Page 31 of Single-Minded
“Nothing,” says Michael, “it’s gorgeous. It just doesn’t send the right message. If anyone knows how the right environment can impact behavior, it’s you. And right now we need to create an environment to inspire someone to buy you dinner and rip off your clothes.”
“Someone’s been reading too many bromance novels,” says Darcy. Sam snickers.
“Ooh!” Michael says. “We should use the one from St. Lucia last year, the one where you’re wearing the white halter dress on the beach. It makes your boobs look fantastic.”
“Thanks,” I say, “although I’m not sure I should take a gay man’s advice on what makes my boobs look great.”
“Yes, you should,” he says. “I still love breasts.”
I’m so conflicted. Gay man. Loves boobs.
“Let’s have it,” says Darcy. Michael sends the photo to Darcy from his phone, and she posts it on my profile. I like the picture; the setting sun brings out the highlights in my dark brown hair, which blows in the ocean breeze so naturally you’d think I was in a photography studio with a carefully placed fan.
“That’s perfect,” says Sam. “Do you have one where you’re riding a horse or a camel? Or sitting on a rocket ship? Those are always wildly popular with men looking for sex,” says Sam.
“Aren’t all men looking for sex?” asks Michael.
“Thanks, that’s so helpful,” I say sarcastically. “Ugh. There’s so much stuff they want you to put in here: what you’re looking for, all about your job and personality, likes and dislikes… This is going to take me hours.”
“Just put in your body type, hair color, eye color, basic details, and your boob photo,” Darcy says. “For our purposes, there’s no reason to include your favorite book from college or the name of your first dog. Men only look at the pictures anyway. Oh, put in there that you like Italian food. “
“Why Italian food?” I ask. “I like all types of food.”
“If you put in Italian food, your dates will take you to an Italian restaurant, and it’s hard to find a truly bad Italian restaurant. If you leave it blank, who knows where you’ll end up.”
“Fine,” I say. “Italian.”
Sam reaches for the keyboard. “You have to check all these boxes. We don’t want to eliminate anybody.” From a menu of choices, she selects every possible available option.
“Camping? I hate camping. You know I can’t pee outside! Fishing? And weightlifting? Give me a break,” I say.
“Men love campers. Get used to it,” says Sam. “Besides, you’re not going to date any of these guys long enough to have to go camping.”
Darcy pulls my laptop back toward her and begins editing what I’ve just written on my description. It’s no use arguing with her.
“Michael, give me your credit card,” instructs Darcy. “You should be paying for this.” Michael wordlessly hands it over and Darcy types in the number. He’s outnumbered and he knows it. “A month should do it. Any longer and you’ll want to kill yourself.” She pushes a few more buttons and says, “Done.”
“Now what do I do?” I ask.
“Now you wait about two minutes for the bum rush,” says Darcy. As if on cue, a little window pops up with a chat request. Darcy peers at the screen and clicks a button that saysNo Thanks. “No photo. No go.”
Michael raises his wineglass “To getting Alex laid. And finding her Naughty Nine guys.”
Darcy, Sam, and I raise our glasses to clink with his. “To the Naughty Nine.”
“Speaking of the naughty part of Alex’s Naughty Nine—Sam, where are you with the tantric yogi?” asks Darcy.
“Ooh, I’d like to meet him,” quips Michael.
Darcy shakes her head at him. “Don’t make me smack you. Michael; have you found Alex a hunky college quarterback yet?”
“I have some possible candidates,” says Michael. “Does it have to be a Division One school?”
“No,” says Darcy. “All we require is a tall, great-looking quarterback who’s chock-full of testosterone. Think you can manage that?”
“And over twenty-one,” adds Sam.
“I’m thinking of two right now,” says Michael.
