Page 80 of The Frog Prince
“Because we can.” He lifts an arm, biceps rippling as he gestures to the cocktail waitress across the room. “So Katie said you work at City Events.”
“Yeah. You’ve heard of it, then?”
“Olivia’s hired me a couple of times to DJ different events.”
I groan. “Don’t tell me you’ve dated Olivia, too!”
His eyes crease, and he grins. “No. Olivia’s easy to look at, but I prefer men.”
My jaw nearly drops just as the cocktail waitress appears to take our drink order.
“Another round?” