“Look, all I’m saying is that it’s possible to separate the two.” She told me. “You can have your selection bias research, telling you how men are the worst people in the world for getting all of those pesky erections, and you can also still be normal in your personal life—still be a woman without feeling guilty about it. It’s okay to like men, to want them, to have those feelings. That doesn’t invalidate your book. What invalidates it is that you don’t ever actually put yourself out there and try—you’re commentating from the bench. You need to get in the game.”
When Jenny speaks like she did at lunch yesterday, I always want to believe what she’s saying to me, but I can never seem to get there. It’s like I have this shield around me when it comes to guys. I know where that shield comes from, but I can’t get rid of it. On top of that, every time I talk to another woman about their experiences all of my feelings on men come right back to the forefront of my mind.
I look down at the worn advanced copy of my book and take an especially deep breath. It’s filled with colored post its and so many highlights that it looks like a coloring book. I’m not the nervous type, but I hope tomorrow goes well, because all I’ve ever wanted was to be a published author.
I open the front page and read the sample chapters that got me this meeting to begin with, and the more I read, the more confident I get about tomorrow.
I have to admit, this is easily the best thing I’ve ever written! I know it’s going to set the publishing world on fire!
Chapter Two
Cormac
The Following Afternoon
“This is total shit!”
God, I shouldn’t have said that out loud, should I? Probably not the most appropriate thing for a partner in a huge publishing company to say to an aspiring author, even if said author is as much of a social justice feminist nut as this Dr. Tori Klein seems to be. Seriously, I’ve never read such crap in my entire life, and I read books for a living! I look back down at the text just in case I’m being unfair.
Nope. Nope, I’m not.
Toxic masculinity?
Manspreading?
Mansplaining?
The Patriarchy?
Who made up all of these stupid terms? I look over and see one of my two partners, Elissa, smiling and nodding so hard that her neck must be getting sore. My other partner, Cynthia, approved of this drivel in absentia. She took some of that fuck-you money she has from being the founder of a such a successful company and is currently touring Europe with her husband. She’s such a work horse that she’s reading samples somewhere in Amsterdam or Prague or wherever.
As for me? I have to sit in this uncomfortable chair, reading even more uncomfortable words as my other partner seems to have taken a few shots of Kool-Aid before this meeting even began. I’m in The Twilight Zone right now.
“Cormac!” Elissa shouts at me. She loves to do that. She’s like a kindergarten teacher and I’m the kid eating the paste in the corner. “Don’t be rude. Tori was in the middle of her pitch, we’re not supposed to interrupt.”
Tori Klein.
Excuse me, Dr. Tori Klein. I know these academic types get their panties in a bunch if you don’t use the pretentious titles they spend a lifetime in school to earn.
I read up on her.
Say what you will about me, but I’m thorough, and I always do my homework before an author comes in and sits across that long wooden table in our conference room. I like to know the artist as well as I know the art. Me and Google are best friends.
This hot, yet delusional author sitting in front of me at the moment has a Ph.D. in Sociology that she earned in record time. She describes herself as a, and I quote, liberal third wave feminist (I didn’t know they came in waves, but whatever), and apparently she’s some kind of hot shot in the academic world. It said online that she’s the youngest woman to ever be offered a tenure track position at the University. Her dissertation—which this shit book she’s pitching is based on—won a bunch of awards. Blah, blah, blah.
As far as I’m concerned, the only thing this girl has going for her is her face and body, because lord knows her work is progressive trash. But back to that face and body for a minute—both are ridiculous! She’s dressed to the nines, as she should be for a professional meeting, but the I can’t stop staring at her neck. She’s wearing this necklace that hangs just to where I can’t see the things I want to. Her hair is hangs to her shoulders, and she has these eyes that make my dick twitch right here in my seat. I can’t keep my eyes off her, no matter what I think of her professional work. She’s not just the hottest woman to ever pitch a book in this office, she’s one of the most gorgeous I’ve ever seen. It’s getting harder and harder. . .to concentrate, that is.
I read up on some of her academic papers and blog posts. It was total feminist bull crap. If it were just up to me, I’d never have even let her in the door—not when there are real authors lined up a mile long trying to publish real content with us. But I have partners—two of them, both women—and they both loved the sample chapters that the annoyingly hot Dr. Tori Klein provided to us.
Our publishing company has a policy of ‘unanimous or no’ – meaning that we all have to agree that we’re going to accept a book for publication, or the book gets rejected. Every one of us has veto power, and based on the silly, happy grin on Elissa’s face, I think I’m going to be the asshole who uses mine in just a few short minutes.
“Tori, please keep going.” Elissa prompts. I’m not sure I can take any more of this.
“No, Tori,” I say, interrupting before this goes any further. “Please stop.”
“Cormac!”
“Elissa, I love you, but you’re off here. You’re telling me that I need to be polite in a meeting where I have to listen to this. . .scholar. . . tell me how awful men are? Doesn’t that seem a little contradictory to you?”
