Twisted (29 page)

the confines of her tight, pink shirt. My dick twitches—guess he

remembers it, too.

Normally I’d wait a day or two to call a girl like Delores. Look-

ing too eager is a rookie mistake. Women only enjoy panting pup-

pies—not men.

But it’s already Wednesday night and I’m hoping to meet up

with Dee on Friday. The twenty-first century is the age of
Maybe
He’s Just Not That Into You
and
Dating for Dummies
and
The Girlfriend’s Guide to Dating
, which means calling a chick for a random hook up isn’t as easy as it used to be. There are all these frigging
rules
now—I found this out the hard way.

Twisted_1P.indd 243

11/18/13 11:47 AM

Like if a guy wants to meet up with you the same night that

he calls, you’re supposed to say “no” because that means he doesn’t respect you. And if he wants to take you out on a Tuesday, that’s a sign he’s got better plans for Saturday night.

Trying to keep up with the changing edicts is tougher than

keeping track of the goddamn health care debate in Congress. It’s

like a minefield—one wrong step and your cock won’t be getting

any action for a long time. But if getting laid were easy, everyone would be doing it. It . . . and pretty much nothing else.

Which brings me to my next thought: I know feminists always

complain about how men have all the power. But when it comes to

dating—in America, at least—that’s not really the case. In the bars, on the weekends, it’s lady’s choice 24/7. They have their pick of the litter, because single men will never reject a come-on.

Picture it: the music’s pumping, bodies are grinding, and a

nonhideous female approaches a dude having a drink at the bar.

She says, “I want to fuck your brains out.” he replies, “Nah, I’m

not really in the mood for sex tonight”—SAID NO MAN
EVER
.

Chicks never have to worry about getting shot down. Never

have to stress about when they’re going to get lucky. For women,

sex is an all-you-can-eat buffet—they just have to choose a dish.

God created man with a strong sex drive to ensure the survival of

the species. Be fruitful and multiply and all that. For guys like me who know what the fuck they’re doing, it’s not exactly difficult.

But for my not-as-skilled brethren, getting some can be a daunting task.

A slight buzz of adrenaline rushes through me as I pick up

the phone to dial the cell number on the business card. It’s not

nervousness, but more like . . . cautious excitement. My hand taps my leg in time to
Enter Sandman
by Metallica, and my stomach tightens as her phone rings.

Twisted_1P.indd 244

11/18/13 11:47 AM

I imagine she’ll remember me. I did make quite the impres-

sion, after all, and I assume she’ll be receptive to a meeting up—

maybe even eager. What I don’t expect is for her voice to slam into my eardrum as she yells:

“No, jackass, I don’t want to hear the song again! Frigging call

Kate if you need an audience!”

I pull the phone a little ways away from my ear and check the

number, to make sure it’s the right one. It is.

Then I say, “Uh . . . hello? Is this Dee?”

There’s a pause as she realizes I’m not Jackass.

“Yes, this is Dee. Who’s this?”

“hey, it’s Matthew Fisher. I work with Kate—we met at the

diner this afternoon?”

Another brief pause, and then her voice lightens. “Oh yeah.

Clit-boy, right?”

I chuckle deeply, not entirely sure I like that nickname, but at

least I made my mark. Note to self: use that line again.

“That’s me.”

“Sorry about yelling. My cousin’s been up my ass all day.”

My cock stirs from the ass talk, and I have to stop myself from

offering to trade places with her cousin.

“What can I do for you, Matthew Fisher?”

My imagination gets crazy. And detailed.
Oh, the things she

could do . . .

For a moment I wonder if she’s talking like this on purpose, or

if I’m just a horny mess.

I play it safe. “I was wondering if you wanted to get together

sometime? For a drink?”

Let’s pause right here. Because, despite my earlier complaints

about the complexities men face when trying to hook up, I feel it’s my duty to educate others about how to decode guy-speak. Think

Twisted_1P.indd 245

11/18/13 11:47 AM

of me as a studlier version of Edward Snowden or Julian Assange.

Maybe I should start my own website—I’d call it Dicki-Leaks. On

second thought, that’s a shitty name. Sounds like an STD symp-

tom.

Remember the mental game of “Fuck, Kill, Marry?” If a man

asks you to “get a drink” or “hang out,” you are squarely in the

“fuck” category. Nope, don’t argue—it’s true. If a guy asks you for a “date” or “dinner,” maybe even “a movie,” you’re probably still in the “fuck” category—but you have potential for upward mobility.

You don’t have to base your response to a dude’s proposition on

this information, I just thought you’d want to know.

Now back to the phone conversation.

I can hear a smile in her voice as she says, “I’m always up for

a drink.”

Up. More sexual innuendo. Definitely not my imagination. I

am
so
getting laid.

“Cool. You free on Friday?”

Silence meets my ears for a beat, until she suggests, “how

about tonight?”

Wow. Guess Delores Warren missed the chapter requiring two

days advance notice for all screwing offers.

Lucky me.

She elaborates, “I mean, there could be a black-out, a water

shortage, aliens could finally decide to invade and enslave the

entire human race—”

That’s one I haven’t heard before.

“—then we’d be shit out of luck. Why wait for Friday?”

I like the way this girl thinks. As the saying goes, “Don’t put

off till tomorrow anyone you could be doing today.” Or . . . close enough.

“Tonight works for me,” I agree. “What time?”

Twisted_1P.indd 246

11/18/13 11:47 AM

Some girls take forever and a day to get ready. It’s fucking

annoying. Going to the gym or the beach? Shouldn’t require prep

time, ladies.

“how about an hour?”

Two points for Dee—great tits
and
low maintenance. I think I’m in love.

“Sounds good,” I tell her. “What’s your address? I’ll swing by

and pick you up.”

My building has private parking for tenants. Lots of New

Yorkers spend thousands of dollars a month for parking spaces—

then never drive their cars because of city traffic. Auto congestion doesn’t bug me. I always leave myself extra time for it. Like I said before—time management is key.

And another thing: I don’t have a
car
. I drive a custom-built Ducati Monster 1100 S. I’m not looking to put on a cut and join

an outlaw MC or anything, but riding is another hobby of mine.

Few things in life feel as great as cruising down an open highway, on a blue-skyed, crisp fall day when the leaves are just starting to change. It’s as close to flying as a human being can get.

I take the bike out at every available opportunity. Sometimes

a girl will bitch about being cold or messing up her hair, but when all is said and done—chicks dig motorcycles.

Delores responds, “Um . . . how about I just meet you?”

This is a smart move for a single woman. Just like you wouldn’t

give out your social security number online, you don’t give out

your address to some guy you barely know. The world is a fucked-

up place, and women especially need to do everything they can to

make sure the fucked-up doesn’t find its way to their front door.

But unfortunately, it also means the hog is staying home

tonight. I’m a little sad about that.

“Meeting up sounds good.”

Twisted_1P.indd 247

11/18/13 11:47 AM

Before I can suggest a place, Dee takes charge. “You know

Stitch’s, on West 37th?”

I do know it. It’s low key with good drinks, live music and a

comfortable lounge area. Because it’s a Wednesday night it won’t be packed, but no bar in New York is ever empty.

“Yeah, I’m familiar with it.”

“Great. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

“Awesome.”

After we hang up, I grab my briefcase. I can be ready to walk

out the door in seven minutes flat, so I use the time to finish the work reading I’d planned to do before bed. Because when I hit the

sheets tonight, I definitely won’t be alone.

I get to Stitch’s early. I drink a beer at the bar, then step outside for a cigarette. Yes, I’m a smoker. Break out the hammer and nails and commence with the crucifixion.

I don’t need to see the internal organs of deceased cancer

patients on those creepy-ass commercials to understand it’s a bad

habit—
thank you, Mayor Bloomberg
. Making me go outside doesn’t stop me from lighting up—it just pisses me off. It’s an inconvenience, not a deterrent.

