The Knocked Up Plan(4)

The beanpole man in the front row, parked on the metal folding chair, raises his hand and clears his throat when I call on him.

“Fire away. Hit me with your question,” I say, mustering the most enthusiasm I can dredge up.

His voice is reedy thin. “Is it true that I shouldn’t post on Instagram right after I do it with a woman I met online?”

The beaky-nosed guy next to him shakes his head. “The new rule is wait an hour. Same goes for Facebook, Twitter, and checking Tinder for other chicks.”

I groan as I scrub a hand over my jaw. This is like teaching remedial math. “Actually, gentlemen, I appreciate the sharing, but allow me to dispel some of that misinformation. Shockingly, you will find that checking any form of social media shortly after sex is a pet peeve of most women.”

An auburn-haired, goateed man in the second row furiously jots something down in a notebook. Perhaps I’m getting through to him.

“The same holds true for passing out after sex, recounting the act of intercourse as if you’re a play-by-play announcer, mentioning your mom during a post-coital snuggle, asking the woman you slept with to make you a sandwich, and calling her an Uber within the first fifteen minutes of finishing.”

The guy with the goatee raises a tentative hand. “Same for Lyft?”

I laugh lightly and slash a hand through the air. “Yes, and for the old-fashioned yellow cars known as taxis, too.”

He nods and mouths a thanks as he lifts his pen to his notebook.

I pace across the wood floor. It’s streaked with sneaker marks. “Want to know the biggest post-sex pet peeve of all?”

All the men raise their faces. Eager acolytes.

“Asking her if she came. Because if you can’t figure out whether she took a trip to the stars or not, then guess what the answer is.”

“Um,” the beanpole stammers.

“She might be shy about it,” the beaky-nosed one offers.

“She might be quiet,” a dark-haired guy suggests.

“What if she’s one of those women who is just really subtle when she comes?” another dude asks.

Screw remedial math. This is kindergarten. “Seriously? Shy? No. She’s not shy. If she comes, you will fucking know. When a woman comes, it’s like an earthquake. Do you miss an earthquake?”

“No?” Beanpole asks.

I shake my head. “No indeed. The earth’s fault lines don’t split open subtly. The earth is not quiet when it rattles land masses.” I start shaking from head to toe. I drop my mouth open in a huge O in my best approximation of the exquisite torment of a woman’s pleasure. “If she’s not doing that, it means you’re not doing your job.” I point at each of them as if they’re all culpable. “It means you’re huffing and puffing, but the wolf didn’t blow the house down. Got it?”

I take my time meeting the gazes of the guys, making sure they’re clear on this point. If I can’t get them down the aisle anymore, then maybe I can help them identify a motherfucking female orgasm. Lord knows, the men of the world need some help—I had a caller yesterday on my show who presented with the same fucking dilemma, and I gave him the same advice. “The house falls, she came. The house is still standing, she didn’t.”

The pen moves at lightning speed, and my money is on goatee-man as the first to find the G-spot.

“Here’s the bottom line. Do you want to get laid?” They set a world record for nods. “Then, if you want to get laid again, you will make sure she comes.”

The room goes silent, and that’s when I realize my mistake. I’ve dropped the “get laid” bomb. That’s basically the worst combination of two words that a dating coach can utter. I scrub a hand over my jaw and try desperately to reroute myself. “What I mean is, if you want to have a healthy, lasting, long-term relationship with a woman, it would be great if you treat her like a queen in and out of the bedroom.”

I flash a winning smile, showing off my straight, gleaming choppers. I look like a million bucks, and I have the pedigree to back up all these statements.

Correction: I had it.

Now I’m the guy coaching the Tinder-using crowd on how not to fuck up a hookup.





Three





Nicole

My girls are shocked.

As we round the trail curving along the reservoir in Central Park, Penny nearly stumbles on a twig, while Delaney shouts, “You’re kidding me.”

Penny’s little dog, Shortcake, stares up at her mistress with a look of utter concern on her furry features over the near-fall. “I’m okay, sweet little darling,” Penny coos to her butterscotch Chihuahua mix as she regains her footing. Then to me, Penny says, “You’re not joking?”

Admittedly, during our morning jog might not have been the best time to drop my giant-pumpkin-sized news. But sometimes you have to rip off the Band-Aid. Especially if it’s a plan of the life-changing variety. “I’m completely serious. This is something I’ve always wanted,” I say, as my Irish Setter mix Ruby jogs by my side. The calmer I am about my news, the more likely my friends will understand. And I need them to understand. Their support is like air to me.

Penny smooths a hand down her red pullover as we continue our run on this September morning. “Always meaning in the last twenty-four hours?”