The only reason I’m even still sitting at this table is because of how sexy this woman is. She’s bat-shit crazy with this book she thinks I’m going to publish, but with a body like that I’m almost ready to forgive her. Almost.
She jumps in to defend herself. “Mr. . .”
“Cormac is fine,” I tell her. “Or should I call myself. . .hold on, let me find it.” I page back through her last chapter until I find what I’m looking for. “Ah, here it is. Maybe I should call myself a ‘…cis man patriarch.’ But I guess that’s a little wordy to say, huh? Doesn’t really roll off the tongue, does it?”
Tongue. I wonder what hers would feel like in my mouth. Fuck, Cormac, focus!
My partner jumps in to do what she always thinks she needs to do—apologize for me and make excuses for my behavior. She thinks I’m rude. I think I’m honest. “Tori, I’m so sorry, he’s just a very blunt person.”
“Now Elissa, don’t go mansplaining away my behavior.” I use the most mocking tone I can, going out of my way to confirm all of Tori’s stereotypes. I turn to her. “Did I use that right? There are so many derogatory terms beginning with the prefix ‘man’, it’s hard to keep them all straight. You’d think these radical feminists would be more creative with their made up terminology.”
“Cormac!” Elissa yells.
The author puts her hand up like the Fascist she seems to be. Mussolini would have been proud.
“I’ve got this one, Elissa.” She shoots gives me a look like she enjoys a little back and forth. I’m happy to accommodate. “You think a woman having all these beliefs makes her a radical? So, any woman who has a strong point of view is a radical to you?”
“No, Tori. I think any woman who has radical points of view is a radical. Any book that makes claims about all men is no different than a book that would attempt to make a claim about an entire race or an entire religion—it’s discriminatory and promotes generalizations. It’s, you know, radical.”
“You’re right, Cormac, I’m such a radical, I’m sorry I’m ruining your day. After all, the world is hard for upper class white men these days, isn’t it? W
hat, with all the rights minorities and woman have.”
Oh. Shit. The gloves just came off. I thought she wanted to spar a few rounds, but what she really wants to do is have herself an old-school fight. “I’d expect a better argument from someone as renowned as you than just a simple deflection.”
“Deflection?” She asks.
“That’s right. I just told you that I think any book that espouses to know what all men are like has, by definition, a bigoted point of view, and that’s not the kind of work I want published here. Instead of addressing that criticism, you’re choosing to insult me. That’s a deflection.”
Boom, roasted!
“It’s a strange world where calling and upper class white man an upper class white man is considered an insult. Do you see your race and class as a bad thing, Cormac?”
Damn. She might be better at this than I thought.
“I don’t, no. It’s just the way you said it, the tone. . .”
“Oh, you want me to be more demure? A little sweeter? Is that how you think women have to speak to men?”
I hear Elissa snicker and I start seeing red. I need to keep control of myself. It looks worse if I lose my shit and start acting immaturely, so I take a deep breath that I don’t let her see. “Let’s stay focused on your, Dr. Klein. This isn’t a therapy session for me, it’s a pitch meeting for you. And what I’m expressing is that the beliefs in this book go against much of what I believe, personally. I have a problem with that.”
“I see.” She says. I can just tell that’s being followed up with something snarky. “Is that how you choose your authors, here? Those who agree with your political points of view get deals, while you deride everyone else?”
The balls on her!
I hold the fate of her publishing future in my hands right now, so you’d think she’d be kissing my ass and thanking me for my critical feedback, but instead she’s self-sabotaging just to try to win a fight with me. I’ll add arrogant to the list of adjectives in my head. I should stop the meeting right here, thank her for her time, and tell her that she’d do better shopping her book elsewhere, but I don’t. I stupidly get drawn back in to engaging with her. I guess that’s the pig-headed male in me coming out.
“Not at all, Tori. I don’t need the books published here to agree with all of my opinions, I just need them to not be baseless and crazy. So far your work meets both standards.”
“Baseless and crazy? I can assure you it’s neither. It’s not crazy because you don’t agree with it, and it’s very well researched.”
Her cheeks are getting flushed. She’s sexy when she’s angry. “You’re an academic, right?”
“I am.”
“And academics use the scientific method to approach research, correct? They use evidence to back up their claims?”
“Of course we do.”
“So, then, I ask you—since this is a work of non-fiction, where is the evidence that anything you’re saying in this book is true? I mean. . .” I look back on the opening page of her first chapter. “Your basic premise, if I’m reading you correctly is that, and I quote, ‘Men are, by their very nature, selfish and base creatures. This condition comes from a combination of nature and nurture, but is nonetheless a guiding factor of all of their over-sexualized daily behaviors.’ Now, where’s the rest. Here we go—quoting you again, ‘Due to this condition, relationships benefit men more than they do women, who end up providing for what their male partner needs and wants, with little (if any) return.’ That’s a pretty crazy claim, Doctor. So, I’ll reiterate. What’s your evidence that this is true?
