The Modern Gentleman

by Quinn, Meghan

  Good luck, Gent,

  The Modern Gentleman

  WES

  THE WORLD OF DATING

  “Why, don’t you look handsome,” June says, coming up to me in a navy-blue sundress with a yellow headband in her hair. She gives me a quick hug and then taps my chest. “Deep green looks great on you, Wes.”

  One of many things I like about June . . . she’s not afraid to hand out compliments. She’s always telling me how good I look, how I wear clothes well, how she likes my hair or my beard. She makes me feel good about myself. I appreciate that she notices the effort I go to so I look good for her.

  “Thank you,” I say, shifting in my black jeans and deep-green sweater.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks, alluding to . . . you know what.

  “Good actually.” I hold my hands out. “Cane free. It was a long week, but I’m feeling pretty good. No alcohol for me tonight, though. I had my last pain medication today and mixing the two would send me for another visit in the ER. I’d like to avoid that for our second date.”

  “Smart.” She looks around the packed bar and says, “Should we find a seat?”

  I point to stairs in the back. “Trivia is on the rooftop; I already have a table reserved for us.”

  “Perfect.” She takes my hand. “I’m excited. Was counting down the days all week until I got to see you.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nods. “The general and I missed seeing you in the park, but I understand needing to heal.”

  “I’m glad I did, but now that I’m feeling better, I can join you for some of those walks.”

  “We’d like that.”

  I guide her through the bar, her hand clutched in mine, and when we hit the stairs, I lean close to her ear and say, “Stairs are difficult, so bear with me.”

  She chuckles. “Take your time.”

  After a steady trip up the stairs, I lead her to the table I have reserved, and when she sees our team name, she busts out in laughter.

  “CockDaddy69?”

  “I thought it was fitting since this particular trivia night’s theme is on the adult side. Pop culture, sex, and dating.”

  “Raunchy trivia night?” She sits on her high-top chair and gets comfortable. “This is my kind of trivia. If it was history or science, I’m afraid I’d be lackluster at best, but pop culture, sex, and dating, sign me up.” She rubs her hands together.

  “And the food is themed for the night. The uncircumcised wieners sound appetizing.”

  She picks up the menu and eyes me over the top. “Your go-to is the wiener, when there’s clearly toasted nipples as an option? Something I need to be worried about?”

  Jesus, never thought about it that way.

  “I’m not a fan of pecans, and they’re sprinkled on the nipples.”

  “Ah, okay, so uncircumcised wieners it is, aka, pigs in a blanket.” She peruses the menu some more and says, “This may be jumping the gun, but the Robert Brownie Jr. sounds delicious.”

  “I was eyeing that.” I point to her menu and say, “And the Biscotti Pippen.”

  Her brow pulls together. “Biscotti Pippen? I don’t get that.”

  “Uh . . . Scottie Pippen?”

  “Who’s that?”

  I grip my heart and lean back in my chair. “June, Scottie Pippen.”

  “Yes, you can repeat his name as many times as you want, but it’s not going to change the fact that I have no clue who you’re talking about.”

  “Do you watch basketball?”

  She sets her menu down and says, “I’m an aspiring Broadway actress who makes doll clothing for spare cash, does it seem like I’m a lady who enjoys dribbling?”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “I guess not.” I push my hand through my hair. “Does that rule out any dates to Barclays Center to watch the Nets?”

  “No, I’m always open to new things. As long as you get me one of those giant foam fingers I see in movies. I think I could make it work.”

  “All right.” I nod. “And by the way, Scottie Pippen was part of one of basketball’s greatest dynasties. Michael Jordan’s right-hand man.”

  “Ah, I know who Michael Jordan is. He was in Space Jam. Such a good movie.”

  Gents, any girl who thinks Space Jam is a good movie is a lockdown. Meaning, lock her down right away, she’s a keeper.

  “I think you just won the key to my heart,” I say, making her smile wider.

