Roman (Cold Fury Hockey #7)(83)
With a sigh, I set down my champagne glass, because I’m actually getting a small headache and that’s really why I don’t drink more than one. I look longingly at the petit fours and then turn to Jeremy. “I’m bored.”
“Bored,” he repeats with confusion in his voice. “Of shopping?”
I lean over and punch him on the shoulder. “Bite your tongue. I’ll never get tired of shopping. But I’m tired of my life lately.”
“What in particular?” he asks as he scoots a little closer to me. This is why we are the best of friends…because he listens to me.
“Men,” I say, voicing the one word that has been plaguing me lately.
“Want to try a woman?” he asks seriously, and then adds almost dreamily, “because we’ve got this new broker in the office and she’s gay and smoking hot. And has these lips that I know would just—”
“No, I don’t want a woman,” I snap at him so he’ll focus.
“But you don’t want a man?” he asks hesitantly.
“Not the men here,” I say as I wave my hand in a circle above my head.
“In Bergdorf Goodman’s?” he asks.
“Stop being purposely obtuse,” I say with an affectionate grin. “I’m tired of the men I’ve been dating. Here. In New York City.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
I huff out a breath of frustration. “They’re all the same. Predicable, even.”
“Let me guess,” he says as he points a finger briefly at me. “They’re focused on the rat race, trying to rise to the top. Career is more important than love and you’re feeling slighted. In fact, you begin to ever wonder if you’ll find true love. You long for a husband and babies and—”
“Honest to God, Jeremy,” I say with irritation as I cut him off. “Don’t you read my blog anymore?”
He snickers. “You know I do and that I’m just getting your panties in a twist.”
“Then you know it’s not that,” I say pointedly. “You know I’m not about love and settling down.”
“Then spell it out for me,” he says.
My gaze roams up to the chandelier hanging above us and I think for a moment as I study the sparkling crystals. I want to compose my thoughts, which have been running rampant lately.
I look back to Jeremy, who is patiently waiting for me to enlighten him. I’m pretty sure he’ll get me. I know damn well he won’t judge me, because he hasn’t yet, and my behavior has been pretty dicey over the years. He’s the only one who has supported me and has encouraged the family to let me shine rather than berate me for not falling into line. It goes without saying that the French family is as embarrassed and astounded today that Valentine French writes a sex column as they were the day they read my first post.
“Did you read my last piece?” I ask him.
“?‘Will the Metrosexual Kill the Orgasm?’?” he says with a nod, repeating the title. “It was good. Very witty and tongue in cheek.”
“It wasn’t meant to be tongue in cheek,” I say flatly, and his eyebrows rise sky high. “I meant every word.”
“I don’t understand,” he says as he cocks his head at me. “You essentially talked about how metrosexuals are the perfect men to date. We’re bright, successful, fashionable, and take damn good care of ourselves. Every woman loves a man with well-trimmed pubes down below. That’s exactly what you said, and you reminded womankind why the greatest dating in the world is right here in New York City. In the end your conclusion was that metrosexuals have kept the female orgasm alive and flourishing.”
I shake my head. “No, I was being sarcastic.”
“No, you weren’t,” he says firmly. “It was cheeky but it was genuine, and all of your fans thought so. You had a ton of praise over that article. I mean, you’re the queen of dating the metrosexual, after all.”
“I was being sarcastic,” I insist, but then lower my gaze almost in shame. Picking at the edge of the hem of my skirt, I add softly, “At least my inside voice was being sarcastic. I’m sick and tired of them.”
“So your article defended the typical man you tend to date—a typical New Yorker—but you really want something different?” he surmises accurately.
With a sigh I admit, “I just feel like there’s something more I’m missing.”
“And this doesn’t have to do with love?” he asks for clarification.
I wrinkle my nose. “You know I don’t do love. But Jeremy…I think the metrosexual did kill my orgasm.”
“Explain.” His brows are furrowed and he watches me with genuine interest, because Jeremy knows me well. I’m a man-eater. I love men. I love to date, and I love to be treated well, and I love good sex. I love everything about being a single woman in New York City, and nothing evidences that more than the fact that I write an extremely popular blog on dating and sex, focusing mostly on how a man can please a woman based on my experiences. It’s so popular, in fact, I’m a bit of a local celebrity here, and I love it. I clearly don’t do it for the money, because I have gobs of that, but I do it because I love writing and I love what I write about.
I take a deep breath and let it out. “I’m tired of going out with men whose nails are better manicured than mine and who spend more on hair-care products than they do on dinner with me. I’m tired of discussing fashion trends and the best exfoliation products. It pisses me off when my dates admire themselves in a mirror anytime we pass one or they have to check their stock portfolio at least once an hour on their smartphone. I’d like their tans not to be so orange and their teeth not to be so blindingly white. It’s the same, date after date, and I’m just…tired of it.”