten times? You get where I’m headed with this? You wanna reach the finish line every time you run the race, right? Well, guess what, fuckwit? So does she. So that’s lesson one: if you’re not getting your woman off, every fucking time, the same way you expect to get off, then you’re failing at fucking. But it’s okay. Don’t despair because I’m here to help you. I’ve figured out everything you need to know to get her there every time. And then, once you’ve got that mastered, you can move on to getting her off multiple times per sesh, which is the ultimate ticket to a handsome and happy life. A happy woman in the sack will make you a happy lad, trust me. Don’t worry, guys. I’ll be your Master Yoda and teach you all the tricks. So stay tuned.” He winks.
I turn off the video recorder, my mouth hanging open.
Keane glances at my phone in my lap, his brow furrowed. “Not what you were looking for? I was just spit balling, like you said to do—you know, starting at the very beginning. I can do something different if that was too basic.”
“Oh my God, Keane,” I breathe. “That was brilliant.”
Keane flashes me a mega-watt smile. “That?”
“Keane, you’re amazing. What you said—and the way you said it...” I rub my hands together. “Oh man. We’re definitely on to something here.”
Keane laughs. “And what would that be, exactly?”
“I don’t know yet. All I know is there’s no one else like you on this big, blue marble—and that what I just saw was the perfect marriage of personality and content.” I shake my head. “Oh man, I’m starting to get a feeling, Keane.”
“Oooh. Is it the kind of feeling that makes you wanna waggle your boobs, by any chance?”
“I’m choosing to ignore that comment.” I exhale with excitement. “Oh my God. I’m having the same kind of feeling I had when I got my idea for Shoot Like a Girl.”
Keane’s face lights up. “Seriously?” A devilish smile overtakes his lips, his eyes still trained on the road. “Say it, Maddy Milliken. Tell me I’m yet another ‘quiet moment of magic’ or I’ll never make another video for you as long as I live.”
I laugh. “You’re another quiet moment of magic, Keane Morgan.”
“Thank you.”
“So it’s okay with you if I upload this video to the channel I made yesterday?”
“Knock yourself out, Spielberg.”
I log into the Ball Peen Hammer YouTube account I created yesterday and my eyes practically pop out of my head. “Oh my God!” I blurt. “Keane, your video about The Ten Year Rule already has over twenty-three thousand views since yesterday!”
“What? You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not.”
“Holy guacamole.”
“You see? I’m totally right. We’re on to something big here. Something huge.”
“Dude, you look like a madwoman.”
“I feel like one,” I say.
“Oh my God. I’m your muse.”
I laugh and swipe into the browser on my phone. “Okay, I’m gonna do a little research on your target demographic. I gotta know who I’m targeting with this.”
“Knock yourself out.”
I sit back in my ca
r seat and begin reading articles on the Magic Mike phenomenon and the male-stripper world in general, and then I move on to researching the top YouTubers and Instagram hotties and male sex symbols, studying what they post and how often, and, suddenly, it’s like I’ve been hit over the head with an inspiration-sledgehammer. I look up from my phone. “Oh, God. I think I’m getting an idea for a documentary,” I say.
“What?”
“Too early to say. But when I figure it out, are you willing to be a part of it? Maybe let me interview you at length?”
“Of course. What about?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Stripping. Life. Men and women. Sexuality. Not sure.”
“Hell yeah. Make me a brick in your Wall of Gender Equality any time, babesicles.”
I laugh. “That’s the crazy-ass thing. You’re obviously being snarky when you say that, but everything you just said a minute ago about women deserving the same kind of sexual satisfaction as men is about gender equality in its own way. Whether you know it or not, you’re an advocate for female empowerment, Keane. You truly are a feminist.”
Keane makes a funny face. “Um. No. I just like making women come.”
I laugh.
“But, hey,” he continues, “if you think there’s something deep and meaningful in the bullshit I’m spewing, then I’m at your service, babe. Whatever you do, I wanna be a part of it. I believe in you, boo.”