But I’m considerate about it. I don’t toss my butts on the street; I don’t blow smoke in the faces of the elderly or children. My friend Alexandra would literally slit my throat if I ever lit up anywhere near her daughter Mackenzie. Literally.

I do plan on quitting . . . eventually.

But for now, the long-term damage I might be doing to my

Twisted_1P.indd 248

11/18/13 11:47 AM

lungs falls second to the fact that I like to smoke. It feels good. It’s really just that simple. And you can keep your bar pretzels to yourself because nothing goes better with a cold beer than a cigarette.

It’s as good as a mom’s old-fashioned PB&J.

I snuff out my cigarette on the wall of the building and throw

it into the trashcan, then pop an Altoid in my mouth. I don’t know if Dee is a fellow smoker or not, but nobody wants to slide their

tongue into another person’s mouth and taste ashtray. And getting

Dee’s tongue in my mouth . . . among other places . . . is definitely on the schedule of tonight’s festivities.

I head back inside and order a second beer. As I take a swig, I

notice the front door opening. I watch as she walks in.

Did I think Delores was a hottie when I met her this after-

noon? I need to get my frigging vision checked. Because she’s so

much more.

her blond hair is down, curled under at the ends, pulled back

from her face with a thick black hair band. Red lipstick accentuates her full mouth. A black, tuxedo-like jacket covers her torso, with a low-cut white tube-top underneath. Short white shorts barely peek

out from the bottom of the jacket, revealing long, creamy, toned legs.

She’s gorgeous—shockingly stunning. Put her in black and

white, and she could easily be in a Calvin Klein ad campaign. her

business card isn’t Charlie’s Golden Ticket, it’s a lottery ticket—

and I just hit the jackpot.

She scans the room and spots me from the doorway. I wave,

coolly. She smiles back, revealing straight, shiny teeth.

“hi,” she says as she approaches.

“hello. That jacket looks great on you.” You can’t go wrong by

starting off with a compliment. Girls love them.

her smile turns into a smirk as she teases, “Let me guess—but

I’d look better out of it?”

Twisted_1P.indd 249

11/18/13 11:47 AM

I chuckle. “I would never give a line that cheesy.” Then I shrug.

“I was going to say, ‘It’d look even better on my bedroom floor.’ ”

A rich, deep laugh escapes her. “Yeah—cause there’s nothing

cheesy about that.”

I pull out a bar stool and she sits.

“What’s your poison?” I ask.

Without a pause she answers, “Martini.”

“Dirty?”

“I like my Martini just like my sex.” She winks flirtatiously.

“Dirty is always better.”

I’m definitely in love.

The bartender comes over but before I can order for her, Dee

starts giving specific instructions on how she wants her drink made.

“Two ounces of gin, heavy on the vermouth, just a dash of

olive juice . . .”

The smooth-faced, plaid-shirted, bartender, who barely looks

twenty-one, seems lost.

Dee notices and stands up. “I’ll just demonstrate—it’ll be eas-

ier.” She turns, hops backward onto the bar, and swings her knees

over the top—while I discreetly try to get a peek up her shorts. If she’s wearing underwear, it’s gotta be a thong.

My cock processes this information by straining against my

jeans, hoping for a peek of his own.

Dee stands up on the business side of the bar and quickly

mixes her drink, explaining every move to the unperturbed bar-

tender. She tosses an olive into the air and catches it expertly with her mouth, then sinks a two-olived toothpick into the filled glass.

She places it on the bar and motions to it with an open palm.

“And there you have it—the perfect Dirty Martini.”

I’ve always believed you can tell a lot about a person by what

they drink. Beer drinkers are laid back, easygoing, or cheap,

Twisted_1P.indd 250

11/18/13 11:47 AM

depending on the brand. Wine cooler people tend to be immature

or nostalgic. Cristal and Dom Perignon imbibers are flashy and try too hard to impress—there are many champagnes that are just as

expensive and exquisite, but lesser known.

What does Dee’s choice of beverage tell me about her? She’s

complicated, with very specific and refined tastes. And she’s out-

spoken; bold without being bitchy. The kind of girl who can send