Despite the playful banter, Nora and I have a somewhat fruitful conversation. I don’t want to do digi-dating, but she refuses to take no for an answer. I can’t argue, since options aren’t exactly growing on trees. She follows me back to my place and we spend the evening setting up my Tinder profile. She digs up a picture of me from a premiere party we went to last year, because at least then I’ll have set my potential baby daddy’s expectations nice and high. After I read the summary she’s written of me and the answers “I gave” to the questions on the bio, I want to fuck me.
“This is unfair.”
She shrugs and takes a sip of her beer. “Just because you want some quick results doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have to work for it.”
“For me, Nora! It’s unfair to me! I can’t live up to this profile,” I argue, panic gurgling in my guts. I lean on the coffee table from my spot on the floor, glaring at the laptop. “What woman could? ‘Brilliant former porn star seeks stud-like professor with bedroom skills and a bank account to match.’ That’s cartoonish. Not to mention incredibly misleading.”
She’s cracking up before I finish reading the tagline. “That is some of my best work,” she says from her prone position on the arm of the sofa. “Or at least I think it is.” I can barely understand her even though I’ve spent years decoding her speech on many frequencies. I hope she falls off the couch. “Oh my God, please keep it. I love it so much.”
“Then snapshot it and write something realistic, will you?”
“Fine, fine,” she consents and sits up. “As you wish, mistress.”
My cheek twitches. “I swear to God, if you make me some kind of dominatrix, I will whip you.”
“Ooh! You could pull it off. You got the attitude down pat. Want me to—” She stops when she looks at me.
I curl into the fetal position. “I swear, it’s like you don’t even want to help me,” I groan from the floor. I barely hear the door fly open and bang into the side table just inside. Footsteps slide through the open kitchen into the living room and I contemplate sitting up.
“What the hell is going on in here? Bennett, did you kill my Lollipop?”
I don’t have to look up to know it’s Fox. Not just because he referred to me as “Lollipop,” but because his warm tenor is unmistakable. Not to mention his lazy, flip-flop shuffle.
Nora argues that it’s my low tolerance for self-examination that knocked me out. I sit up and flip her off with both hands.
“I have those, too,” she says, holding up both her middle fingers.
I wave her off.
Meanwhile, Fox is digging in my fridge for food, no doubt. When he comes back to the living room with his prize, he deposits himself on the sofa next to Nora and asks what we’re doing through a mouthful of chicken drumstick.
I freeze.
My eyes fly to Nora, who takes the opportunity to embarrass me fully. “Our darling Sophie is embarking on a Tinder mission. Mama needs a dick to ride.”
“Christ, Nor!” I’m eye-daggering the shit out of her, but she’s impervious.
Fox’s face lights up and he claps like a dolphin. “Ooh! Let me help!”
“No,” I say with a growl, but unfortunately I am not even on the hiring squad.
Nora twists and pulls her posture extra straight before crossing her legs. She’s gone full professional. “Mr. Monkhouse,” she says, taking invisible notes on her imaginary notepad, “what qualifications do you possess that would make you an ass-et to our team?”
I slap a hand on the table. “I said no!” I sound like a whiny child. Not that it matters—Nora’s mock interview of Fox is happening no matter what I do. I look at his face. His expression is serious, his posture completely unnatural as he mimics Nora’s. He folds his hands in his lap. I struggle not to smile.
“Well,” he says, looking off into space, “I’m a dude.” Brilliant. “I have extensive experience having a dick, and have a critical perspective on the requirements of women who want to get on it.”
Nora nods, incredibly fake-impressed. “Excellent, excellent. Anything else?”
“You’re both assholes.” My commentary is not even denting their cone of mean-friends-who-torture-me.
“Yes!” Fox flips his hair back. Preparing for lowering the boom, no doubt. “I promise to be helpful and serious and only make fun when it’s appropriate.”
The last word is the kicker, because if there’s one thing Fox cannot manage to be with any consistency, it’s appropriate.
“Congratulations, sir. You’re hired!!” she tells him, immediately whipping around to point at me with a stern, slightly mean finger. “This is going to be hella awesome. Having a guy’s perspective is perfect! Especially a manwhore like Fox.”
He elbows her and she smiles victoriously. I slump, defeated by my two helpful yet pushy-as-fuck friends.
Fox is a complete pain in the ass during the entire process and nearly obliterates my motivation. Nora, on the other hand, is inspired by his most inappropriate contributions. I suddenly remember the song “Crash and Burn” by the Bangles—a little prophetic, considering this venture I’m committing to.
