Winning Appeal (15 page)

Evan tried to look Tina in the eyes with complete cool, but he started blushing as he fumbled awkwardly with the button at the top of his pants. Tina just stood there, propped up against the bar, looking mildly amused but slightly unimpressed with how long Evan had taken to reach his decision and implement it. She glanced at her watch. It was 12:50 a.m. Evan thought she might actually begin timing how long it would take him.

He finally unfastened the top button and quickly unzipped his pants. Tina still looked unimpressed. He knew he had to be more adventurous about the whole thing if he was going to prove to her that he was as uninhibited as he claimed to be. So, after tucking his thumbs under the waistband of his underwear, he looked her straight in the eye again, smiled for a moment, and then pushed everything down with a confident and unreserved extension of his arms.

As he stood there exposed, Evan became acutely aware of the many people in the immediate vicinity who – up until that moment – had seemed oblivious to him. Evan noticed the thirty-something barman in black trying to sneak in peeks while serving some customers at the bar. He noticed an attractive young couple that had stopped making out by the bar to watch. He looked at them for a moment, and they laughed self-consciously, returning to their tongue lock but occasionally angling themselves for another view. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed four slick-looking guys in their mid-twenties, joking amongst themselves about this guy just twenty feet away whose pants were dropped in front of this babe. “Now that’s what I call balls at the Bowery Bar!” one of them yelled. Evan pretended not to notice this group or hear its heckles only because there were too many of them for a threatening stare to do anything but goad them into even more obnoxious behavior. The only thing to do now was get it over with as quickly as possible, and walk out with the gorgeous prize that would vindicate virtually anything he had done in public. Who could argue with his manliness or his judgment if, after he pulled his pants back up, Tina gave him one of those triumphant, Hollywood French kisses, and then took his arm and walked out of the bar with him?

As he stood there with all of his manhood dangling in the cool, smoky air, he thought only of that glorious moment. He didn’t see all of the people watching him with a mixture of fascination and repugnance. He focused only on Tina. He waited for her to acknowledge his courageously stupid act with some look of impressed gratitude and/or validation of his size. He waited for her to signal in some way that he had gone well beyond the call of duty, and that he could now pull his pants back up and receive his reward. But he saw none of this in Tina’s face, which just looked slightly amazed that he had actually gone through with the whole thing.

So Evan ended up holding his pants down for longer than he had originally planned to, and lifted everything back up only after realizing that he would receive no instruction from Tina to do so. As he zipped his pants back up, he heard some ornery howls from the crowd of guys, and saw the couple quickly resume their kissing with another you-caught-us-staring blush. He couldn’t tell how much the barman had seen.

“So?” Evan asked, looking expectantly at Tina. “Did I pass your test?”

Tina looked unmoved by Evan’s Bowery Bar boldness. Somewhat reluctant to answer his question, she replied, “Well…To tell you the truth…I don’t think you did.”

“Really?” Evan felt a devastating humiliation barreling his way, but – in what was to become a pathetic pattern that night – he felt perversely determined to confront it head on. “Why not? I’m not hung enough for you?” he asked, preparing himself for the worst.

“No. I actually think you’re probably hung enough.”

Upon hearing this confirmation, Evan exhaled a small sigh of relief, but was still waiting for the bad news.

“So what is it? I mean, I’m obviously uninhibited, right? I mean, you weren’t expecting me to dance on the bar naked, were you?”

“No, please. Spare us.”

“So what is it? Why didn’t I pass your test?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Do you really think I would take home someone who drops his pants in public just because I asked him to? I need a man with a little more self-respect than that.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“But you get naked in public all the time. Hell, you even simulate sex for the public.”

“No, I don’t.”

“What do you think being a soft porn actress is?”

“It’s definitely getting naked and simulating sex in public, but I’m not a soft porn actress.”

“What do you mean?” Evan asked in dismay.

“I develop swaptions, derivatives, and other hedge instruments for the futures markets at Morgan Stanley. Princeton grads generally don’t go into soft porn.”

“But…But you…”

“I know that’s what I told you. But that’s just my screener. I get hit on by a lot of guys, so I like to filter out anyone who’s really promiscuous, bisexual, infected with an STD, or willing to drop his pants in public…I’m too busy to waste a bunch of dates finding out deal-breaking data that I could have uncovered from the get-go…Life’s too short not to cut to the chase, right?”

