“From the look of it, I’d say Boozy Brunch hit you hard.”
“Huh?” I ask, feeling something on my head.
Roman holds out his phone and shows me a picture of me. I’m wearing June’s scarf around my neck, my shirt is on backward, and there’s now red, green, and yellow on my crotch.
I glance down and sure enough, the colors of the rainbow are on my crotch, my shirt is in fact on backward, and I’m wearing June’s scarf like an ascot.
“Don’t bother trying to erase the pictures, I already sent them to my cloud. These are great fodder for future bribery.”
I press my hand to my forehead. “I don’t . . . I have no idea what the hell happened.”
He points to a piece of paper on the table. “Me neither, but there’s a note on the table for you.”
“Really?” I glance around the apartment. “Is uh, June here?”
“No, but she was.” Roman smirks. “And boy, do I wish I had been too. Seems like I missed out on a good show.”
Oh hell.
I shed the scarf and shirt and walk into my bedroom with the note while Roman continues to watch baseball in my living room. From Chicago, he’s a total diehard Rebels fan and, from the announcers, I hear his favorite player, Maddox Paige, is pitching. He’s here until the game is over.
I’m about to cross the threshold of my bedroom when I call out, “Why are you here?”
“You texted me. Told me you were drunk and you were afraid you were going to do something stupid. It took me a few passes to read over your text to see what you were talking about, but seems like I was too late to stop the stupid train.”
“What the hell did I do?”
“Just read the note.” He lifts the remote and turns up the TV. “I ordered us food. Take a shower, your crotch smells like rotten cheese.”
“Great,” I mutter, closing my bedroom door behind me.
I shed my pants in the bathroom, turn on the shower, and then lean against the counter as I read the note from June.
Mr. Fancy Hair,
I’m drunk, but not as drunk as you, so please excuse my messy handwriting. Since you are currently passed out, face up on your couch, I figured I’d take this opportunity to mention the following things:
Mosquitos might be my new favorite drink.
Your booze brunch acceptance speech was the most poignant and insightful speech I’ve ever heard.
I appreciate the way you held my elbow the entire way home, telling me how much of a gentleman you are. I couldn’t agree more. I’ve never had my elbow held so thoughtfully before.
You have great body. Like, really great. And I am a glutton for a little chest hair. Thank you for letting me run my fingers through it.
The lap dance wasn’t necessary, but the extra condiments on your crotch were. Thanks for showing me what a genital rainbow could be.
You’re right, ascots are for real men.
I might be drunk, but I will forever remember how you stood above me on the couch, squatted down like Magic Mike and thrusted your rainbow genitals at me. It’s a moment that will never be taken from me, but instead, will be locked up in my vault of memories.
You are a wonderful host. Thanks for letting me pee in your apartment. And thanks for the show.
Talk to you soon, Wesley Waldorf.
XOXO – June July
Holy . . .
Fuck . . .
I grip my hair and pull on it. Please, for the love of God, let her forget every second of that.
Every goddamn second.
Chapter Eleven
Dear Modern Gentleman,
I made a move. My girl was giving me all the right signals, so after dinner, standing outside her apartment, I kissed her. The only problem . . . she was going in for a hug so I ended up kissing her ear . . . with some tongue. I wet-willied her with my tongue. I didn’t know what to say, so I bolted. It’s been two days and I haven’t talked to her. I really like her but don’t know how to move on from something so embarrassing. Any advice?
The Wet Willy Man
Dear Wet Willy Man,
Oof, that’s . . . tough. Let’s call it like it is. That’s an embarrassing moment that will be hard to move on from. The best way to handle it: own it. A lesser man would pass it off, joke it off, act like you were trying to do something else like pull a fly out of her ear with your tongue. Not a gentleman. A gentleman will go up to his girl with a single flower, hand it to her and say, “I’m sorry about the other night, for bolting and not calling after. But what I’m not sorry about is trying to kiss you.” Be a man, tell her how it is, and my guess is, she’s going to find the entire interaction endearing and you’ll score that kiss sooner rather than later.
Good luck, Gent,
The Modern Gentleman
WES
THE ART OF VULNERABILITY
“I’m going to need you to dig deeper,” Frank says, slapping Greg’s draft in front of him. “Adult acne is no joke, so why are you making light of it? I want you to dive into the psychological torture of being a thirty-three-year-old man with a zit on his chin. Not spout off jokes about blackheads.”
Poor Greg shrinks in his chair as Frank paces back and forth.
“These assignments are meant to give our readers a sense of community, to make them feel like they’re not alone in this world where grown-ass men get acne, or pierce their nutsacs on first dates.” All eyes fall on me.
Thanks, Frank.
I shift uncomfortably, staring at my iPad and praying for this moment to pass.
Frank moves around the room and with every step he makes in his Cole Haan loafers, my back tenses until it feels like concrete, just as Frank’s hand lands on my shoulder.