It takes hours, hours I’ll never get back, to create a bio I will accept. I still hate it, but it’s mostly accurate and not altogether as humiliating as I anticipated. Nora is enthusiastic, which is encouraging.
Fox, who’s been leaning on Nora, jolts upright and snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Um, why are you spacing? We have created a foolproof hookup profile here. You need to get laid, my friend. Trust me, I know these things. I’m an expert.”
“You’re a slut, Fox. That doesn’t make you an expert.” Nora winks at me and shakes her head at Fox’s side-eye reaction.
Meanwhile, I simply glare at him, willing my eyes to sputter up some goddamn lasers or fireballs or something. He looks back to me and grins madly. He’s far too adorable when he grins like that. I bet it’s what gets him the ridiculous amount of tail he pulls in. I remember he doesn’t know the full extent of what’s going on. I huff and correct him. To a degree, anyway.
“Maybe I’m looking for more than a hookup.” It’s not a lie, technically. Nora looks everywhere but at me. I lean forward from my crisscross seat on a yoga bolster, pick up a coaster and throw the flat cork circle at her. It hits her in the temple. I smile.
“Pffft,” is Fox’s genius and mature response. He resumes his recline on Nora’s shoulder like the lethargic pimp he is. “Everyone wants a hookup. Sometimes sex turns into something more, but that part’s up to you.”
My mouth falls open to compliment him on his target “normal” response, but he promptly follows up to negate it.
“I’m just propping you up to hop on some primo dick.”
Nora pushes him off. I pick up another coaster and throw it harder at him.
“Okay, okay, knock it off. You bitches are abusive!”
Nora and I both admonish him with an almost parental-sounding, “Heeeey.”
“Only bitches can call bitches ‘bitches,’ ” I say, arching a stern eyebrow.
Irritated, he narrows his eyes and leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“That’s your only warning.”
“What about when you’re actually being a bitch?” he asks, probably thinking he’s found a loophole.
“Then it’s fair play. I’m just saying you’re not a gangsta rapper, so you can’t throw ‘bitch’ or ‘ho’ around like you have a right. Not that they have a right, per se. You know—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He falls back into the couch cushions, but raises a finger to lecture me. “Pro tip—do not lecture any of your potential hookups like that or the dick will walk away limp and sad. I believe that is the opposite of your goal here.”
If my genitals were on the outside of my body like a man’s, they would crawl up inside me right now. As they are not, they’re trying to hide behind other organs in inexplicable embarrassment.
“I swear to Christ I’m not sure why I keep you around,” I say.
Fucker grins again like a fox in a henhouse… which is sadly kind of accurate.
Nora groans. “You know what? Go home and eat your own food. Soph’s house is not a grocery store.”
“But I can’t cook,” he says with a slight whine. “At least everything here isn’t processed or from a box.” He doesn’t move from his spot on the sofa.
“Fox, my mom gives you leftovers whenever you come with me to visit. Don’t bullshit.”
He looks smug. “I go over there without you sometimes. She feeds me then, too.”
I get up and grab a magazine off the table. I roll it and hit him in the head with it. “Get the fuck out. No really, ya goddamn mooch. You’ve helped enough.”
Fox rolls casually off the couch and stands. He glares down at me. “You never used to be so violent.”
“You never used to be so annoying,” I counter. He grins again. It makes me smile. “Sorry.”
He winks and I smile bigger. I shake my head. Sometimes I hate that he can do this to me. In our shared freshman debate class, he managed to make me giggle in the middle of my argument. The topic was Dr. Kevorkian and euthanasia. It was torturously awkward.
“Seriously, though, dude. Get out of my house.” I look at Nora, who merrily points finger-guns at Fox. “You, too. I’m tired. I have a shit-ton of work to do in the morning and I have to drive to the studio.”
Nora looks surprised at the eviction. “But we haven’t shopped tonight! You said we could shop!”
“Tomorrow when I get back. Promise. Come over at seven?”
“Eight.”
“Fine.”
“Am I invited?” Fox calls from behind the refrigerator door.
“No.” Nora and I answer simultaneously.
He just shrugs. He disappears into the fridge, pulling out the second half of a strip steak I made yesterday. “Can I?”
I close my eyes and shake my head in exasperation. “Incorrigible.”
It’s all the approval he needs.
“Thanks, Lolls!” he calls, waving over his shoulder with his free hand on his way out the door.
“You’re far too easy on him,” Nora declares. She gives me a hug and slaps my ass. “I expect daily updates and conferences on your Tinder progress.”
I nod and roll my eyes as she grabs her purse and slips into her sandals. She stops just before closing the door behind her, poking her head back in. “We’ll get a baby in you. Don’t you worry.”