And when Tina finished that reply, 104 anvils, each carefully crafted and weighed in the best metal workshops of the American heartland, came crashing down onto Evan’s head.

Get your copy of “Sex in the Title” now at all major online e-book stores (all links can be found here:

http://zacklove.com/my-books/sex-in-the-title/
)

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http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00GG9GI2S

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AUTHOR BIO

Zack Love graduated from Harvard College, where he tried to create a bachelor’s degree in Women. With the bachelor portion of that degree in hand, he settled in New York City but – to afford renting his bed-sized studio – found himself flirting mostly with a computer screen and stacks of documents. Determined not to die a corporate drone, Zack decided to sacrifice sleep for screenwriting, an active social life, and Internet startups offering temporary billion-dollar fantasies.

To feed his steady diet of NYC nightlife, he regularly crashed VIP parties in the early 2000s and twice bumped into his burgeoning crush, a Hollywood starlet. But – much to Zack’s surprise – neither of those awkward conversations led to marriage with the A-list actress. Zack eventually consoled himself by imagining fiascoes far worse than those involving his celebrity crush. In the process, he dreamed up a motley gang of five men inspired by some of his college friends and quirky work colleagues. And thus was born
Sex in the Title
. But the novel is not autobiographical: Zack never had his third leg attacked by any mammal (nor by any plant, for that matter). In fact, keeping his member safe has been one of Zack’s lifelong goals – and one of the few that he’s managed to accomplish.

By Penny Reid and L.H. Cosway

By LH Cosway and Penny Reid

Release date: February 2015

Goodreads link:
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23285659-the-hooker-and-the-hermit

The Email Checker
: When one pretends to be checking his/her email on a smartphone, but is instead actually taking a picture of a person/the people directly in front of him/her.

Best for
: Most situations where it is socially acceptable to be checking email, e.g. coffee shops, while dining alone at a restaurant, waiting for public transportation.

Do not use
: In locations with no cell phone or internet reception.

*Annie*

I’m not going to pretend that I have pristine intentions. But to be fair, when he initially entered the restaurant I was already checking my email.

In fact, I didn’t look up from my phone until I heard the kerfuffle and squawking of excited females. These sounds—giggling, squeals,
oooohhhhh
, whispered
Oh My God!
and
Is that really him?—
typically accompanied the arrival of a male celebrity. I’m especially tuned into the signs and symptoms for two reasons: my job and my hobby.

I am the primary project lead of the Social Media Marketing division at Davidson & Croft Media. My specialty is transforming reputations in the court of public opinion. Give me a disgraced celebrity, politician, or public figure—sex tape scandal, DUIs, arrests, the great rehab escape, sex-ting an intern (what I call ‘Donkey Donging’)—and I will transform that person’s image.

I will make her sparkle. I will make him shine. I am legendary in my field. I am the best at what I do.

And I admit this as truth with absolutely no conceit or vanity, because I’m terrible at almost everything else in life. Take walking or talking for instance, never mind attempting both at the same time. Or smiling. Or not being weird. Or not creeping people out. Or not being the cause of every awkward silence in a five mile radius.

The only other things at which I excel in life are: 1) responsible financial planning, 2) my hobby blog, and 3) eating.

Which brings me to now and Tom’s Southern Kitchen and the group of ladies molting feathers left and right as they try to dry hump the remarkably attractive and muscular man who has just entered.

I’d lifted just my eyes, peering at him and the women as I tried to place his face. He was standing in profile and his handsome mouth was curved in a patient, polite smile. I couldn’t tell if he was enjoying the attention or if he just had exceedingly excellent manners.

Regardless, he looked quite a lot like the Irish actor Colin Farrell, except a Colin Farrell who’d been working out non-stop, had thighs like tree trunks, and was ten to fifteen years younger. So, maybe a Colin Farrell just back from a visit to the plastic surgeon and a CrossFit boot camp. This glorious specimen of maleness had dark brown hair, spiky and short. His nose was perfect, almost adorable, but somehow fit his face. His jaw was angular and strong. He even had the actor’s high cheekbones, dark brown eyebrows, thick lashes, and doe eyes.

I couldn’t decide if this guy was a doppelganger or if he was the real deal; but it didn’t really matter. He would be perfect for my Saturday Celebrity Stalker post. It was, without fail, the most popular post every week.

