Yup, no fucking pressure at all.
Shit, not only am I having to put my personal life out on the table for all to read, but I have to go against every honest bone in my body. One of my top rules in dating is honesty, but how can I be honest with June if I can’t tell her details about my job?
Do I even have a choice at this point?
With my job security suddenly in question, I nod vigorously. “Of course. Not a problem, Frank.”
“Good.” He stands back and crosses his arms over his chest. “So, this June. Do you think she will be easily susceptible to your wooing ways?”
June, susceptible? True, I barely know her, but based on what I’ve seen so far, I’m going to say that’s a hard no. Despite everyone else in the world wanting everything at their fingertips, June wants to look up, enjoy what’s around them. It’s admirable. The world is a fascinating place. Soak it up. She’s unique. I think my modern ways are going to take a hit, but I’ll be damned if I lose my job over this. June better buckle up, because she’s going to be shot into the twenty-first century, courtesy of The Modern Gentleman.
Lying through my teeth, I say, “Of course, June is easily wooable. This won’t be a problem at all.”
Chapter Six
Dear Modern Gentleman,
During my transformation from a bro into a gent, I’ve realized my vernacular is off. I swear a lot, can be crass at times, and still carry some of the frat boy in my blood. With a new, professional job, I figured it was time to grow up and trade the college sweatshirts for trendy cardigans. I look the part now, but I’m having trouble when it comes to getting a woman’s number. Back in my college days, I’d just take her phone and text myself, wink, and tell her I’d call her later. But after reading your articles, I’m seeing that’s not the best approach. Can you help a guy out?
Sincerely,
Numberless
Dear Numberless,
Bleeding the frat boy from your system is going to be one of the biggest challenges you’ll ever have to face, my friend. I’m guessing you’re prone to chugging cheap beer, high-fiving like an asshat, and treating women like trophies rather than the beautiful humans they are. Hence you taking phones without permission. Total douchery right there. Here’s sage advice: be up front. There is no fancy way to ask a woman for her number. Tell her you like her and you would like to talk to her more if she’s comfortable handing out her number. If anything, I preach honesty. Have confidence, be honest, and score those digits. You’ll be pleasantly surprised by the kind of response you get.
Good luck, Gent,
The Modern Gentleman
WES
THE FEEL OUT
If she doesn’t show up, this is going to be humiliating.
Especially after I gloated to the boys about my luck.
I glance at my watch, trying not to look impatient, but as we move two minutes past our meeting time, I start to wonder if she was serious about meeting under this knotty tree, or what she refers to as the Wes and June Headquarters.
Fresh from work, I lean against the tree, one leg propped behind me, hands in my pockets, trying to be as casual as possible.
Yes, folks, this is normal, thanks for staring.
“Hello.” I nod at an old lady who gives me a questioning look. “Nice day, right?”
“Pervert,” she mutters, walking away.
Christ.
I stroke my beard just as I spot a wave of red hair bouncing in my direction. I want to play it cool and say I’m not relieved . . .
But Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, let’s all hold hands and thank the high heavens she’s here.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show,” I say with a charming smile, trying to hide any evidence of doubt. Looking down at General Fitzbum, I salute. “General, nice to see you again.”
I squat down and scratch him behind his ear. “Looking handsome as ever.” Peering up at her, I smile. “June, you look beautiful today.”
Compliments, men, did you see that? Simple, but effective. Compliment what you see. You’re lucky the lady wants to meet up with you, so make sure she feels lucky she made the right choice.
“Beautiful, huh?” she asks suspiciously.
I swear, compliments are usually the key to success, even if she seems suspicious. Keep them coming.
“Yeah.” I nod and stand. “Yellow is your color.”
And I mean that. Wearing a simple yellow sundress, nothing too fancy, she looks beautiful with her fresh face, freckles dotting under her eyes, and her hair pulled up into a curly mess of a ponytail.
“Well, thank you.” She eyes my outfit. “I see Mr. Fancy Hair stepped up his game.” Straight from the office, I’m wearing navy-blue dress pants, a white button-up, tucked in neatly with the sleeves rolled up, and my brown, leather Shinola watch at my wrist. “Sure you can walk in those shoes? What happened to the workout outfit?”
“Came straight from the office. Don’t worry about me, I traipse around New York in these shoes all the time, they’re worn in just fine.”
“All right then, are you ready?”
I gesture toward the park. “Lead the way.”
General Fitzbum starts forward and I fall in step with June. Luckily there is enough room for all of us on the sidewalk, enough that my arm occasionally brushes against hers.
“Warning, I like to ask personal questions,” she says after a few seconds of walking side by side.
“Are you saying you’re about to probe me, June?”
Her nose scrunches as she looks at me and I realize what I said.
“With questions,” I say, my voice catching. “Are you going to probe me with questions. Not anything else. I mean, probing me in the park would be a first and I’m usually up for anything, but that might be too much for our first walk. Up to you.”
What the hell am I saying right now?