I throw her some snark as the door closes. I’m cautiously not pessimistic. I can’t go full optimist; it’s just not in my wheelhouse. I go to bed forcing myself to look forward to “shopping.” Nora will make it painful for my own good.
We shop together and separately—Nora demands to pick one for me, and sends a message ON MY BEHALF. I don’t agree to it, but after she does it anyway, I don’t have much of a choice.
After a week of fielding and weeding the slew of responses I receive, I agree to my first date.
Date One
“So you’re an architect?” I ask, feeling way too much like a substitute host on a morning talk show. My date is reasonably cute, so I am willing to give him a shot. And he is Nora-approved.
“Oh, no,” he says boisterously. This restaurant is too quiet for this guy. Not to mention he’s dressed as a Zoolander extra. I thought that particular profile picture was a Halloween costume. “I work in an architectural firm.”
I chomp on the inside of my cheek. “Oh, okay.” He mentioned the job in his tagline, which was not all that creative, I might add. Also, Nora made me choose this one. I think she’d had too many old-fashioneds at that point, but she’s still getting the business when this is over—which is hopefully in the next twenty minutes. Less if the appetizer gets here sooner. I squirm in my seat. At the very least, I will finish my drink. Wait, the appetizer is spinach dip. I consider hogging it all if only just to see a look of horror on his face.
“What do you do at the firm?”
“I’m the lead mail sorter.” The lead mail sorter. Because of course he is. The look of pride on his face is comical and almost endearing. Almost.
I should feel bad for what I say next. But fret not, I don’t.
“So you lied.”
“What?” His expression goes full-on deer in the headlights.
I take a little too much pleasure in this reaction. No, no I take that back. Never too much pleasure in calling out liars. Never.
“You lied,” I say, and now I’m ready to grill him like a legit hard-hitting investigative journalist, like Anderson Cooper. Woohoo! Promoted! “On your profile. You literally wrote ‘architect.’ ”
He stutters for a minute, eventually stuttering into, “Oh, no, I’m pretty sure I wrote architectural firm something or other.”
Way to be specific.
I glance around, curious as to whether anyone else is hearing this shit, but the restaurant is dim. Several of the patrons are what appear to be actual couples that have no interest in my date’s failure.
“No. You didn’t, actually.” I pull out my phone and prepare to pull up the app. “Would you like me to show you your profile?”
“Excuse me?”
“I would if you confessed.” I wink. His expression then tells me he didn’t follow. I roll my eyes before slowing down my speech. “I would excuse you if—oh, never mind. Who cares?”
He’s completely flustered now, blinking like he has something in both eyes. I take pity. But little, very little.
“Listen, Alan.”
“Alistair.”
“Whatever. How can I even be sure that’s your name?” I say, and for once he doesn’t respond at all. “Anyhoosier, I am really hungry and looking forward to the cheesy spinach and artichoke goodness that’s coming my way any minute.”
“Oh yeah! Me, too,” he says, melting into a gooey smile that makes me want to vomit a little. Clearly he has the assumption that I’m letting go of all the previous offenses. He settles back in his seat and rubs his hands together like a cartoon villain.
“Ha! Nice try. What I’m saying here, Arthur—”
“Alistair.”
“Right, I don’t really care anymore. Point is I think we’re done here.” I smile widely and tilt my head to one side, having shifted my Anderson Cooper persona into more of a game show host who’s dismissing the losing contestants.
He stares at me for a minute before hesitantly scooting out of the booth, creating one of those loud vinyl fart sounds that bench seats are famous for. I cough as a diversion while he stands there turning purple. He points at the seat, looking comically unsure.
“That was the…” he starts, but trails off and gives up on his excuse.
I mean, I feel for him. That was probably the worst moment for accidental fart noises. He looks at me again and I nod regally, still smiling. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, obviously unsure what to say. At last, sweet God Almighty, he closes his trap. I’m about to direct him to the door Vanna White-style when he spins and walks out as quickly as he can.
The server walks over and sets down the magnificent tray of baked dairy goodness.
I look up at her and grin. “I love you.”
She makes a panicked face. “I have a girlfriend.”
“That wasn’t a—” She scurries away before I finish. Great. Now I’m sexually harassing the waitstaff. I better leave a big tip.
The audience giggles. I love that they’re as dirty-minded as I am. Well… they are me. I digress.
Date Two
“I hope you don’t mind, but I don’t drink,” he says as I take a sip of my Scotch and soda. It almost goes down the wrong pipe. I’m forced to mask the cough as best I can. I pretty much fail.
I shrug and smile. Why did we meet in a bar, then? “No, no, it’s fine. No worries. Coke, then?”
