The Boyfriend Designer - Christopher Harlan Page 0,26
about it, but we have to. Summer’s coming up, and what does that mean? Who watched the video I dropped last night?” Almost everyone’s hands go up, and the last few dudes who clearly didn’t watch put their hands up out of pure social pressure. No one likes to stand out in the crowd. They’ll watch later. More shouts, this time they’re all correct. “That’s right, most of us are going to be wearing bathing suits, and if you want to attract the gorgeous señoritas you’re going to have to show them that part they all love—the V-Cut.”
The crowd erupts again. I lift up my shirt just enough to show my pant line, then drop my pants ever so slightly below my waist. “You see this, guys? That’s a proper V-Cut. But that doesn’t come easy. We need to eat right. We need to get our ass off the couch and exercise. And, most of all, we need to. . .” I cup my hand to my ear and turn it towards the crowd like I’m fuckin’ Hulk Hogan. I have them so well trained.
“TRIM THE MONSTER MAN BUSH!”
“That’s correct,” I say. “Trim that monster man bush. Trim it. Tame it. Let it know who’s boss.” They yell. I keep going. “You know what I’m talking about, fellas. We expect women to be as smooth as the day they were born down there, but we let ourselves go. We let our dicks get enveloped by a man bush as overgrown as the Brazilian rainforest. Well, I say its time to take a machete to that shit, and unleash the true length of our cocks for the world to see! No woman is going to see your disgusting little pubes sticking out the top of your shorts. Can’t have that, can we?”
“No!”
“That’s right—we don’t want a waistline that looks like my lawn when the landscaper skips a week and there’s heavy rain! That’s a bad look. You can work on your clothes, your swag gait, everything that I’ve taught you—but if you go to holler at a girl at the beach looking like that, it’s game over—plain and simple. So, rule number one, before we get into diet and exercise regimens is—let me hear it!”
“TRIM THE MONSTER MAN BUSH!”
“Excellent. You guys are learning. If you need the perfect tool for the job, check out my new manscaping line of razors, guaranteed to minimize razor burn and avoid that I-have-genital-herpes look you get when you use an inferior brand. Enter the code “packleader” at checkout to get an exclusive 10% discount on your purchase.”
I’ve always been good at multi-tasking. My entire life I could manage a bunch of different things all at the same time. I’m doing it right now. I’m talking to a crowd of fans, and I have them eating out of the palm of my hands—I could yell for them all to take their clothes off and run around this place naked and they’d gladly do it. But at the same time, I’m looking at my special guest in the back.
I heard her before, yelling out another sarcastic comment meant to throw me off my game. It doesn’t bother me at all. Actually, her putting up such a fight is a turn on. She’s a turn on. I wonder what she’d yell out in bed after I was done with her.
In the middle of my rant about all this man shit, I can’t help but fix my eyes on her. Her hair. Her face. That fucking body. I literally don’t know what the fuck I was thinking with that game—actually, that’s not true, I know exactly what I was thinking. But what I said sure as hell isn’t how I really feel.
I mean, look at that girl. It’s not the way you walk or how you dress that makes you feel like a man, it’s seeing a woman like her, and having your body just respond to her without any part of your brain needing to be involved.
I go on about my exercise regimen and my daily meal plans. They all do what my fans do—they froth at the mouth, they listen intently, they cheer and yell when I ask them to, and then they line up for selfies so they can post on their social media that they actually met me. It’s like this wherever I go. Any speaking engagement, any signing, any panel. Sucks to say, but I’m used to the little fake celebrity that I have