The Boyfriend Designer - Christopher Harlan Page 0,12
to beat in a weird way, like if a sudden heart attack and an intense orgasm had a baby—and second I get light headed when my breathing goes from normal to short little shallow breaths.
He’s way hotter than he looked in that video—or any of his videos for that matter. He’s tall—like, super duper tall. The kind of tall that makes you remember why tall men can be so sexy. He practically casts a shadow over the whole entire room.
He’s headed in my direction because, of course, but he doesn’t see me just yet. It’s a good, thing too, cause I’m not ready. I had this whole thing planned out in my mind, even before I told Tori about it—everything I was going to say to give Conor Durden a piece of my mind.
I was going to let him know what an asshole he was, how he was wrong to objectify me like that, but standing here watching him approach, all I am is frozen.
All I am is tongue tied.
All I can say is...
“So, I understand you think very little of my fuckability.”
Good job with the not-ruining-your-career stuff, Shosh!
There are times to say random stuff, and there are times not to. Like when I titled my third blog post “Your Boyfriend’s Morning Wood: A Blessing or A Curse?”, that was good random. Funny random. The kind that gets people to hit that subscribe button.
But what I just did falls squarely under the “times NOT to be random” category—you know, when one of the biggest—and sexiest—YouTube influencers starts strutting your way, looking about as hot as any man who’s ever strutted your way.
“Uh. . . excuse me?” He asks, puzzled. Even when he’s justifiably confused by my randomness, he’s still so much hotter than I’d like him to be.
I double down.
It’s what I do when I’m nervous. “Oh come on, don’t play coy with me. You totally don’t believe in my ability to bring a penis from half to full staff. How dare you, Conor Durden. How. Dare. You.”
He’s looking down at me, literally. That’s when I notice his eyes. They’re green. Like, actually and stupendously green. No one’s eyes are really green. I always thought it was a myth. But Conor Durden has sea green eyes, and I can’t stop staring into them.
“I’m sorry, but who are you again? Do I know you?”
Oh, isn’t that perfect? Not only did this gorgeous asshole insult me to the tune of 500, 000 views—and counting—but he doesn’t even remember doing it.
“I told you not to do that.”
“Huh?” he asks. “Do what?”
“Be coy. I just asked you not to do that and then you totally did it anyhow. Again, I repeat, how dare you, Conor Durden.”
“Okay, fine, I’ll bite, Pretty Stranger. What exactly did I do to you? Must have been something bad.”
I keep having realizations in groups of two.
The first thing I realized is that YouTube videos are super deceptive. Most of the time you only see people from the waist up, and that gives you a very limited sense of a person’s body. In his videos, I could see that Conor was decent looking, but there was nothing that indicated the kind of unfettered hotness I’m seeing before me right now.
My second realization is that even though I’m actively trying to be mad at this man standing in front of me, all I’m actually feeling is the opposite of anger, whatever the name of that emotion is.
Oh wait, three realizations! Did he just call me pretty?
Still, I’d started an epic argument out of nowhere, and I’m not a quitter.
“Okay, you’re one of those guys.”
“Excuse me?”
“One of those guys who need the girl to tell you what you’ve done wrong, even though you clearly already know. Fine, what you did was. . .”
“Wait, hold on.” He puts his hand up. Like, literally puts it up in my face like he’s a crossing guard and I’m a reckless driver about to plow down a group of first graders crossing the street.
Being told what to do is sexy in the right situations, but not when the guy who just made you feel like shit shoves his…really big…hand in your face.
“Holding,” I say. “And kindly put your hand down.”
“Before the big reveal of all the horrible things I must have done to you, even though I have no idea who you are, I have to ask—did you say fuckability?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, not skipping a beat. “It’s a thing. Think likability, only naked and sweaty, and