To all the guys out there . . . if you’re feeling nervous, don’t ramble about being probed in the park. Ask her a question, get to know her. Feel her out.
“Maybe we can save probing in the park for a lovely Sunday afternoon if this goes well.”
“Nothing says God’s day like a good probing.”
Just stop.
Stop.
Chuckling—thankfully—she says, “Is Wes short for Wesley?”
“It is. Wesley Waldorf Williams. My full name.”
I can tell she doesn’t want to be rude, but I can see the scrunch in her nose as she asks, “Waldorf?”
I chuckle. “The Waldorf Astoria is a special place to my parents. Enough said.”
“Named after a hotel your parents most likely boned in? That must sit well with you.”
This time I laugh harder and look over at her. “You know, I thought about our walk all day today, what we would talk about, what we would see, and I never envisioned you muttering the word ‘boned,’ much less using it in reference to my parents.”
“I’m full of surprises, so look out.” She nudges my shoulder. And even though I’m a gentleman, I hope she can feel the strength in my body, the muscles I hide under these dress clothes. From the way her eyes quickly scan down my body, I’m going to guess she can. “So what did you think we were going to talk about?”
“Not my conception, that’s for sure.”
“Then what?” She chuckles.
“You know, the basic get to know you stuff.” I use my finger to count off topics. “Jobs, where we live, age, college, basic things like that.”
“Ugh, boring. That’s menial when it comes to getting to know someone else—just surface. I like to know what makes a person tick. I want to know what you would do if you were given a cantaloupe and a pair of nail clippers.”
Please don’t ask that question, as I have no idea how to answer it . . . carve it like a pumpkin?
“But if you must know, since you thought about it all day,” she continues, “actress slash dog walker slash doll clothes maker slash occasional candy confectioner slash whatever gives
me money. Bronx, twenty-five, and I didn’t go to college.” She turns to me, “Now you, and make it quick.”
Surprised, I study her. “Doll clothes maker?”
“You’d be surprised by the demand for custom-made American Girl doll clothing. Moms want it all for their daughters. Especially here in the city. Woo.” She blows out a steady breath. “One day at the Sunday Fair and I have a month’s rent paid.”
“Does that mean you have dolls all over your apartment as mannequins?”
“Pretty sure they stare at me while I sleep.”
I chuckle at that while I envision what her place must look like. Eclectic, that’s for sure.
“Now answer your questions.”
Persistent, I like it.
“Writer for a social media platform, Central Park West, twenty-eight, and Columbia.”
“Central Park West, huh? That would explain why your shoes and belt match so perfectly. It would also explain the middle name Waldorf.” She playfully winks at me and then asks, “Glad we got that out of the way?”
“Relieved.” Feeling out of my element, I dig deep into the playbook and attempt to impress her. “And I know you’re itching to find out.” I swallow hard. “Cantaloupe and nail clippers? What else is there to do besides carve out a statue of Sutton Foster?” I hold my breath, hoping she doesn’t call me cheesy.
Halting General Fitzbum, she turns toward me with one hand on her hip. “Did you look up Broadway actresses today?”
“If I say yes, does that win me brownie points?” I ask, one hand in my pocket, trying to look as casual as possible.
“Maybe.”
And that’s how it’s done, gentlemen.
Try to listen to your lady, as it bodes well for the future if you can impress her early.
“Does it help that I watched the cold opens for the past nine Tony awards as well?”
“Depends. Who do you think was a better host, James Corden or Neil Patrick Harris?”
Oof, a question I’m sure will lose me the brownie points I just earned if I get wrong. I scratch my beard for a second and then say, “You know, I’ll probably be the unpopular vote here, but there’s something about James that caught my eye.”
“It’s the accent,” she says, joy in her voice. “Don’t worry, it got to me too.” She winks. I think this is going well. “What’s something you’ve never done before because you’re too scared?”
“Getting right in there with the questions, aren’t you?”
“Best way to get to know someone, in my opinion.”
“Fair enough. Hmm.” I pause, considering. “Something I’ve never done before because I’m too scared? I guess that’s easy to answer. I’ve never sung on stage before. And trust me, the world isn’t missing much.”
“So you’re scared of embarrassing yourself,” she points out.
“I guess I am.”
“Makes sense.” She turns around and walks backward keeping the leash behind her so General Fitzbum can keep plodding forward. “You’re a handsome man, Wes. Very well put together with your tailored clothes, perfect haircut, and shined shoes. I’d say you care about your image, so it makes sense that embarrassing yourself is a part of the human experience you want nothing to do with.”
“Does anyone like to be embarrassed?”
“I don’t believe anyone does, but it’s how you react to that embarrassment that sets you apart from others. I’ve learned over time how to deal with embarrassment, to not agonize over it, but to rise above it.”
“Seems like you have experience in being embarrassed.”
“That story is for another day.” She smiles brightly and turns back around, letting General Fitzbum trot to a bench that overlooks the park’s Turtle Pond, one of my favorite places in Central Park because of its serenity, overhanging trees, and of course, its turtles.
