Tamed (3 page)

I catch Ronny’s eye as he breaks up the fighters and greet him with a nod. Then I head back to the locker room, change out of my suit, and hit the bag for half an hour. Next, I use the rowing machine until my biceps are screaming and my legs feel like Jell-O. I finish off with ten minutes of speed jump roping, which might sound easy, but it’s not. You try jumping rope for half that time and I’ll bet you feel like you’re going into cardiac arrest.

When the ring is empty, I climb in and go three rounds against Joe Wilson, an uptown lawyer I’ve sparred with before. Joe puts up a good fight, but the session clearly goes my way. Afterward, we tap gloves affably, and I go back into the locker room and grab my stuff. I smack Ronny’s back on the way out, jog to the subway, and catch my train home.

I’m not ashamed to say my parents hooked me up with my apartment after college—in those days, this place was slightly above my pay grade. The location is great—walking distance to the office and a killer view of Central Park. Because I’ve lived here since college, it lacks the stylish consistency you’d typically expect in the home of a successful businessman. Take a look around.

Black leather sofas face a big-screen television with a top-of-the-line sound and gaming system sitting on the glass shelves below it. The coffee table is also glass, but it’s chipped around the edges from years of contact with reclining feet and glass bottles.
A shadowy painting of a mountaintop by a renowned Japanese artist hangs on one wall, and my prized collection of vintage baseball caps hangs from hooks opposite it. A lighted display case is perched in the corner, showing off the crystal etched
EXCELLENCE IN INVESTMENT MANAGEMENT
award I received last year . . . and the authentic Boba Fett helmet that was worn during the filming of
The Empire Strikes Back
. Built in, dark-wood bookshelves are lined with collectible sports memorabilia, books on art, photography, and banking, and about a dozen mismatched frames with photographs of family and friends from the best times in my life. Photographs I took myself.

Photography is a hobby of mine. You’ll hear more about that later.

In the dining room, instead of a totally useless formal set of table and chairs, there’s a pool table and a
Space Invaders
arcade game. But my kitchen is fully set up—black granite counters, Italian marble floors, stainless steel appliances, and cookware that Emeril would be honored to own. I like to cook, and I do it well.

The way to a man’s heart may be through his stomach—but it’s also the most direct route down a girl’s pants. For women, a guy who knows his way around a kitchen is a big selling point. Tell me I’m wrong.

Anyway, my apartment is kick-ass. It’s large, but comfortable, impressive without being intimidating. After hosing down in the glass-enclosed, triple-headed shower, I towel off and spend a minute looking at my reflection in the full-length mirror. My normally light brown hair is dark from being wet and sticks up at odd angles from the towel. I could use a cut—it gets pretty-boy curly if I let it grow too long. I rub the stubble along my squared jaw, but I don’t feel like shaving. I turn to the side and flex my bicep, proud of the muscle that bulges. I’m not bulky like a meathead,
but I’m tight, lean, and powerful, without a centimeter to pinch from my six pack, let alone an inch.

Checking myself out in a mirror might seem douchey to you, but, trust me—all guys do it. We just don’t like to be caught doing it. But when you put as much time into your body as I do, the payoff makes it worth it.

I pull on a pair of silk boxers then heat up a bowl of leftover pasta and chicken. I’m not Italian, but I’d eat this every day of the week if I could. It’s about eight thirty by the time I finish washing the dishes. Yes, I am a man who washes his own dishes.

Be jealous, ladies—I’m a rare breed.

Then I flop back on my awesome, king-size bed and grab the golden ticket from the pocket of my discarded pants.

I finger the letters on the bright green cardstock.

DEE WARREN

CHEMIST

LINTRUM FUELS

And I remember the soft, smooth flesh that swelled from 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. Timing is everything. Looking too eager is a rookie mistake—women enjoy being panted after by puppies, 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 Girlfriends’ Guide to Dating,” which means calling a chick for a random hookup isn’t as easy as it used to be. There are all these frigging
rules
now—I found that out the hard way.

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 ladies’ 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 non-hideous 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—as long as they’re not shooting too far above their pay grade. They 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 men 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 that I feel nervous, more like . . . cautious anticipation. My hand taps
my leg in time to
Enter Sandman
by Metallica, and my stomach tightens as her phone rings.

I imagine she’ll remember me—I did make quite the impression 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 I 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.

Then she replies, “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 this 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 modern complexities men face when trying to hook
up, I feel it’s my duty to educate others, get the word out, about how to decode guy-speak. Think of me as a studlier version of Edward Snowden or Julian Assange. Maybe I should start my own website—I’d call it DickiLeaks. On second thought, that’s a shitty name. Sounds like an STD symptom.

Remember the mental game of “fuck, kill, marry” I mentioned earlier? 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 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 accepts my invite. “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.

And then she elaborates. “I mean, there could be a blackout, a water shortage, aliens could finally decide to invade and enslave the entire human race . . .”

There’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 readily agree. “What time?”

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—only to
not
drive their cars because of city traffic. Auto congestion doesn’t bug me; I always leave myself extra time. 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-skied, 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.”

Before I can suggest a place, Dee takes charge. “You know Stitch’s, on West Thirty-seventh?”

I do know it. It’s low-key with good drinks, live music, and a comfortable lounge. 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 don’t get dressed right away. I’m not picky about my clothes, like some young semi-asexual professionals, but I’m not a slob either. I can be ready to walk out the door in seven minutes flat. So I grab the folder from my briefcase and use the extra time to finish the work reading I planned to do before bed. Because it looks like I won’t be hitting the sheets any time soon—and when I do, I’m definitely not going to 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’m aware it’s unhealthy. 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. Alexandra would literally slit my throat if I ever lit up anywhere near Mackenzie. Literally.