The Boyfriend Designer - Christopher Harlan Page 0,30
that would be impossible. You all have feelings, you just don’t pay attention to them the way we do.”
“Is that the kind of crap you talk about on your page?”
And there he is, ladies and gentlemen—a big round of applause for our favorite Conor Durden personality, the Cocky Asshole! “You have at least seven personalities, do you realize that?”
“What does that mean?”
“Let’s retrace our steps, shall we? You went from horny last night. . .”
“I was not. . .”
I put up my hand like Superman stopping a runaway train. “Save yourself some embarrassment here. We both know you were. Or did you invite me to your hotel room to talk about video editing techniques?” He doesn’t answer—he doesn’t need to. “Right. Anyhow, like I was saying, you went from HORNY, to apologetic, to friendly, to defensive and weird. And it’s been, like, a few minutes. Are you okay? I’m worried about your mental health.”
“My mental health is just fine, thank you,” Cocky Asshole is angry. Can’t say I blame him—I’d be angry if I had seven runaway personalities that my brain kept switching between without my control.
“Okay, never mind then. Maybe I should get back to my adoring fans. You seem a little worked up and emotional. Oh, is that part of men-being-men? You’re in touch with your inner douche. Don’t apologize for him, men shouldn’t have to apologize, right?”
I see his beautiful face start to turn red. His eyes get all serious and I can tell I touched a nerve. That was kind of my goal, so yay me! He’s still hot, even when he looks like he wants to throw his beer at me. I hope he doesn’t try because, you know, I’ll have to break out my Kung Fu skills. That would be a shame.
“You know what?” he says, leaning in.
“What?”
“I. . . never mind. Maybe this was a mistake.”
“Mistake? You mean getting a drink?”
“I mean apologizing. I tell my guys never to do it. I don’t know why I did.”
“Because you acted like an idiot and insulted a woman you don’t know for no reason except to get a few likes. That’s why you apologized. And obviously you were lying because, you know, last night.”
He’s trying to save face. His little confident, always calm alpha male façade is breaking down enough for me to see the guy underneath peaking his head out. “Maybe I was telling the truth.”
“You literally just said the opposite to me.”
“Fine. Whatever. I’ve got to go.”
He jumps up, drops a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, and storms off. Do I stare at his ass? Maybe. Do I imagine dirty stuff as he walks away? One hundred percent. Do I know who the real Conor Durden is—the sweet apologetic guy or the alpha douche? Nope. Not a clue on that one.
Conor
“Not only is she hot, be we look damn good together.”
What’s wrong with me? Why did I get all pissed off and then storm out?
I’m not used to what I’m feeling right now—self-doubt, a lack of control, unsure of how I’m acting with a woman I’m into.
She has this weird effect on me that no woman has ever had before. And the strangest part is I don’t really know why. She’s sarcastic with me, she’s rude, she seems to give no fucks whatsoever about what I do or the content I produce—but somehow, I still can’t get her out of my head. I try to hide it, and I think I’m doing a good job, but then I act like I just did.
I don’t even care that she thinks I’m a con-man. I know I’m not. It’s not like I’m even that sensitive. She’s hardly the first woman to say that about what I do, but I never lose my cool, never snap. I’m like that kid pulling a girl’s hair on the playground. I can’t say how fucking horny she’s making me, so I act up.
I take off my clothes and fall down on the bed in my boxers. I need to shower the day off me. First, I take a few deep breaths to let all the stress of seeing her out, and then I check my Instagram. I spend way too much time on my phone, but that’s part of this gig. Besides all the @ mentions, tags, and other stuff I have to respond to every time I open this app, I get a crazy number of skanks sliding into my DM’s.