Which leads me to my greatest and most closely held secret. The truth is that I, Annie Catrel, am The Socialmedialite, the owner and purveyor of the blog,
New York’s Finest
.

That’s right.

I’m the Socialmedialite

I’m that girl, the most influential infotainment blogger in the world.

And, because I am meticulous about my security protocols, no one knows who I am… that I am she… that she is me.

Never mind. You know what I mean.

Anyway, Saturday Celebrity Stalker is my weekly post dedicated to celebrities or their look-alikes wherein their physical features are picked apart John Madden style (John Madden being the famous American football coach then announcer who loved to draw on the home viewers’ TV screen with circles, arrows, and random lines to demonstrate errors in football plays).

Except, I do this to celebrities (almost exclusively male celebrities) and question their judgment regarding grooming, makeup (yes, makeup), clothes, and accessory choices. And, if they’re walking a dog, I do it to their little dog too.

The level to which I pick apart the celebrity’s lack of judgment depends on several factors, and I’m the first to admit I’m a good deal easier or/nicer to those people with talent than I am to celebriturds (people who are famous because they’re famous/rich, with no redeeming qualities to offer society) and celebritrash (celebriturds who are also fame whores).

However, I try not to comment too much on bodies or facial features. Personally I feel like we—western culture—are so body obsessed, there’s no need for me to add to the hysteria. Especially since these famous people already give me so much fodder with their ridiculous million dollar fanny packs (made in third world sweat shops) and their gold plated floss holders.

Why does anyone need a gold plated floss holder? Tell me. Why? Why? Why?

I don’t know. I don’t get it.

Most men
loved
being featured on my blog. My posts typically resulted in emails of praise and thanks from publicity hungry agents and celebrities. Sometimes they’d make a donation to charity in the name of the blog or respond with a self-deprecating parody on YouTube.

I took care to focus on satire, poking fun at the extremes, playfully objectifying these untouchable gods among men. Women, especially females of notoriety, in our society had to suck up and swallow daily doses of criticism about
everything
—too fat, too skinny, wearing the same outfit twice in public, having an opinion—from fake TV personalities and tabloid vultures.

In comparison to these self-esteem vampires, I provided a public service. So I make fun of these famous-people-specific idiosyncrasies on a blog followed by twenty million people. It was all in good fun.

The lookalike continued to smile and sign napkins for the group of ladies. He might not have actually been the Irish actor, but he was definitely a somebody. Luckily for him, it was 3:30 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon; that meant Tom’s Southern Kitchen was virtually empty of customers. Surreptitiously, I angled my telephone and clicked out of my email, pulling up my smartphone’s camera.

I then took about forty or fifty shots over the next two minutes, until my view of the hubbub was blocked by a waiter bringing over my bag of takeout. I didn’t quite make eye contact with my server as I paid for the food, collected my belongings as leisurely as I could manage, and left the small restaurant.

Eye contact is difficult for me. I know that seems strange; it is strange. For the longest time I assumed I was just very shy; that is until I started engaging with people online. That’s when I discovered in-real-life-Annie is shy. She is reclusive and quiet. She observes. She seldom speaks. She dislikes attention of any kind.

But the Socialmedialite, my online handle, is gregarious and silly. She is opinionated. She craves interaction and attention. She is clever and witty (mostly because, online, wittiness is not a factor of time; in real life you have to be
quick
-witted in order to be considered witty).

My bag slung over my shoulder, I carried the takeout in one hand and held my phone in the other. I was eager to thumb through my new pictures on the short walk back to my apartment. I hadn’t taken notice of much except for the guy’s resemblance to the Irish actor while sitting at my table pretending to check my email.

Therefore I was anxious to analyze what he was wearing, what he was carrying, and any other potentially remarkable external manifestations of eccentricity. I turned the corner of XXX and XXX, now just a half block from my building, and studied the shots.

Initially, all I saw was a guy who looked like Colin Farrell with a strange looking, albeit small, apparatus strapped to his back, his feet in those God-awful toe-shoes that make the wearer look like a hobbit. His shirt was lime green, skin tight, highlighting his impressively muscled physique, and appeared to be made of Lycra; his thighs were chorded and thick, plainly visible because he wore spandex—black spandex, not lime green.

On 99.9% of people, this outfit would have looked completely ridiculous. But not on this guy. He looked hot. Really, really hot.