“Take a note from Wes’s playbook. He’s putting himself out there. Playing the game, conducting a thorough investigation into the science of being a modern gentleman. From what I’ve read so far, his general outline of scoring a girl is not only riveting, but a winning product that will turn any single, uncultured man, into a devilish, drop-dead handsome, unforgettable gent. Swine to swan.” He raises his fist in victory. “You know, why don’t you send everyone a copy of your work so far? Inspire them.”
“You know, it’s not necessary, I don’t think it’s—”
“Oh, it’s necessary. It’s raw and unfiltered, the way you describe the embarrassment of having to sophistically call out ‘CockDaddy69’ while holding your composure.” Frank looks like he’s about to cry. “It’s what The Modern Gentleman is all about.” He snaps his head to scan the room. “And I want all of you to deliver the same kind of product. Now get to work.”
He claps, and the room disperses. I go to stand, but Frank presses his hand to my shoulder, keeping me in place. He sits on the conference table next to me and crosses his arms over his chest.
“What’s next in the land of perfecting The Modern Gentleman’s technique?”
“Uh.” I scratch the side of my face and turn to my iPad, drawing up my outline. “The Art of Vulnerability.”
“Yes, yes.” Frank pinches his chin in thought. “How many dates have you been on with June?”
“Three, a few walks before that.”
“Mm-hmm, and with this vulnerability tactic, what are you trying to portray to readers?”
I hate being put on the spot. Although, does anyone really enjoy it? Especially when I know so much is on the line.
My job.
My relationship.
My sanity . . .
The only good thing about the entire assignment is meeting June.
“Well, vulnerability and honesty is what I’m constantly preaching to our reader base. I want them to know that the modern man doesn’t have to hide his feelings or his past behind a can of beer, but instead, he can expose himself, show his flaws, and let his love interest know that hey, he’s human, just like everyone else.”
“I see, and what makes you human, Wes?”
Let’s see . . .
Getting wickedly ham
mered at brunch and pelvic thrusting my junk at the girl I’m dating.
That seems pretty damn vulnerable and human to me.
But I leave that out.
“The basics, you know. Afraid of failure—”
“No, no, no.” Franks slaps the table. “I don’t want the basics. What makes this article so real is the vulnerability you’ve already shown. Why do you think you’ve shown vulnerability?”
Was not prepared for the therapy session.
“Uh . . . well.” I scratch the back of my neck. “If you truly want me to be honest—”
“Yes. I want honesty.” He flaps his suit quarters open and leans in close to me. His goatee is inches from tickling my nose. “I need organic honesty, Wes. Fill my soul with your truth.”
Someone clearly forgot to take his Xanax today.
There is no way I’m going to be allowed to leave this conference room until I dig deep and come up with something to satisfy Frank’s appetite for the “truth.”
So I take a second to think about my time with June. How she’s made me feel. How I’ve applied all my techniques and failed miserably.
I run my tongue over the front of my teeth, suck in a breath, and say, “You know, I don’t feel like The Modern Gentleman around her. I feel almost . . . out of sorts.”
“Yes, this is what I’m talking about. Elaborate.”
“I’m not sure, she’s different. I’m anything but sophisticated. My techniques, although they seemed bulletproof, have slipped right past her. It took me one bruised ball and stalking her in the park to earn her phone number. Couldn’t tell you what her lips taste like because there’s no way she’d kiss me at this point. Not when she has a ten-date rule. And when we’re together, I do stupid shit, things I would have done in college before The Modern Gentleman was born. I’m so out of sorts with her that I find myself trying too hard and then failing miserably.”
Frank stares at me, his fingers rubbing over his goatee. “Wes, is this . . . more serious for you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you really like her? Or is this just an assignment to you?”
Hell, the last thing I want is for Frank to make a big deal out of all of this, but from the look in his eyes, he’s going to see right through me if I try to lie.
“Yeah, I like her.”
He stands and walks to the end of the conference table and then back to me. He repeats that path two more times before stopping in the middle and saying, “This is more than I could have ever wanted. You are using each and every step to find love.”
“But I’m failing with each step.”
Frank shakes his finger at me, something he likes to do often. “No, if you were failing, you wouldn’t still be seeing her. If you were failing, you’d be shit out of luck with this article. But you’re following the steps and with each speed bump along the way, you’re showing your honesty, your intentions. Isn’t that what The Modern Gentleman is all about? Not being posh and perfect, but genuinely owning yourself?”
When he puts it that way . . .
“Yeah. That’s what I constantly portray to my readers.”
“Then you’re doing it right.” He claps his hands together. “Write me up some notes on what we just talked about. I have a friend in publishing. I think this would be the perfect proposal for publication.”
“Wait, what?” I ask as Frank floats to the door.
“Publication, Wes. A book. You have a story, a guideline, and it must be heard, not just through HYPE, but through the masses. Who knows, maybe at the end of this, you’ll have a book deal.”
Before I can comprehend what he’s saying, he walks out of the conference room, leaving me perplexed and in a bloom of excitement.
Published?
A published author?
Holy shit.
