Will start blogging about social media and personal branding real soon.

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Marco

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Bellakentuky here; I am a writer of short stories and more importantly a Storiad member. I’m out in the online world trying to generate some support for my short story, The Power of Fine Furniture. This story is an entrant in the America’s Next Author 2012 competition. I have been holding my own in the top 10 for the last several weeks. However, the competition is very stiff and I’m going to need to garner more help to get a nomination into the finals.

I’m hoping that there are a few of you that will go to bat for me.

Here is what you can do.

By

Shawn Schepps

You’re a First Tier Man. You and your buddy are going out for the night. Hit a club. Hit a bar. Find a chick and get your groove on. Drink a little, talk a little and get laid.  You’ve got your game on. Maybe you’re sporting some Hugo Boss, or D&G, with a little a little Armani thrown in for good measure. You work out. Carry a Blackberry, and have a clean shave. You don’t smell like someone threw a bucket of Aqua Velva on you. Your nails are clean. You are ready to throw down.

Your buddy, who you’ve been friends with ever since college, has always been a fuck-up, but that’s okay, he’s good people, he cracks you up. He’s going out with you. He’s your wing-man.  He’s wearing baggy jeans from The Gap, an oversized Fubu tee, and Bono-esque fly glasses. He bites his cuticles, doesn’t have TIVO yet, and still calls the ladies, “dude” to their faces. You’ve called him a pig, told him to grow up, but he’s not that guy. And guess what?  You let the man be, ‘cause he’s your boy.

He’s the second Tier Man. You know it. He is oblivious to it — yet he’s way more likely to get laid than you, Mr-Hugo-Boss-Blackberry-carrying-First-Tier guy. How can this be possible?. You smell better than he does, you can actually dress yourself, and you make your bed in the morning. Why are the odds on his side? Well, I’m going to explain it to you.

But first, let’s look at your gender of choice… mine.

Two women are going out to hit the bars and do a little clubbing tonight too. They’ve been friends since their sorority days. They’re both hot. One is a blond. One is a brunette. They wax, get mani-pedis on a regular basis, work out, and their breasts are real – and real nice. They’ve decided to take a taxi to the club or bar tonight in case they meet someone.

This is where I hate to disappoint you, they are NOT going out tonight to get laid. They want to meet a nice guy. They’re sick of dating. They want to settle down. They want a boyfriend. They want you to call once a day.. They want to introduce you to their friends and family. It’s not that they want to marry you right away; it’s just that they want a man in their life. “TheMan.”  That’s why they are taking their waxed-bodied-manicured-toes-and-BCBG-Max-Azria- strapless dresses to hit the same hot spots you are.  Makes no sense, right? Polar opposite needs that will never be met — or so you think.

Second Tier guy may have a girl in his bed tonight.

This is the madness of evolution. It’s Darwinism at its worst. Ever since we have crawled out of the slime only to become primordial beings that hunted and gathered, we’ve been at cross purposes. Both sexes have elemental, primal chips in our brains. Yours tells you to spread your seed. Ours tells us to find the strongest mate in the cave and create as many offspring as possible to continue this, our human race. You are absolutely right to want to go out there and get as much mad pussy as you can. Thing is, you ain’t gonna get the pussy if she doesn’t think there is a possibility you are her hunter and gatherer. This is where the First Tier Man falls into the Vortex and the Second Tier Man gets the girl.

You and your buddy see these two beauties in a booth at the bar you both happen to be at. You grab your buddy who is stealing maraschino cherries from the bar and pull him over to meet Blond and Brunette. You ask if you can join them. They invite you to sit down. You, the first Tier man, like Blond. She has a fresh, dewy look to her. You can almost feel yourself inside of her. Your buddy is left with Brunette. You order drinks for all and keep them coming. Blond is impressed.

You ask her name. “What’s your name?”

TRANSLATION – “Are we going to do it tonight, cause I’m buying all the drinks here.”

She says, “I’m Daisy.”

TRANSLATION – “Generous guy. He’s buying us all drinks. And he doesn’t smell like someone threw Aqua Velva all over him. I wonder if my mom would like him?”

