Tamed(2)

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Just know that Kate Brooks is our coworker and Delores’s best friend—the Shirley to Dee’s Laverne. And in all the years I’ve known Drew—which is every one of them—I’ve never seen him react to a woman like he reacted to Kate. Their attraction, even though it was mostly antagonistic in the beginning, was palpable. Anybody with eyes could see they had it bad for each other.

Well . . . anybody but them.

Kate, like Delores, is a great girl. The type of woman who, in the immortal words of Eddie Murphy in Coming to America, could arouse a man’s intellect as well as his loins.

You got all that? Great. Let’s get this party started.

My life changed about four weeks ago. On a normal, average day—when I met a girl who was anything but average.



Four weeks earlier

“Matthew Fisher, Jack O’Shay, Drew Evans, this is Dee-Dee Warren.”

There’s no such thing as love at first sight. It’s just not possible. Sorry to ruin your fantasy, but that’s how it is. Ignorance might feel like bliss, but when you peel away the happy layer, it’s still just a lack of information.

To really love another person, you have to know them—their quirks, their dreams, what pisses them off and makes them smile, their strengths, weaknesses, and flaws. Have you heard that quote from the Bible—the one they always read at weddings: “Love is patient, love is kind . . .”? I have my own version: Love is missing the taste of someone’s morning breath. Thinking they’re beautiful, even when their nose is Rudolph-red and their hair is bird’s nest crazy. Love isn’t putting up with someone in spite of their faults—it’s adoring them because of them.

Now lust at first sight, that’s very real. And much more common. In fact, when most guys meet a woman, they know within the first five minutes which category of “f*ck, kill, marry” they fall into. For guys, the f*ck category has a pretty low bar.

I’d like to tell you the first thing I noticed about Delores was something romantic, like her eyes, or her smile, or the sound of her voice—but it wasn’t. It was her tits. I’ve always been a boob man, and Dee’s set was fantastic. Slightly overflowing in a tight, hot-pink top, pressed together just right to create an enticing cleft of cleavage, beautifully framed by a gray knit sweater.

Before she uttered her first word to me, I was in lust with Delores Warren’s rack.

After she banters with Drew for a minute, I steer her attention my way. “So, Dee-Dee . . . is that short for something? Donna, Deborah?”

Warm, honey-colored eyes turn my way. But before she can answer, Kate lets the cat out of the bag, “Delores. It’s a family name—her grandmother’s. She hates it.”

Delores glares playfully at Kate.

If you want to make an impression on a girl, humor is always a safe bet. It shows a woman you’re clever, smart, confident. If you’ve got balls? Flaunt them.

Which is why I tell Kate’s friend, “Delores is a gorgeous name, for a gorgeous girl. Plus, it rhymes with clitoris . . . and I really know my way around them. Big fan.”

As planned, my line gets an instant reaction. She smiles slowly and runs one finger across her lower lip, suggestively. Any time a woman touches her body in response to something a guy’s said? It’s a good sign.

Then, she breaks our gaze and says to us all, “Anyhoo. I have to jet, gotta get to work. Nice meeting you, boys.” Dee-Dee hugs Kate and winks at me. Also a good sign.

I watch her as she walks out and can’t help but notice the rear view is almost as awesome as the front.

Drew asks Kate, “She’s got to get to work? I thought the strip clubs didn’t open until four.”

I have to agree with him on that one. When you’ve been to as many strip clubs as we have, you start to see a pattern. The clothes the women wear—though minimal—are similar. Like they all shop at the same store. And Dee is definitely rocking the Strippers “R” Us vibe.

Though it may just be wishful thinking on my part. It would be awesome if she were a dancer. Not only are they limber—they party hard. Totally uninhibited. The fact that they generally have a low opinion of the male species is a plus too. Because it means the simplest act of chivalry is returned with extreme gratitude. And a grateful stripper is a blow-job giving stripper.

But Kate dashes my hopes. “Dee’s not a stripper. She just dresses like that to throw people off. So they’re shocked when they find out what she really does.”

“What does she do?” I ask.

“She’s a rocket scientist.”

Jack reads my mind. “You’re f*cking with us.”

“Afraid not. Delores is a chemist. One of her clients is NASA. Her lab works on improving the efficiency of the fuel they use on the space shuttles.” She shivers. “Dee-Dee Warren with access to highly explosive substances . . . it’s something I try to not think about.”

And now my curiosity is almost as strong as my lust. I’ve always had a taste for the unusual—the exotic—in women, music, books. And unlike Drew, whose apartment is meticulously decorated, I tend to gravitate toward pieces with a history. Even if they don’t match, nontraditional is always interesting.

“Brooks, you’ve got to hook me up. I’m a nice guy. Let me take your friend out. She won’t regret it.”