* * *
“And here I thought you weren’t going to show,” June says, walking up to me with the general. I was able to leave work early today, thanks to Frank’s appreciation for my vulnerability. I changed into a pair of comfortable jeans and a T-shirt and then got back to our tree in time to find June walking my way.
There’s something about seeing her floating red hair as she approaches that excites me in more ways than one.
“Why did you think that?”
“Not hearing from you last night after I left a note. I thought you were too horrified to show your face.”
I move my hand over my jaw. “So you remember everything?”
She slowly moves her head, her smile growing wide. “You are quite the showman. If this writing thing doesn’t work out, I could introduce you to my agent, get you some auditions.”
“Weren’t you drunk?”
“Not as drunk as you. I have a vivid memory of you thrusting your crotch in my face while saying multiple times how it wasn’t hurting you.”
“Dear God,” I mumble, looking to the side.
She reaches out and takes my hand in hers. “I had a great time. Boozy Brunch will go down in history as one of my favorite dates ever.”
She starts walking and keeps her hand in mine, taking me with her. “So, after getting an up-close-and-personal introduction to my rainbow and pot of gold, you still want to hang with me?”
“Oh yeah.” She chuckles. “After that performance, I want everyone around us to know we’re dating.” We pass a couple on a bench and June motions to me. “We’re dating. It’s official.”
“Congrats,” the couple says, looking surprised.
“Thank you,” June calls over her shoulder. “He has a great body.”
My cheeks flame. “Please tell me I kept my pants on.”
“Oh yes, pants were kept on. You did mention if you weren’t still bruised, you’d put a thong on for me. I’m going to hold you to that.”
“Only if you wear one too,” I say, trying to lighten things up.
“What a grand idea. Screw matching pajamas, let’s do matching thongs at night. I’ll sew us some.”
“Why do I feel like you’d actually do that?”
“Because I would.” She smiles up at me and then squeezes my hand. “Seriously, yesterday was so much fun, and seeing you loosen up like that was the highlight.”
“Do you think I’m stiff?”
“At times, yeah,” she answers with full honesty. “But I see cracks in that stiffness and that intrigues me. It’s like you programmed yourself to be a certain way, to have this certain persona, but when you’re having fun, those cracks shine through, and I get to see the real Wes.”
“I’m always trying to be real with you.”
“Yeah? Then let’s be real. Tell me something about yourself that scares you.”
Did a convention on vulnerability pass through the city this past weekend and I didn’t know about it? What is with the deep conversations from everyone? I know in order to move forward with June and for her to trust me more, she needs to see this side from me, but Frank too?
Twice in one day?
If I open up too much, I fear I’ll find something I don’t like and end up crying myself to sleep.
Although, one of the first questions June ever asked me was what I feared. This is her getting to know me on a deeper level.
What makes me tick is what she said on our first walk.
“Something about myself that scares me, huh?” I look down at her. “Are you going to answer the question too?”
“Of course.” She pulls me to a secluded area off the path that I had no idea led to a bench. Trees provide a shadow canopy, and it’s far enough from the busy path that it feels serene. We both take a seat and the general sits at our feet.
I reach down and scratch him behind his ear while June’s hand falls to my thigh, her body angled toward me, her waiting eyes patient.
How could I not open up to her when her persona is so welcoming and comforting?
This feels easy, especially with her hand on me, encouraging me.
Leaning back, I drape my arm over the ben
ch and say, “Honestly, I don’t want people to think I’m a fraud.”
“Why would they think that?” she asks, her nose cutely scrunched.
Without telling her too much about my job, or the assignment, I say, “I have to write about things at work that require research and sometimes it feels like . . . I’m just writing things to get the job done, rather than writing from the heart, if that makes sense.”
She nods. “It does. Do you love writing?”
“I do. I majored in English, love all the classics from Austen to Orwell to Salinger. I have a mini library in my apartment, and when I say library, I mean a bookshelf I found at a flea market, a rich mahogany shelf with intricate detail. I keep my favorites on it. They’re all bound in leather and look like they belong together, when in reality, all the words inside differ drastically.”
She nods. “Kind of like people, right? Sometimes we can all start to look the same, following the trends, but on the inside we’re all bursting with differences.”
When she says things like this, it makes me wonder if she knows who I am, my persona at work. But she would have no idea who I am unless she did some serious investigative work.
Continuing, she says, “The differences are what make us truly special.” Her thumb strokes my thigh. “I like your differences, Wes, even if you find some of them to be embarrassing. They show your character, and I truly like the character I’m seeing.”
“Would you say you’re crushing?” I ask, trying to tease her.
She tilts her head to the side, her hair falling over her shoulder, her uniquely beautiful eyes shining at me. “You know I am crushing on you, Wesley Waldorf.” She props her arm up on the back of the bench and rests her head in her hand. “What about you, are you crushing on me?”
Uhh . . . is she kidding right now?
If someone stopped in front of us and took a picture, it would be June sitting next to my body with a heart eyes emoji as my head, staring back at her.
“What do you think?”
The Modern Gentleman Page 11