However, during my second, third, and fourth perusal—and especially in the pictures where his face was turned toward the natural light of the windows—I noted something remarkable about his eyes. Though his mouth held a wide, welcoming grin, his eyes struck me as sad. Terribly, terribly sad. And when I say
struck me
I mean they made my steps falter and slow, and a sudden involuntary intake of breath.

Here was this guy, physical perfection, obviously living a charmed life, walking around with mesmerizingly sad, soulful eyes. They were the kind of eyes that pull you in, ensnare you, bind you, hold you and your focus and your priorities hostage.

They took my breath away.

Some strange, long dormant and heavily suppressed instinct urged me to run back to the restaurant, wrap him in my arms, and cradle him to my bosom. My heart gave a little twist. I wanted to kiss away his hurts… or at least make his hurts some cookies.

I shook myself, forcing my feet to move purposefully forward toward home, and burry these arresting and unwelcomed instinctual reactions.

The critic in me reassessed the image and couldn’t ignore the toe-shoes, the lime green workout shirt, or the spandex—SPANDEX!—shorts. Even the top 1% of good looking men should know better than to wear spandex shorts outside of a sporting event.

Just… no.

Sad and soulful notwithstanding, this man needed an intervention.

Although, spandex is nice for highlighting…

Struck by sudden curiosity, and because I am a red-blooded woman, I zoomed in on the area of his groin.

That’s right, I’m a reclusive pervert and I make no apologies for it. And, giving the matter some thought, a reclusive, shy pervert is much preferable to an extroverted pervert. I might also be a tad sexually starved since I avoid all physical, real life human interaction.

Just a tad.

I walked past my doorman and into my building, keeping my attention affixed to the phone as I studied the bulge in the man’s spandex running shorts. Tearing my bottom lip between my teeth, I boarded the elevator and tried another picture; in this one he was angled toward the window, half facing the camera. I zoomed in a bit more.

“Whatever you’re looking at must be
really
interesting.”

I jumped back and away from the voice, sucking in a startled breath, jostling the bag of takeout in my hand and clutching my phone to my chest. I hadn’t realized that I was not alone on the elevator.

I found him, my companion, looking at me with an amused smile. His blue eyes were suspicious, but good-natured, slits. I recognized him immediately as my very tall, very nice looking, ambiguously single next door neighbor.

Ambiguously single because he always had a date, but it was never the same lady friend twice.

I didn’t blame him, not at all. By all outward appearances this guy was a hot commodity. Impeccably tailored designer suit and Italian leather shoes that announced both power and wealth; a chiseled jaw beneath perfectly formed lips framing stunningly white teeth; strong nose, bright blue eyes, expertly spiked and shaped blond hair. He looked like the type that subscribed to a beauty regimen. I was pretty sure his eyebrows were plucked and shaped by a professional.

I guesstimated his age as just cresting thirty; hard to tell with meterosexualizing of his appearance. Add to all this a body that reminded me of a cyclist or a runner—lean and well maintained—he was a well groomed wolf in wolf’s clothing and the females in Manhattan were helpless sheep.

After two seconds of stunned staring, I ripped my eyes from his amused half-lidded gaze and blinked around the mirrored space, trying to get my bearings.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry; in fact, I was pretty sure he was trying not to laugh. “Sorry I scared you.”

I shook my head, my phone still clutched to my chest, and affixed my attention to the floor of the elevator.

“It’s fine. I was just startled.” I said, swallowing.

We were quiet for a beat but I could feel his eyes on me. I glanced at the display above the floor buttons, trying to gauge how much longer I was going to have to share the elevator with Mr. Ambiguously Single.

To my dismay, he spoke again. “You’re Annie, right?”

I nodded, my eyes flickering to the side to glance at him then back to the display.

“I’m your neighbor, Kurt.” In my peripheral vision I saw that he’d turned completely toward me and offered his hand.

I glanced at him again, at his friendly, easy smile and friendly, easy eyes. Then I glanced at the takeout bag in my right hand and the phone held to my chest. I seriously debated whether or not to shrug and say nothing.

See, the problem with being a really well paid shy person is that you have no incentive to ascribe to social niceties and norms. My company loves me (most of the time), the clients love me, they love the magic I work. I seldom go into the office—only Wednesdays and Fridays. I have an office, I just prefer to work from home.