Heat spreads throughout my core. “Thank you,” I say softly, my skin on fire. “I believe in you, too, Keane. I really do.”
“Thanks, Maddy.”
Oh my God, my entire body is electrified.
“Hey, can I make another quick video?” Keane asks, motioning to my phone. “I wanna say this next part while I’m on a roll.”
“Sure.” I point my camera at him. “Action.”
Keane glances at my camera and then looks back at the road. “Okay, lads, just to recap: your woman deserves to come every sesh for starters—and then the next level is making her do her multiplication tables for ya in the sack. That’s so basic, it makes my balls hurt to think you’re not doing that for her.”
I burst out laughing and Keane flashes me his dimples in reply.
“That was Maddy Behind the Camera giggling, if you’re wondering. She’s a cutie, guys. Cute little freckles on the bridge of her nose. Big ol’ brown eyes like Tootsie Pops. Hot little bod. Haven’t seen her waggle dem boobs yet, but I’m working on it.”
I blush.
“But anyway,” he continues, like he didn’t just make my heart lurch inside my chest and my clit zing in my panties, “I bet you’re wondering how to get your woman doing her multiplication tables and speaking in tongues. It’s simple: you gotta master more than your girl’s clit. You work on nothing but her ‘bald man in the boat’ the whole time, you’re gonna get her off, for sure, but only once per sesh, no matter how hard you try, plus it’s probs gonna take you a fuckload of time to get her there, too—time you should have been spending getting her off three or four times.”
I’m suddenly flooded with an insane volume of adrenaline and arousal, all at once. “Wait,” I blurt. I swallow hard and say the next part at a whisper. “I’ve always thought the... clitoris is everything.”
“Hey, Laura Ingalls Wilder is talking about her ‘clitoris’!” Keane says, but when he sees my facial expression, he stops. “Sorry. Glad you asked that, Maddy Behind the Camera.” He clears his throat. “Lemme be clear about something. I got nothing against the bald man in the boat. That’s the cherry on top of an awesome sundae, no doubt about it—and who doesn’t love macking down on a sweet cherry? But if you wanna get your girl off multiple times in a sesh, which, as I’ve told you is the goal here, her clit gets really sensitive after the first O and closes up shop, so that’s definitely not the path to prolonged glory. So that’s why I’m here to teach you how to get your girl off by working her G- and A-Spots, too.”
I’m absolutely mind-boggled. I’ve never heard any of this before. “Does ‘A-Spot’ refer to a woman’s ass?” I ask, trying not to sound like Laura Ingalls Wilder but failing miserably.
Keane smiles wickedly. “You don’t know where your A-spot is?”
I blush and shake my head, somehow still managing to train my phone on Keane’s handsome face.
“It’s the place where I solve the crimes and spit out the rhymes, baby.”
“That’s not exactly a GPS location.”
Keane bursts out laughing. “Isn’t she funny, guys? Damn, that girl is funny.” He glances at the camera, bestowing his audience with a smirk that can only be described as panty-melting. “Okay, let me be more specific: the A-spot’s as deep inside a woman as you can possibly get.”
Keane goes on to describe the location of the A-spot in detail, and then he moves on to contrasting it with the G-spot. “The G-spot’s awesome, but not quite as easy to trigger as the A-spot,” he concludes. “So that’s why I always say, if you’re looking to blow shit up right from the start, especially with someone you’re just getting to know, then go for the A-Spot.” He goes on to describe what to do when you find the spot. “If a guy knows how to touch that spot just right—exactly the way I just told you—then, trust me, it’s gonna be ‘Ka-bam, son!’—Lionel Richie style.”
I look at Keane blankly for a beat. “Lionel Richie style?”
Keane chuckles and then bursts into singing the chorus of “All Night Long.”
I turn off my camera and put my phone in my lap, adrenaline coursing through me. Oh my God. This creature sitting next to me is like nothing the world has ever seen—and, holy hell, on a personal note, I sure as hell want someone to touch me “Lionel Richie style” in the magical way he’s just described in astonishing detail. Holy crap, I feel like half my body’s blood volume has suddenly pooled between my legs. “How do you know all this stuff?” I ask. “Do you just watch a staggering amount of porn?”