  “Space Jam fan?” I nod. “What about Love Actually and Pretty Woman? Those are my two favorite movies.”

  Not a huge romantic comedy fan, but thank Christ I’ve seen both. I have to thank past girlfriends for that, which I’d never in my right mind utter to June.

  “Richard Gere is a hero in my eyes.”

  “You sure know how to say all the right things,” she says dreamily.

  We put in our order and luckily it comes out just as trivia begins.

  This is unlike any regular trivia night, which usually uses whiteboards or even bells. This is trivia night on steroids. The emcee is a DJ, and she plays a great set while questions are asked, and food and drink is consumed. Each team comes up with a name and takes a selfie that is displayed up on a jumbo screen where the scores are kept and the answers are revealed. Every table has a keyboard that’s connected to the screen so we can type our answers in, and like every other trivia night out there, no phones are allowed, which clearly isn’t a problem for June.

  “Let’s get our trivia on,” the DJ shouts into the microphone. Everyone cheers, including June, which I find endearing, and the first question is presented on the board. “What do Krusty the Clown and Chandler Bing from Friends have in common?”

  “A third nipple,” June says while biting into a wiener.

  “Seriously? I thought you don’t do technology.”

  “I don’t do phones. I still have a TV and watch shows while sewing. Trust me, if I know anything, I know third nipples.” She taps the keyboard. “Write it down.”

  Taking her word for it, I type in third nipple and sure enough, she’s right. She gives me a knowing look and sips from her Melon Degenerous cocktail.

  “Are you going to carry this team?”

  “Just like shuffleboard, I think so.”

  And she does.

  Question after question she gets right before I can begin to answer.

  Kevin Bacon.

  In a Cheesecake Factory.

  Riverdance.

  Six inches—don’t even ask.

  The car.

  Harry Styles’s high pants.

  Eggplant + Taco = Squirt emoji.

  Rubber gloves—yikes.

  And here I am, just sitting, watching her casually eat while spewing off the answers, bringing us to the top of the leader board, neck and neck with Team Waffles.

  “Clearly the answer is Beyonce’s armpit. It’s so obvious.”

  I blink at her.

  Yeah . . . that’s obvious.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” She taps the keyboard again. “Write it.”

  I type in “Beyonce’s armpit,” and sure enough, it’s correct.

  “Ladies and gentleman, we are at our last question, and we’re going to do this Jeopardy style. Everyone enters the amount they’re willing to bet on this question; you can’t go over what you have in the bank. Go ahead and type it in now.”

  “Put it all in besides ten points. It’s a safe landing for us,” I say.

  “No, we should bet one dollar. What if we don’t get it?”

  I give her a look. “You just answered correctly with Beyonce’s armpit. We are getting this one correct.”

  “Okay. Bet it all but ten points.”

  I plug in our number and once all the names light up green, indicating all answers have been submitted, the DJ says, “Okay, final question of the night. Fifteen percent of women do this on Valentine’s Day. What is it?”

  “Send themselves flowers,” June answers while I say, “Masturbate�
� at the same time.

  “What? No.” She shakes her head. “Masturbate is not correct.”

  “You really think fifteen percent of women send themselves flowers?” I shake my head this time. “No, I did an article on Valentine’s Day last year, and the answer is masturbate.”

  “Why would that be an answer?”

  “Why would Beyonce’s armpit be an answer?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she asks, as if I’m truly missing something.

  “Uh . . . no.”

  She takes the keyboard from me and says, “It’s flowers.”

  I take it back. “It’s masturbate.”

  “Wesley Waldorf . . . it’s flowers.” She grows stern with me.

  “June . . . uh . . . Marie?”

  “July.”

  “What?”

  “My middle name is July. June July Lacy.”

  “Oh . . . that’s—”

  “Odd, yes, but at least it’s not the place where I was conceived.”

  “Touché.” We both laugh, but then I grow serious again. “June July Lacy, the answer is masturbate.”

  “Ten seconds to enter your answers,” the DJ calls out.