I walk casually up to her when she sits on the bench. I tilt my head to the side, one of my hands in my front pocket. “So, there’s going to be another day?”
Sweetly, she pulls her feet up onto the bench, tucks her legs to the side, and motions for me to sit down. Gladly accepting the invitation, I take a seat next to her and drape my arm over the back of the bench while turning my body in her direction. General Fitzbum lays on the ground between us.
“Well, you did look up Broadway actresses . . .”
“Sometimes you have to reward a guy for wanting to relate.”
“I appreciate that.” She pushes her dress over her knees and says, “So you don’t want to ever sing on stage, which is the polar opposite of me.”
“But polar opposites usually work best,” I say.
She eyes me, humor in her gaze. “Okay, when you have no obligations, nothing to do, where is your favorite place to be on a random Wednesday night?”
I look out toward the pond, watching the turtles from a distance. “Favorite place to be Wednesday night? Honestly?”
“Please. And no corny pick-up lines.”
I’ll tell you gents right now, when a girl wants honesty, you give it to her. You should always give it to her, especially when the atmosphere between you two is electrifying. Like it is right now with June.
There’s something special here, I can feel it.
“Home,” I answer. “I’d like to be home. And I know what you must be thinking. We live in the greatest city in the world with so much happening around us, so why would I want to be home?” I turn back to look at her, a smile tugging at my lips. “It’s simple, I’m comfortable there. My job requires me to do a lot of research, especially when it comes to dating and relationships, so I’m constantly out with friends at trendy bars and new nightclubs, observing the masses. The loud music, the dark rooms, the cold hand from holding a tumbler all night. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I just want to be home in a pair of sweatpants with a bowl of popcorn lying on my stomach and bingeing on Netflix.”
“A homebody? That surprises me. From the outside, Wesley Waldorf Williams, you don’t seem like someone who wants to spend his days lazing about at home, eating popcorn. You give off the image of Mr. Nightlife. Which makes me wonder, is Wes really the man he portrays, or is he a completely different person on the inside?”
“Only one way to find out,” I say, holding my breath.
Her lips quirk to the side, her eyes bouncing back and forth between mine, playfulness in her body language.
Come on . . . she wants to find out, I know she does.
Hold strong, maintain eye contact.
Finally, she smiles and asks, “Would you care to meet up with me tomorrow? Same time and place?”
And that’s how it’s done, gents.
“Of course. I’d love to.” Leaning forward slightly, I ask, “Does this mean you appreciate a man who can binge on Netflix?”
She leans forward herself and whispers, “I don’t have Netflix, so I have no idea what a good binge feels like.”
Leave it to me to find the only girl in New York City who still lives in the dark ages. Might be refreshing, since she won’t know about The Modern Gentleman.
“You’re an anomaly to me.”
“I like to say a rare gem, a diamond in the rough.” She winks and then looks at my watch. On a heavy sigh, she says, “I have to get going.”
“Already?” I ask, standing with her and pushing up my sleeves.
“Yeah, I have dance class tonight.” She pets General Fitzbum on the head. “Come on, fella, time to get you back.”
“What kind of dance class?”
“Tap,” she says over her shoulder and then twirls to walk back the way we came.
She’s leaving like that? Not wanting to let this girl slip between my fingers, I say, “I’d love to talk some more, June. Can I have your number? Maybe we can talk tonight after your dance class?”
“My number? That’s a big step, Wes. A step that seems too early, don’t you think?”
Umm . . . no.
No, not at all.
That’s usually the next s
tep.
Pulling on the back of my neck, I smile and say, “Could be a good step, though.”
She sweetly pats my cheek. “We can talk some more tomorrow. After a good night’s rest.” She waves her fingers at me. “Bye, Wesley Waldorf Williams.”
“Wait,” I call out as she walks away. “Same time? Same place?”
She spins, her dress twirling, her vibrant hair falling over her heart-shaped face. “What do you think? Bye, Mr. Fancy Hair.”
I think I’m going to have to majorly step up my game.
Chapter Seven
Dear Modern Gentleman,
What’s the follow-up protocol after a date? Do you call to wish her good night? Do you send her a text? How long should I wait? Three days? I’ve heard there’s a three-day rule so you don’t look too desperate. Is that true? What happens if I really like a girl? How long should I wait before contacting her?
Clueless
Dear Clueless,
Throw whatever rulebook you’re reading out the window. Today’s dating “rituals” have gotten out of control. If you like the girl, let her know. Nut up, straighten your tie, and call her. Tell her you enjoyed your time together and want to see her again. Tell her that night if you want, or even the day after. Whatever you do, let her know you’re thinking about her. Women like to be cherished, not dicked around by the rules some meathead came up with one day while sitting next to a pool with a bottle of hogwash beer balancing on his stomach. If you want her, go get her. Easy as that.
Good luck, Gent,
The Modern Gentleman
WES
The Modern Gentleman Page 5