Keane scoffs like that’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. “No, Steve Sanders, I don’t watch porn. Watching porn is like watching a cooking show where they demonstrate how to cook lasagna using plastic noodles and rubber cheese. I watch instructional videos, son—and then I trade ‘recipes’ and ‘cooking tips’ with my brothers and Z.” He flashes a wicked smirk. “And after all that, once I got the best recipes and ingredients for my lasagna all lined up, the only thing left to do is get my ass into a kitchen and whip up a culinary masterpiece.” He winks.
When I don’t reply—because, really, what can a girl possibly say in reply to that?—Keane glances away from the road again and flashes me yet another huge smile. “Uh-oh, Maddy Milliken, you’re blushing like crazy. Whatever mental image of me just crossed your mind must have been an especially good one.” He chuckles. “Better sign another waiver, baby doll. I think you’re about to become hopelessly obsessed with me.”
Chapter 25
Maddy
Thursday, 3:25 p.m.
“Can I drive?” Keane asks.
“Si, señor,” I say, handing him my keys.
“Gracias, chiquita bonita.”
“De nada, señor guapo.”
“Dude, we’re totally bilingual,” Keane says. “They should totally put us in charge at the United Nations.”
“Totally,” I reply.
We’re walking toward my car after having just finished eating tacos at a cute little hole-in-the-wall in Sacramento, chatting the whole time about our families, childhoods, best friends, Keane’s baseball days, and, of course, my movie (the one topic Keane keeps going back to), followed by us recording several more Ball Peen Hammer videos about all sorts of topics, not just sex, including one in which Keane instructs his viewers about the “fine art” of sending “subliminal messages” to the “pleasure center” in a woman’s brain (a technique I instantly recognized as one Keane’s used on me multiple times, the sneaky bastard).
“I’ll edit the videos tonight before I upload them,” I say, my arm linked comfortably in Keane’s as we stroll
to my car. “I’m thinking we should post one video per day for the next two weeks to really jumpstart your following.”
“Whatever you say, Mad Genius.”
“I’m thinking of adding some graphics to the videos,” I continue, laying my cheek on Keane’s shoulder as we walk together. “Maybe some titling or funny little bubbles of commentary? And maybe some sort of Ball Peen Hammer logo? What do you think of a cartoon-hammer with a Prince Charming face and a shock of blue hair, maybe a cute little cleft in its chin?” I giggle.
“Hilarious,” Keane says, laughing. He slides his hand into mine. “But, hey, will you promise me something, Scorsese?”
I lift my head from his shoulder and look at him, my hand resting comfortably in his.
“Promise you won’t feel obligated to do any of this stuff, okay? You should be using your gigantic brain to think about your next Oscar-winning documentary, not trying to make me into some sort of YouTuber.”
“Are you kidding me?” I say brightly, squeezing his hand as we continue to walk. “I’m having a blast. I’m loving all the comments to the videos we’ve already posted. Plus, I’ve got a master plan to monetize the whole thing. Trust me.”
Keane squeezes my hand. “Cool. If you’re digging what I’m slinging, then I’ll keep slinging it. But if you get sick of doing it or bogged down, feel free to pull the plug.”
“Keane, no one can pull the plug on Ball Peen Hammer but you—he’s yours.”
We’ve reached my car and Keane turns to face me, his hand still holding mine. He looks earnest. “Why are you doing this?” Keane asks. “It’s awesome and all, but... Why?”
I pause, considering my answer for a beat. “Because it’s insanely fun. And because I like you.”
Keane grins. “Thank you. I like you, too.”
I bite my lip, but I can’t stop my mouth from twisting into a crooked smile. “It gives me great pleeeeeeeasure to help you, Keeeeeeane.”
Keane’s mouth contorts into a smile that matches my own. “Hey. Did Maddy Milliken just send a subliminal message to the pleasure-center in my brain?”