You ask, “So what brings you ladies out tonight?”

TRANSLATION - “To get laid, right?”

Daisy says, “Oh, we just wanted to get out. Cut loose. Have some fun.”

TRANSLATION – “I hope he has a job.”

You say, “Yeah, me and my buddy here needed a night out too. Been working too hard.”

TRANSLATION – “I just lied. I am so here to get laid.”

Daisy seems to relax after her first drink, “So where are you from?”

TRANSLATION – “I hope his parents are still together and he likes kids.”

You answer, “I just moved here fromChicago.”

TRANSLATION– “I  really moved here fromChicago three years ago, but maybe she’ll think I’m lonely and sleep with me.”

Daisy says, “You have the most amazing eyes. I’ve never seen a color like that before.”

TRANSLATION – “He’s definitely boyfriend material. He can dress. He’s polite. And he’s not putting the moves on me like some kind of masher. If I keep throwing the compliments at him, maybe I’ll have a shot. It wouldn’t hurt to put my hand on his forearm lightly. He’ll definitely think I’m interested — in having a boyfriend.”

Daisy does put her hand on your forearm ever so gently as she smiles at you, a kind of warm, sexy smile.

TRANSLATION – You are in.

But, you know what, you’re not.

Across the table Brunette and your buddy are having their own conversation.

You’re Buddy says, “Hey dude, you into the White Stripes? I can’t stop playing them in the car… hey, the waitress didn’t bring lime with my tequila, bummer.”

TRANSLATION – “Hey dude, you into the White Stripes? I can’t stop playing them in the car… hey, the waitress didn’t bring lime with my tequila, bummer.”

The Brunette says, “I’m not really into the White Stripes, but I’ll order more tequila with you.”

TRANSLATON – “My girlfriend got the good one and I’m left with this loser in Bono fly glasses. Might as well get loaded.”

Your buddy says, “Cool, let’s do some shots.”

TRANSLATION – “Nice tits.”

Across the table, your buddy and the Brunette are getting hammered on your dime.

Your buddy says, “What’s your favorite movie? Mine’s “The Godfather.” No, “Scareface”. No, you know what, if they could put “The Godfather” into “Scarface”, that dude, would be the perfect movie. I have both on DVD at home.

TRANSLATION – “Wanna come to my crib, and fuck to “Scarface?”

Brunette says, “I’m not really into violent movies. I liked, “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.”

TRANSLATION – “Damn this tequila is making me horny. He is kind of cute in an ADD kind of way. I haven’t gotten laid for like three months. Daisy’s all hemmed up in the First Tier guy. I’m not going to let this night be a complete fucking waste, I waxed my va-jay-jay. Maybe he’s a good kisser. It’s not like I’ll ever have to see him again. If he asks for my number I’ll give him my ex-boyfriend’s. I’m drunk, hormonal and he seems like a fun guy to throw down with.”

So the Brunette says, “I’d look at your DVD collection.”

TRANSLATION – “I won’t fuck you to “Scarface” but I will fuck you.”

The bar is closing down. Both you and your buddy have been preoccupied with your potential hook-ups. The girls kiss each other on the cheek, no animosity involved. The Brunette goes off with your crazy buddy. You, lucky dog, get to take Daisy home. Things couldn’t look more promising as you tip the valet and hold her car door open for her. Her legs, smooth, soft and shiny in the half-mast moonlight.

You walk Daisy to her condo. She’s demure, erotic and sweet. You watch her soft, bare shoulders as she fumbles for her keys.

You say, “Maybe I could come in? Have a night cap?”

TRANSLATION – “Let’s knock boots.”

Daisy says, “Know what, I would, but I am so tired. And I’m afraid if I let you come in and we have another drink, things will get, you know, out of control. And I really like you. I’d like to see you again.

TRANSLATION - “This guy is perfect. If I let him in and he gets me to bed, I’ll be waiting by the phone every day until he calls. And if he doesn’t call, I’ll be all depressed and eat a pint of Hagen Dass every night for a week.  I want to lock this guy in. He is a hunter and gatherer.”