“Oh, I don’t do coke anymore,” he insists, a little panicked.
Seriously? “What? No! I meant Coca-Cola, not cocaine,” I correct with a wobbly voice. I’m not sure what happened there.
“Oh, I get it,” he says with a breath, offering a small smile. “It’s just that I’m an alcoholic.”
His eyes convey such guilt, I feel bad. And irritated. Why is cocaine the first thing he jumps to with that suggestion? And regardless, WHY SAY OKAY TO MEETING IN A BAR? They don’t even serve appetizers at this shithole. It’s a dive bar!
“Honestly, Ben, it’s no big deal. If you don’t drink, you don’t drink,” I say, and he smiles. Definitely cute. “I just hope you don’t mind my hangover stories,” I joke, offering a wink and a lone fingergun.
He doesn’t smile or frown. Or respond, really. It’s uncomfortable.
“Sorry,” I say quietly. I shake my head and stretch my posture for a little reboot. “How long have you been sober?”
“Almost three weeks now.”
I only have myself to blame for this one.
Date Seven…
or a million, I can’t tell anymore
Two months into the countdown, and I’ve been on six dates. Every one of them disastrous or pathetic in their own way. Not all of them were the dude’s fault either. Date number four found me at a beachside café in Venice just after a work meeting. My adorable and super shy date, Owen, texted that he’d be late. Since I had time to kill, I waited on the sand to get some sun. Somehow I managed to get so much sand in my bikini top that during the actual date, all I could think about was rescuing my increasingly irritated nipples. Apparently, I couldn’t resist enough, because he left halfway through, citing his lack of interest in kink. I’m still trying to figure that out, but Nora agrees that if you can’t deal with public adjustments, he shouldn’t even be a guy. I mean, isn’t adjusting their junk whenever and wherever in the rules of being male? Seems like it.
In any case, this new guy—Callum, a name like some Celtic god—is perfect. I internally praise Nora’s choice. I can’t believe he is interested in me. The night starts off with me basically laying out how done I am with online dating. I spend half an hour complaining about bullshit profiles and how the guy who shows up is not the guy in the pictures. Instead of being offended or turned off, which is fair, this guy agrees. He goes with it. He doesn’t call me a bitter hag who has no chance at winning a man—it happened before—but he listens. I ask him twice if he’s gay and he just laughs. He counters with his own dating horror stories and even makes a point to mention that while I definitely resemble the woman in the photos and in the bio thus far, I am “far more beautiful and interesting in person.”
The conversation is surprisingly easy, comfortable, and on occasion, extra flirty. He even takes my hand as we talk. Normally, I think that would irk me on a first date, but the way he does it is a turn-on. Callum is unnaturally attractive, taller than me—at nearly five foot nine, it’s not as common as I’d like, especially in heels—and owns his own business. Never married, no kids, but desperately wants them. I very nearly spill my predicament. The only caveat, he was born and bred in San Diego and still lives there, but splits a house in LA as well since he’s there all the time. And he loves to surf. This… has potential. San Diego is a minimum three-hour drive for me, but for the right guy, meeting in LA is more than doable.
Please, other shoe, don’t drop.
After dinner, we leave the restaurant where we started with “just drinks” hand in hand. His thumb delicately brushes over mine, sending chills everywhere. I sneak a look or two as we walk only to find he’s peeking over at me. I’m all kinds of amazed and blown away by how smooth the evening has gone. I’m wary of such smoothness, of course, but after the third drink of the evening, I put it out of my mind. We get to my car and he whistles.
“Nineteen sixty-seven Mustang soft top? Be still my heart,” he coos, running a finger down the length of the car. He moves closer to me, leaving very little room between us.
“Thanks. She needs some work, but she’s my favorite car in the world. And I love to drive her,” I say, a little breathy. I wonder if that sounded like some sort of metaphor, but I can’t quite figure out what it would be. Probably a masturbation reference. Oh well. I’m still loving the dress I bought last week because right now, I feel hot. Like bangin’ hot. And yeah, I said bangin’ for a reason.
“Sophie?”
“Callum.”
“Would you want to come—?”
“Yes.” Shit. I interrupted too fast. So many jokes. I momentarily hold a hand over my face until I can swallow the funny.
“Don’t we all,” he teases, his mouth a heartbeat away from mine. And then it’s not. He kisses me, pressing me up against my car with his entire body and oh my God is he packing. I’m sore and we haven’t even broached the topic of sex. Just the thought of it scares my love tunnel. My uterus faints.
When he nips my bottom lip, I gasp, giving him the opening he was looking for. The kiss deepens, and I am sold. I lose track of time as well as place and start to get really antsy. And by antsy, I mean horny. The man is taking me home or vice versa. If that’s his question, it’s happening. All he has to do is ask it.
But we can’t speak, not for a while, because the make-out session is a hair’s breadth from getting us arrested. I faintly hear a couple of people clear their throats and mumble nasty comments, but it doesn’t deter us in the least. Keep walking, prudes!
His hand is in my hair and I’ve got one firm grip on his tight, muscular ass. His lips and teeth tease along my chin to my neck, the hand in my hair firmly holding the angle of my head. It’s incredibly hot; I’m panting embarrassingly loud. I even feel a trickle of sweat down my back. I’m tempted to take my panties off and throw them.
“We should take this somewhere else,” I suggest, a little worried I sound like Kathleen Turner after a pack of filterless Camels.
“My place?” he asks.
I chuckle. “You live in San Diego. That might be a little too far and I can’t wait that long.”
He grins and pecks my lips. “My rental here. You remember?”
I blush and shake my head. It’s a little embarrassing how his kiss made me forget. “Of course. Let’s go. Now.”
He kisses me again and nudges my nose with his. Then, as if we were in a remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, his demeanor shifts dramatically and he stands ramrod straight.
“So how’d I do?” he asks, and everything just stops. He’s looking at me like a kid looks at a teacher.
My heart is in my throat. “I’m sorry?”
“How did I do?” He overpronounces it like I just didn’t hear him the first time.
“How’d you do what?” I repeat slowly, because what the fuck is he going on about? When did it get so cold outside?
“The scene? Pick up a woman and romance her, get her to agree to come home with you,” he says like I should recognize the plan.
I’m going to lose my shit if I walked into the setup for some motherfucking prank show or something.
“The scene? For the Improv Academy audition? You’re Brandy, aren’t you?”
Well, that’s even worse than Punk’d. I stare at him in abject horror for hours. Okay, maybe thirty seconds. I start fanning myself with my clutch, because my previous chills have turned to sweating rage bullets. “Are you serious?”
“Sophie was the character,” he explains, even if he doesn’t realize that’s what he’s doing. “Wasn’t it? Or something with an S. The code was wearing a red top.”
“Did you happen to notice there were other red tops in there?”
“Yours stood out. You’re Brandy, right? I’m Jordan?”
“Why is that a question?” I whisper as I wipe frantically at my lips, trying to get the lies off. He looks confused, which only pisses me off. I don’t wait for an answer. “You don’t live in San Diego?”
“Oh, no, not anymore. I was born there, but I live in the Valley now.” He’s disturbingly calm and casual about all this. My rising instability doesn’t even touch him.
“You live in the Valley?” I say, unable to hide my disgust. “And you… Jordan?” I’m leaning far enough back on my car that I’m about to fall into it like a coin in a bucket.
“You’re not Brandy, are you?” Genius Callum—ahem, excuse me, Jordan—finally gets the drift.
“You’re a fucking actor?” I almost cringe at the shrillness of my voice, which may permanently remain in this pitch of wispy screaming upper register weirdness.
His eyes go wide. “Holy shit. I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.”
“But the kissing,” I say, looking around for a camera or someone to corroborate that what we had was not, in fact, a drama exercise. All I see is a real-life couple staring at me as they walk past us into the restaurant. I look back to this evening’s punishment.
He smiles sheepishly. “I got really into it. You’re a good kisser.”
“Fuck you, man!” I shout, my voice suddenly back and in full force. “Why the fuck are you trolling Tinder for acting scene partners? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He backs up, his hands in the air. “No! I-I thought—your profile was on the list for the scene! I swear! Wasn’t it?”
I glare at him. Death glare. Like, I-will-tear-you-a-trio-of-extra-assholes glare.
“Didn’t you coordinate this with Angela? Angela Rodriguez?”
I honestly have no idea how I got into this situation, but I’ve had enough. I pull open my car door and unceremoniously drop my overheated ass onto the bench seat. “Fuck off, Jordan.”
Never so pissed in my life, I stab the ignition with my keys, rev my V8 engine, and peel out like a bat out of hell. I run three separate red lights on my way home and look forward to the ticket I will get in the mail from the one intersection that has a traffic camera.
Worth it.
“Nora?” I yell, the wind not only blowing my hair into an unintentional beehive but also drowning out any sound that may or may not be coming from the other end. I have no idea if she can hear me and I’m only mildly sure she even answered. “We are done with the Tindering. So. Fucking. Done. You’re also on helping-me-make-a-choice probation. Next up, clinic reviews. I’m going sperm shopping.”