  She tries to take the keyboard from me, but I block her and type in masturbate. “Trust me on this, June. We’ve got this in the bag. If I know anything, I know Valentine’s Day. I’ve done extensive research on the subject. It’s very common for single women to try out new toys on Valentine’s Day.”

  “I really think it’s flowers.”

  “Answers are locked in,” the DJ announces. “Let’s see those answers, one by one.”

  The board starts showing the team names and their answers, and dread starts to fill me as I watch team after team flash “flowers” across the screen until it reaches CockDaddy69, and in bright red and bold, “masturbate” is displayed. The rooftop erupts and the DJ plays an airhorn . . . several times, while our faces flash up on the screen, right under masturbate.

  June buries her head in her hand while I nod and wave at everyone, embarrassment consuming me.

  NOT correct.

  Great.

  When the DJ moves on, June gently places her hand on mine and says, “Thank you so much for mansplaining single lady Valentine’s Day woes to me. It has really been enlightening.”

  I sigh and chew on the side of my cheek, wishing I had an ounce of suave left in me, but it seems like I tapped out when I met June.

  “Should I give you back your number?”

  She laughs out loud and then nods. “Might be for the best.” But that teasing smile of hers shows me she’s pretty easygoing, and even though “masturbate” was displayed above her head for the rooftop to see, she’s chill about it.

  * * *

  “Sorry, I’m late. General Fitzbum was being difficult this morning,” June says, coming up to our table, wearing a white dress and navy-blue heels. I stand to greet her, and she places her hand on my chest, lifts up, and presses a kiss to my cheek. She catches me off guard—I’m so used to her side hugs—that my entire body sighs with joy.

  “Oh, look at you.” I pull out her chair, and she takes a seat. “You look like you’re about to go sail a boat. White pants suit you.”

  I chuckle. “The dress requirement of white and blue gave me the courage to pull out my white jeans.”

  She glances around the restaurant and leans in to whisper, “Everyone looks like they just arrived at the Hamptons.”

  “It’s all a façade. No one who lives in the Hamptons would be caught dead at Boozy Brunch.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right about that.” She claps her hands and says, “So how does this work?”

  I hand her a mimosa and say, “Here is your drink and here is your drink card. The goal is to check off every drink on the card. Extra points are awarded to those who complete the challenges flawlessly. Food is brought around like dim sum, so choose what you want and eat as much as you want.”

  “What are the challenges?”

  “That’s the best part. You have no idea until you finish one of the small plates of food. The challenge is on the bottom of the plate.”

  “Oh, I like this.” She sips her drink. “Bring it on.”

  Caden told me about Boozy Brunch the other day, and since June is up for pretty much anything, I thought it would be a great way to have some fun and get to know her better.

  While we start to drink and eat, I ask her, “Did you hear back about the auditions?”

  “Not yet, but my agent said the directors for The Music Man were impressed. Fingers are crossed.”

  “When you get it, we’ll celebrate.”

  “Yeah? You would want to celebrate with me?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “Wesley Waldorf, you just made my heart flutter.”

  I smile at her. “You do that to me every time I see you.”

  She smirks and shakes her finger at me. “Uh-oh, are you aiming for a first kiss today, Mr. Fancy Hair?”

  “I mean, I did wear my white pants and I’m getting you drunk. You tell me.”

  She leans in, her body language saying all the right things . . . her mouth, not so much. “I don’t kiss until the tenth date.”

  Jesus . . . ten dates? Ten dates would be at least third base for other people.

  “Ten dates, huh?” I gulp my mimosa down. “That’s a long time.”

  “Isn’t it worth it?” She bats her eyelashes.

  I glance at her lips, and then to her turquoise eyes that are framed in a deep brown liner today. “With you? Yeah, it’s worth it.”

  “Ooo.” She moves away. “You’re saying all the right things. I can tell you’re determined, but just know this. You can compliment me all you want, there’ll be no mouth-to-mouth today.”

