Page 107 of Intoxicated
It will be exhausting, to be sure, tapping my networks like this. Most men my age have no interest in a matchmaking service, and the women I know tend to be of the… women you get away fromtype.Yet that’s why I have a secret weapon to draw in female matches that will make my clients happy. Because Mr. Klein maysayhe simply wants a family-minded woman who knows how to budget and not take things for granted, but he totally wants her to be pretty, too. Oh, yeah. She better bepretty.
We finish our meeting with another handshake and promises to meet up again in two weeks, assuming I don’t have anything lined up before then. Mr. Klein is from the area, which gives me time to head back to Portland and interview people there as well.
Until then, I have someone else to meet.
***
CHER
If there’s one thing I hate, it’ssmacking gum between one’s teeth.
Thank God I never did that. I’d punch myself in the face before I ever did something as socially heinous as smack gum during a meeting! Seriously, who raised this girl? Was it in a barn? A dress barn? Look, I’ve met some very lovely women who came from a dress barn. I’ve also met some real winners who make me want to denounce my entire gender.
Liiiiike this dumbass right here.
“I gotta be taken care of, you know?” Fried blond hair twirls around Missy’s finger. That’s right. Her name isMissy.Missy! Did I believe for two seconds that was her real name? No! Yet she insists it is, so I guess it must be. She definitely sounds like a woman who has been called Missy her whole life.“Listen here, Missy,”I can imagine her mother saying,“you don’t get to huff your tits and make a damn scene in this here Nordstrom. Stop it right now or we’re going home!”
I write down “Taken care of” in my list of things about Missy and what she wants from a potential partner. “Uh huh,” I say. “What do you plan to bring to your future partner’s table?” I make sure to enunciate the wordpartner.Missy needs to realize that relationships are not one-sided affairs. She doesn’t get to make a slew of demands and expect nothing in return.
“Look at me,” she says with a snooty shrug. “I’ve got a rockin’ bod. What guy wouldn’t wanna spoil this?”
Yes. Indeed. Ms. Missy has arockin’bod. Probably bought and paid for with college money she never spent for its intended use. Those breasts are definitely not real. Now, I don’t begrudge a woman for playing a loser’s game in this world, but those tits aren’t even done well! They’re so disproportioned to her body that I can’t stop staring at the plastic shine taking over my retinas. At least her skin is naturally tanned and not the fake stuff. Her hair, though… so fried that I want to dunk her in a bath full of shampoo.
“While we undoubtedly have male clients who are looking for a partner who prefers not to work,” I lie, as if we have anyone like that yet, “I have to remind you that this is not a short-term dating or escort agency. We are a matchmaking service, which means our matches have the intention for marriage down the line.”
She shrugs again. “I’m fine with getting married. As long as he’s rich.”
God, is this what I used to sound like? No, no. I sounded nothing like this. I may have been after wallets above all else, but I didn’tactlike that’s all I wanted. I’m an actress, damnit. I compose characters. I read minds. I know you better than you know yourself. Now, I’m not saying that’s what I want to teach our female clients. All it means is I can smell the same – or worse – shit from a mile away.
Missy has professional sugar baby written all over her. There isn’t a part of her that’s authentic, and I don’t mean her body. I’m not sure she knows how to read.
This isn’t what Drew and I had in mind when we put out feelers for women who fit a certain… criteria. You see, the women we keep on standby for dates and matchmaking with our male clients don’t have to pay a retainer. Not yet, anyway. They do, however, have to maintain a certain look and personality to be kept for consideration. Drew may not really get this yet, but our male clients have standards they don’t think they need to broadcast to us. Yet I bet when I meet Mr. Jeffrey Klein for the first time, I’ll know his ultimate type by the end of the meeting. It’s my job to make sure we have a roster of women who might be his forever.
Missy ain’t gonna be it.
“Siri, take a note,” I say into my phone after I bid farewell to the biggest dud I’ve met all week. “Adjust parameters to ensure candidates aren’t made of tits and ass and nothing else.”
I’m not going to hold some young rube’s hand to make sure she doesn’t flip her shit when she sees her first diamond ring. Nor am I going to take time out of my day to teach them how to dress appropriately to their bodies and the men they want to marry. Ideally, our female clients will either be older and already sophisticated, or they’ll be the younger breed who have been doing this a while and want to find a husband who is serious about settling down. What that man will never tell us is that she must be conventionally attractive (and if plus-sized, have curves in “all the right places.”) And she’ll never tell us that he better have a big wallet to make up for his faults. Hot women in need of our help are either hard up for money or old enough that their biological clocks are ticking. Since Drew is a slobbering man, though, it’s up to me to cultivate the roster and coach the women who are almost there but not quite meeting perfect expectations.
Help. I’ve somehow stumbled into a full-time job.
You know I’m in love when I agree to go into business with someone. Let alone someone I’m fucking. You hear that, Drew? There isn’t a man I’ve dated before you who could convince me to do this with them, let alone after only a few months. Yet here I am, splitting my time between Portland and Seattle so I can both be with Drew and help him turn his business around.“From breaking to making,”he keeps saying, usually right before he climbs my Mt. Pusseverest. I swear, if he keeps up the corny shit, I’ll have to break up with him. Or at least withhold deep-throating privileges. Do you want me to choke from one of your stupid jokes, Drew? Do you?
Fuck it. I’d probably like it.
I wrap a sweater around me to combat the autumn breeze. It may be seventy degrees and sunny, but I’m not falling for it, Seattle. You’re going to get cold, quickly. It’s time to adjust to my favorite sweaters, even if Drew complains it means he can’t see my “awesome rack.”
It’s a short walk to Occidental Square, but my bag full of work crap weighs me down. By the time I reach the bistro tables and food carts, my arm is falling asleep and my head hurts.
Good thing my boyfriend already has food and bubble tea waiting for me.
“There she is.” He leans back in his seat, that hat on his head the only thing telling me that it’s really,reallyhim. I should know. I gave him that hat for his birthday. That and the most amazing hummer of his life, thank you very much. I intend to collect on my birthday. “The belle of the ball and the joy of my heart.”
