Tamed

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 f**k 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 f**k 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 c**k 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 f**king 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.