The Boyfriend Designer - Christopher Harlan Page 0,17
and uploaded to YouTube, and give all of my haters ammunition. No, it can’t be here.
It looks like I’m going to have to take one for the team. And by team, I mean just me.
I’ll hate myself for the next few words later on, but for right now. . . “You know what? I am kind of hungry. I think I’ll take you up on that dinner offer after all.”
Oh, Shosh. You better be sure about what you’re doing.
Shoshana
“Are You Saying That You Have Caveman Fire Dick?”
Okay so here’s what I’m willing to admit about the guy I’m about to give an epic tongue lashing to—the man has taste.
But let’s start with the bad stuff—clearly, he’s never heard the expression that it’s rude to keep a woman waiting, because after I agreed to meet up with him he told me to meet him in the lobby in twenty minutes. Here I am, thirty-five minutes later (yes, I counted) and he’s just now coming down. But, like I said, he has taste, and as he walks over to me looking like a masturbation fantasy come to life, all I can say is thank God he made me wait.
He’s wearing a tight-fitting maroon button down. And he has the best fitting jeans in all existence—not too dad-ish and not too eurotrash—the Goldilocks of pants. And on top of that, the way he wears his whole outfit just made me tingle in all the right places. Maybe he is onto something with his channel.
No. Stop it, Shoshana. No excuses. Pig. Male pig. Slave to his dick, as Tori would say. But a gorgeous male pig—with good taste and an impeccable ability to dress—did I mention that part already? Damn, I need to get out of my own head and remember why I’m here.
“I hate Italian food. Just saying.”
“Watching your weight?” he asks. He has no limit to his ability to shock.
“Wow. Did you just call me fat?”
“Actually, I asked you if you were concerned with becoming fat—big difference. And you answered a question with a question by the way—that’s a bad habit.”
What a dick. “We’re not all watching our weight you know—ever heard of body positivity? Loving yourself? Embracing different types of women.”
“Of course, and I’m all for that—but mostly I find all of it to be complete bullshit.”
“Wait, wait—I need to go back and have the court stenographer read your last statement back to me, because I want to be confident in my ever-growing belief that you’re the King of the Assholes.”
“Can we order before we get into this whole back and forth thing we seem to have going on? You can sip your water and nibble on your kale salad like a goat all night if you’d like, but I’m starving. Waitress?”, he yells.
I want to be reviled by his ability to take charge like he just did, but I have to admit it’s kind of sexy. He waves the waitress over and orders some appetizers, and after the waitress walks away he jumps right back into our conversation like we’d never stopped.
“So, you think I’m some dog, don’t you? Some arrogant asshole who’s trying to make a buck off insecure guys. Something like that?”
“Something exactly like that. I mean, you seem to wear your douche baggery on your sleeve, you have to admit.”
“Why? Because I encourage men to act like men?”
Here it is—the perfect opportunity. Here’s where I can tell him all the reasons that I hate him. “No, because. . .” I stop. I don’t know why I’m not yelling, throwing water in his stupid face, and running back to the hotel to get a real dinner with Tori.
“Because what?” he asks.
“I don’t even know what that means—men acting like men.”
“Trust me, you’re not alone. Most women today don’t know what it means either. And you want to know why?”
“Nope, but you’re sure going to tell me, aren’t you?”
“Because most women have never seen the man-wolf.”
I’m not even going to pretend to know what that means.
“Huh?”
“You’ve never seen the man-wolf. Men in our original forms—free and wild and looking to breed and fight. You’ve only seen the Cockapoo—the neutered, domesticated soft little thing you want to train and carry under your arm.”
Oh jeez. “I see,” I say super sarcastically. “So you’re the wolf then?”
“Man-wolf.”
“Right, sorry. Man-wolf.” Holy crap. Think he had some of his own Kool-Aid before dinner. “You’re the wolf-man...sorry, man-wolf?”
“I’m as close as you’ve ever seen, trust me.”
Captain Dickhead strikes again. He needs a cape and a