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!
I know this is my first rodeo, and I’m way more of a podcaster than I am an author, but I really think this book is going to set the publishing world on fire!
Cormac
The Following Afternoon
Thank God this woman is hot, because this book of hers is total crap!
That’s probably not the most appropriate thing for a partner in a huge publishing company to think while an author is pitching a book they’ve poured their heart and soul into, but I’ve seriously 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. No, I’m not. What do all these buzz words even mean? There’s just one after the other.
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 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.
“Excuse me? I interrupt.
“Yes.”
“I hate to be the ignorant one here, and I can’t believe that I’m about to say this to a woman I just met, but your title?”
“Fuckboys?” She asks like it’s nothing. “What about it?”
“What is that?”
“A fuckboy?”
“Yeah. It’s the title of this book but I don’t even know what that is. Can you explain for us unindoctrinated?”
“Sure. I guess the simplest way to describe a fuckboy. . .sorry, does it bother you that I keep saying that word again and again?”
“It’s the title of your book. If it bothers people then it’s a problem, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I mean, I guess, but. . .anyhow, it means a guy who sleeps around, but only wants to hookup with girls and will tell them anything they want to hear, and who doesn’t want anything close to a relationship. There are other definitions, but I’m easing you into it.”
“Other definitions?”
“Yeah. A lot, actually. Have you ever looked on Urban Dictionary?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Can’t say that I have.”
“You should. There are some hilarious definitions on there. Way better than I just described.”
“You care to share one?” I ask. I don’t really care what a fuckboy is, but the conversation I’m having is way more interesting than this feminist drivel she’s trying to pitch me. I’m just trying to keep myself awake and sane at this point.
She pulls out her phone. “My favorite is from the guy who said, and I quote, ‘a "fuckboy" is the lowest possible form of the vile, degenerate waste pouring from the proverbial asshole of society.” There’s more, but I think it gets a little vulgar.”
“We sure wouldn’t want to let that happen, would we?”
She can finally sense my sarcasm, and she makes that sexy face of hers into a scowl that excites me and turns me on at the same time. She really is gorgeous.
Tori Klein.
I read up on her a little after Elissa set up this meeting.
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 social media person. But as far as I’m concerned, the only thing this girl has going for her is her face and body, because Lord knows her book is some man-hating craziness. But back to that face and body for a minute—both are ridiculous! 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 hangs to her shoulders, and she has these legs that make my dick twitch right here in my seat. I can’t keep my eyes off her, no matter what I think of this crap she thinks I’m crazy enough to actually publish. She’s not just the hottest woman to ever pitch a book in this office, she’s one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen. It’s getting harder and harder. . . to concentrate, that is.
I snap myself back into reality, and out of the fantasy I was just having about bending her over this conference table. I see Elissa still has that shit-eating grin on her face. I have partners—two of them, both women—and they both loved the sample chapters that Tori provided to us. But they know as well as I do that our 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 only sane person who actually uses theirs.
She keeps talking for a few more minutes, going through all of the horrible things men are—let me see if I remember her words accurately: sex-crazed maniacs, fuckboys, slaves to their dicks, which she gave a verbal ‘hashtag’—a pet peeve of mine in case you were wondering—until finally I can’t take any more “Okay, okay, I’ve heard enough.”
“Cormac?” My partner is looking over at me with more than a little judgement in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Elissa, but I really can’t listen to any more of this drivel.”
The only reason I’m still sitting at this table is because of how sexy this woman is. She’s bat-shit crazy if she thinks this book is getting published by us, but with a body like that I’m almost ready to forgive her. Almost.
“What’s the matter?” She asks. She’s looking right into my eyes. Thank God I’m sitting down when she does. For a second, I forget her question, but when I pause way too long Elissa jabs me in the side.
“Cormac,” Elissa says, interrupting what I’m about to say. “Why don’t we just let her finish what she was saying?”
“Because I don’t want to waste her time. Or ours. I don’t need to hear anymore of this.”
I’m not trying to be a total dick, but that’s how it’s coming across. I can see Tori’s face change as soon as she sees where this is heading. First, it’s a look of concern, but then pretty quickly I see a tinge of anger replace it.
“Look, 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?”