The Knocked Up Plan(3)

Ryder’s baby blues spark with strategic understanding. “Which means if we time it right when hitting to the teammate, we might find that the ball clatters to the floor while he’s trying to avoid getting whacked by the guy next to him.”

“Exactly.”

“Brains and beauty,” he says as he roams his eyes down my body.

He’s not hitting on me. It’s just his way. I give him a demure little curtsy as thanks. “Likewise.”

“Also, for the record, there are many ways to bring a woman pleasure with the Wheelbarrow. If you’re not enjoying it, he’s doing it wrong.” He steps closer to me, and I catch a whiff of his cedar cologne. He raises his index finger and moves it close to my lips as if he’s going to shush me. “And don’t let me hear those pretty red lips ever knock the Crouching Cowgirl again.”

I roll my eyes. “It. Hurts. The. Feet.”

“Boohoo. I bet it doesn’t hurt the—”

I pretend to zip his lips and throw away the key. I shoo him into the booth where he records his show. “Go dispense your manly wisdom.”

When it comes to on-air work, Ryder is basically, well . . . me.

But with a dick, and with the priorities that come with said appendage.

The funny thing is he was hired about a year ago, and his show was supposed to be a funny but earnest forum to offer dating advice to dudes. Lately, though, his show has been all about getting laid. It’s still funny, but it’s just different. A little crasser, if you will. Maybe it sounds like my show is about getting horizontal, too, but it’s not. My goal is to maximize women’s opportunities—for dating, mating, cohabitating, and, eventually, procreating.

“By the way, your show was great,” he says, his tone stripped of bravado now. He smiles, and it’s all genuine. “I always enjoy listening to it.”

I blush. “Thank you. Same to you.”

“Keep up the good work.” As Ryder heads into his studio, I linger a bit in the hallway, shifting my laptop to my other hand, checking out the man through the window.

I like to think of myself as a woman of many talents. I know how to run at the mouth on air, I can craft a snappy column on the dos and don’ts of the most popular fetishes, I can dole out excellent trash talk at sporting events, and I’m also a top-notch appraiser of men.

Picture an art appraiser. That crusty old fellow in tweed and elbow patches, wire-rimmed glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, cataloging the brushstrokes, the signature, the type of paint in a Van Gogh.

He wonders if it’s fake or real?

Is it real or fake?

That’s me when it comes to men.

I flip open my spiral-bound notebook with dogs in spacesuits on the cover. I uncap my pen and scribble some quick notes.

Nice jawline. Check.

Strong arms. Check.

Height. Check, check, check. Because, you know, height is some kind of Holy Grail.

Charming and likable. Check-a-rooney.

The Stanford pedigree makes him especially appealing, though. Empirically, of course. I’m only jotting down thoughts for my ongoing research into the male species.

I head to my office to work on my latest column on the best knots to use in your scarves for binding your wrists together in front, behind, or above the head, as well as for tying to the bedpost, a chair, or the fridge.

Fridge bondage. It’s a thing. Who knew?

When I’m done with my tips for avoiding freezer burn in the process, my mind drifts back to checklists, attributes, and the best features a gal could want in that special someone.

And to Ryder Lockhart.





Two





Ryder

I adjust my tie, smooth a hand over my crisp light blue button-down shirt, and survey the crowd.

If you could call the half-dozen or so attendees here today a crowd.

More like a Chia Pet’s early hair covering. A few sprouts that barely cover a bald man’s head. I sigh, wishing for the days when I strode across the stage, grabbed the mic, and commanded a standing-room-only crowd of utterly rapt dudes, eager for my heartfelt and passionate advice.

As the Consummate Wingman, I can claim credit for more than forty-five marriages and engagements that have led to easily a dozen kids. I’ve been invited to countless weddings, been the first person toasted at most of them, and I’ve happily raised my glass in return to celebrate all those satisfied clients—men who needed a little help talking to the ladies.

That’s what I gave them. A boost of confidence, born from my once-upon-a-time belief in happily ever after back when I was Manhattan’s very own Hitch.

Wait. Excuse me. I think my lunch is coming back up. Happily ever after is a cycle of bullshit, love is a medley of lies, and marriage is a thing that can only go wrong.

But hey, that’s between you, me, and the lamppost because right now I’ve got to be the guy who can help hitch any man’s wagon to his dream woman’s star. I suck in a breath, square my shoulders, and walk into the room, imagining I’m shushing the crowds who are wildly applauding their hero.

Like I used to do.

In reality, I’m greeted by a few clammy-handed, barely audible claps from the twenty-something guys.

And that’s how the next hour of this seminar on dating and mating in the modern age goes. Did I mention it’s being held in an exercise room at a gym on 14th Street? Yup. A couple hours ago, this room hosted a crew of sweating fitness warriors, squatting and lunging. Now, I’ve got the last slot of the night. No more keynotes at posh hotels. No more swanky, elite sessions at the Yale Club. No more client list a mile long.