  “What if I need to be resuscitated?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge if we need to.”

  * * *

  “If I shaved your beard, would you have a dimple in your chin?” June asks, practically lying across the table. There is orange juice dripping down the front of her dress and unfortunately, there’s blackberry jam smeared across my crotch from a croissant my drunk hands couldn’t quite hold on to.

  We are smashed.

  I have no idea what time it is.

  Pretty sure I’ve eaten my weight in breakfast pastries.

  And I’ve lost all ability to pull from the gentleman’s playbook. The only thing I know how to do right now is stare at the way June’s cleavage is propped up by how she leans across the table.

  “Boobs,” I mutter, sighing as June’s fingers play with my hair.

  “I would find boobs?” she asks.

  “I found boobs,” I say, pointing to her chest. “You have boobs.”

  She glances down at her chest and gasps, as if it’s the first time she’s noticing. “My God, would you look at that? Boobs.” She taps the table. “I have boobs.”

  “She has . . . boooooobs,” I shout and point my finger over her head, like a neon sign. “Boobs, right here. Let’s give this girl a round of applause.” I clap but no one else joins in.

  June holds her breasts and says, “Bet there’s nipples attached.”

  “Oh easily. One hundred percent there are nipples attached to those boobs.”

  She sways to the side, jiving with the music. “Think there’s a third nipple like Chandler Bing?”

  “You should be so lucky.”

  “I have an overwhelming desire to pull one boob out and examine it, but something in the back of my head is telling me I shouldn’t.”

  “Yeah, I hear that too.” I look around. “I think . . . I think it’s a mosquito.”

  “What? Really? You heard a mosquito talk to you?”

  “Or was it . . . mojito?” I ask, looking up to the heavens for help.

  “Mint Julep.” She hiccups and covers her mouth, then laughs. “Black olives.”

  “Green olives,” I add on, with a point of my finger.

  “Maraschino cherry.”
<
br />   “What is . . .” I grip the table. “Excuse me, what are drink garnishes, Alex?”

  June slaps the table and holds my hand up to the sky. “Winner. We have a winner.”

  “Goddamn, I’m good.” I clap for myself and stand. Picking up an empty champagne glass, I hold it to my chest and say, “I’d like to thank the mosquitos for giving me the courage to be open and honest about my answers today. To the blackberry jam on my crotch, you might stain for life, but you’ll always have a special place in my heart.” June laughs. I chuckle too. “And even though it was tempting, I didn’t say masturbate, even though it could have been the answer. I didn’t say masturbate. No masturbating for Valentine’s Day. It’s always flowers.” I tap my nose. “Remember that, gents, always flowers.”

  “Sir,” a waitress says, coming up to my side, “I’m afraid your boozy brunch time has ended.”

  I nod. “Was it the masturbating comment?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “That’s fair.” I hold my arm out. “My lady?”

  June stands and wobbles on her heels. Gripping the waitress’s shoulder, she says, “I know you’re very concerned, but the contusion on his scrotum is almost fully healed.”

  “Indeed, indeed.” I nod. “It’s why I wore my tighter jeans. No chafing anymore.”

  “Really?” June asks. “Wow, what an improvement from sweatpants. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” I bow. I turn to the waitress and say, “Thank you for your services today, you can send my award to the HYPE offices, care of, Wesley Mr. Fancy Hair.” I motion my hand toward the door. “Shall we?”

  “I think we shall.” June hiccups again and then takes my arm.

  * * *

  “What the hell is touching me?” I scream, waking from a dead sleep and swatting at my arm. The quick jolt sends me careening off my couch only to fall flat on my floor. “Ooof.”

  Pain ricochets through my head as a deep voice says, “Good evening.”

  “What the hell?” I scramble to my feet, regretting that decision the minute my balls send a shock of pain down my leg, and my head pounds even harder.

  Rubbing my eyes, I try to get them to focus and when they do, Roman comes into view, wearing a shit-eating grin on his face.