Daisy asks for your Blackberry. You give it to her, confused. Why isn’t she letting you in? You’re First Tier Guy.

Daisy, smiles at you, a bedroom smile of things to come as she puts her information into your Blackberry.

She kisses you on the cheek and lets herself in her condo, locking you out. Locking you out? First Tier Man? You stand there in the florescent glow of her hallway. You’re stunned. How could this happen? It was all going so well.

It’s that primordial chip, my friend. She saw you as a POTENTIAL. It’s the most dangerous thing a guy like you, just out there for the night looking for some pussy, could be.

Back at your buddy’s place, he and the Brunette and sucking down more tequila and shagging like there’s no tomorrow. Because there isn’t. Not for this relationship. However, the Second Tier Guy got his groove on, if for no other reason then she was in the mood and he was clearly not boyfriend material.

So guys, I can only tell you this. Sometimes being the First Tier Guy can be a problem, because despite the fact that you don’t feel like being relationship material, most woman are going to think you are. This leaves you alone at the end of the night, with your credit card maxed out, watching porn.  Maybe trying so hard to be the First Tier guy isn’t really helping your game.

Next time try wearing some Bono fly glasses instead.

THE END

B-R-B is short for “be right back”. L-O-L is short for “laugh out loud”, the more advanced sometimes prefer the acronym, R-O-F-L which stands for, “rolling on the floor laughing”. Sometimes I close my eyes and visualize the people of this great nation, on their carpets, hardwood, tile, sisal and linoleum, rolling on the floor with laughter. What a wonderful world this would be.

I have my own acronyms, like STFC, “Shut the Fuck up”. Once I told some slime bag that I had a withered arm, was 4’3” with a distended hip and lived in a mental institution. He asked me if I liked to give oral. To that I replied and this is my favorite acronym, EYM, which stands for “Eat Your Mom.”

The guy from New York sent me a naked picture of himself… I’m sorry, “pic”.

He was hung like a donkey.

I did not invite him to send me a naked picture of himself all buffed out, trimmed underarm hair, burly muscles, no fat mass and a 9 ½ penis that was only over shadowed by the size of his balls which hung like breadfruit. I told him his picture looked gay. I told him that gay men would love it. He thought I meant he was gay and took offense to my statement like the fag that he probably was.

I don’t know if this was the guy’s picture. He could have been a woman with transgender issues or prisoner in lock up somewhere, or a greasy old Haitian guy living in Detroit who has dreams of becoming something else, someone else, somewhere else, and lives it all through the miracle of the World Wide Web.

I don’t know. I don’t care. When I get home and it’s late I just want someone to talk to. I sit in my bed, tea and cigarettes next to me, hop on my laptop, and explore the infinite world of bad grammar on the Internet.

My girlfriend and I have been Internet dating. I have met many men this way. One guy was named Jihad. What Jihad failed to mention in our few phone calls prior to the date was that he was married and had a little girl. Jihad, or Holy War as I like to call him was still living in the same apartment with his Salvadorian wife who had found religion and was more turned on by Jesus then Jihad. I also discovered that Jihad’s name was really Kevin, and he changed it while investigating the Nation of Islam. There wasn’t any chemistry between Holy War, and me but he did booty call me at two in the morning the next night. I was pretty clear with him that I was not a walking vagina and would not be ingesting his Holy War sperm in any orifice. And anyway, he couldn’t spell either.

Then there was Bruce. He could spell. Bruce and I had a phone relationship for a very long time. He sounded crazy but very smart, which I like. He had the voice of a DJ and the conspiracy theories of a paranoid Libertarian. His catch phrase was, when we get together we’re going to do boy-girl stuff. I can’t wait to do some boy-girl stuff with you. You’re going to like it when I kiss you neck and we do boy-girl stuff. Bruce said he was 44. He thought the boy-girl stuff was adorable. It bugged the shit out of me. I was willing to check him out regardless. Because there is always that maybe. Maybe he’ll be a good man. Maybe the boy-girl stuff is a playful way to talk about sex and I’m being too critical.