“I can assure you, this book was meticulously researched. If my methodology was good enough for my dissertation committee, it should be good enough for you.”
This chick is so full of herself. “I see. Well, unfortunately for you, you fail to see the differences between the two. I’m not a stuffy old professor in a tweed blazer who hasn’t seen the sun in a few years, and this meeting doesn’t end with you getting even more letters added to your name. You’re playing a different game now, and this one involves convincing us—and, as I can see, convincing me, in particular—if you want a deal with us. So, I ask you again, what kind of research is this book grounded in?”
I seem to have gotten her a little bit with that one. She hesitates, and for the first time I see a chink in the confident armor she’s been wearing this entire meeting. I can tell she’s used to brow beating people to win arguments, but that shit won’t work with me. She finally opens up her mouth to defend herself. “Well—I read a lot feminist literature, and did numerous qualitative interviews with women about their experiences with men and relationships.”
That’s it? “So, just to be clear, you read other books by female scholars who share your existing beliefs who, by the way, probably don’t have any evidence for their claims, either, and then you interviewed a bunch of damaged women and used their therapy fodder as evidence in your book? Makes sense.”
That’s all Elisa needs to hear. She mercifully jumps in like a referee breaking up a fight. “Okay, that’s enough from both of you. This isn’t productive meeting for anyone, and we’re getting off track.”
I put my hand up. Not to be dismissive of my parter, but just to get my last point in. I’m a partner, after all, and I have the right to vet any authors we sign in any way I want. But I see the two of them looking at each other when I put my hand in the air in some kind of female solidarity—like, there he goes, being all male again, trying to control us.
“I’ve heard enough. I just have one more question, if you’ll indulge me, Ms. Klein.”
“Dr. Klein.”
“My apologies. If you’ll indulge me, Tori, I just have one last question.”
“What is it?”
“It states in your introduction that, despite the fact that you’re writing as a scholar of male and female relationships, that you’ve never been in a serious, long term one yourself. Is that correct?”
She takes a big deep breath, as though I’m the asshole for asking what should be an obvious, critical question. “Yes. It says it right there.”
“And why did you put that in there?”
“As an academic, you always have to be prepared for how people will attack and criticize your work. There’s no one who knows the limitations and weaknesses of their own material better than someone in my world. So I put that out there just to get in front of it.”
“But, it’s a true statement?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
“Why haven’t you been in a serious relationship before?” I ask.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your. . .”
“My business?” I ask. “Actually, that’s exactly what it is—this is my business, and you want me to publish a book that’ll have my name on the inside flap and back cover. There’s a reason I’m asking. How can you claim to know all about men and relationships if you’ve never actually experienced one yourself, and all of your so-called research is coming from feminist theory and academic research?”
I let that one hang in the air. I think it’s a perfectly valid question, but Elissa seems to think otherwise.
“Cormac, you’re way out of line now. This meeting is over, and don’t you dare put your hand up to me. The Q & A portion is finished. Thank you for coming in, Tori, this is groundbreaking and very appropriate work for the modern political climate that we find ourselves in theses days.”
I stand up. I can’t take it anymore. “You’re right, this is over, and I’ve heard enough. I say no. I’m sorry, but this isn’t for us.” I throw down a copy of her manuscript on the desk, still open to the page that tells me what a horrible mysogynistic prick I am. Oh, wait, that’s every page. I walk out of the hostile room and head into my office. I have some real books to read.
Before I’m completely out of the room I steal one more look at her.
She really is so beautiful.
It’s a damn shame she hates men so much.
&nbs
p; The Three Kiss Clause
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Books by Christopher Harlan
Away From Here: a young adult novel
Synopsis:
When I was seventeen years old there were only three things that I knew for certain: I was a mixed up mixed kid, with weird hair and an unhealthy love of comics; I wanted to forget I’d ever heard the words depression and anxiety; and I was hopelessly in love with a girl named Annalise who was, in every way that you can be, a goddess. What can I say about Anna? She wasn’t the prom queen or the perfect girl from the movies, she was my weird, funny, messed up goddess. The girl of my dreams. The reason I’m writing these words.
I’d loved Anna from a distance my junior year, afraid to actually talk to her, but then one day during lunch my best friend threw a french fry at my face and changed everything. The rest, as they say, is history. Our History. Our Story. Annalise helped make me the man I am today, and loving her saved my teenaged soul from drowning in the depths of a terrible Bleh, the worst kind of sadness that there is, a concept Anna taught me about a long time ago, when we were younger than young. So flip the book over, open up the cover and let me tell you Our Story, which is like Annalise, herself - complicated, beautiful, funny, and guaranteed to teach you something by the time you’re through. Maybe it’ll teach you the complexity of the word potato, something I never understood until the very last page.
The Savage Gentleman Page 19