Being single scares couples. Couples people are afraid for you and of you. They don’t understand how you can sleep nights alone. How you can bear it. They don’t understand why you like in some cockeyed way your freedom that you don’t need to be accountable to anyone. That’s the good part of being single. On the other hand, it’s hard, for me at least not to have a partner to tell my day to. It’s the part I hate the most, not having someone to tell my day to. Being coupled is a grass is greener dream. And as well as I know this is as well as I have purchased and A ticket to that dream.

I met Bruce the Internet boy girl stuff guy. He was a freak. Of course the picture he sent me of himself was 20 years younger then the balding, chapped lipped man who cooed at me over tea about doing boy girl stuff. And he wouldn’t stop talking. I didn’t know what he was saying. It was like he was speaking in Yak. No one really walked on the moon – boy girl stuff – Black Ops – boy girl stuff – QVC selling Euro Dollars – boy girl stuff – cattle mutilations – boy-girl stuff – US shadow government – boy-girl stuff. The US government infected its population with AIDS boy-girl – what the hell? Are you kidding me? Is that the world you want to live in Bruce Boy-girl-stuff? Cause I’m having none of that. And I don’t walk the Art Bell road and you wanna know something else? I don’t do boy girl stuff because I was a woman. I am a woman and I want to do man-women stuff. When I told Bruce I didn’t think we had enough in common to hang out he said, but you like me, don’t you? Such a funny and frail question I thought. I was a stranger. What did it matter if I liked him? But it mattered to him. So I said yes. I said yes because he needed to hear yes and I knew it. I understood it, even if it was as delusional as wearing a wedding gown to a soccer match in Argentina.

Why was I meeting these Holy War, Boy-Girl stuff men on the internet? What was wrong with me? Did I do it because they couldn’t see me right away? Because I wouldn’t be judged for my size right away? Is my size an issue for them or for me? I hated how I looked. I hated my war with food and my body and that I binged and my body grew and shrunk and grew again. I hated that I didn’t look like Jennifer Anniston or have her hair. Or have the ability and patience to blow dry my own. I’d rather be constipated for a month than blow out my own hair. Once a really long time ago my friend Julie asked me why I walked around like I was apologizing for myself. I wasn’t like Julie who walked into a room with her beauty strong as a tsunami. I am a big girl. You can’t win when you are a big girl in this city unless you take the city out of the equation and believe you are lovable. Big isn’t lovable. Big is unacceptable. Or so I thought.

I took my dog walking one night. Across the street was this hip-hipster guy with two huge Alsatians. I stopped and stared at their beauty. I was jealous of the dogs. What had I come to? My dog, a Shepard lab mix named Harper had no interest in the super cute guy and his gorgeous dogs. Harper just wanted to smell the grass. Harper just wanted to feel the world around him, happily. Completely content. I balked at this show of unconditional love for himself and his world. And suddenly the cute guy with the beanie and the van duke and the gorgeous dogs looked tawdry to me. Like the dogs were his worth, his diamonds, and in their reflection he sparkled. Harper just sparkled. He likes the dog he is. I had an epiphany then. Harper loved me because I loved him. He loved the grass because it was grass. And he was happy being a mixed breed. I’ve read books, I’ve been in group therapy, regular therapy, ad naseum, but never have I seen so clearly what it is like to just be. Not care about the Jennifer Anniston dogs across the street. Just be.

Something in me opened. Shifted. I am good and sexy and viable. At least my dog thinks so.

I met someone not too long after that. He can’t spell but that’s okay because he’s from another country. I met someone who looks me in the eyes, is proud of me, patient, thinks my butt is sexy and calls me a tiger. He is someone I can tell my day to.

And I feel different. I get afraid that he will go away. But he stays. He is the gentle in the night. He is my internet substitution of all the pics, lols, rolfl’s and brbs. I changed. I let him in. I let a fine man in. The Internet chapter is closed. And when I walk my dog, I thank him. He is who he is and does not reach for chaos to make him feel calm. I’m a slow learner.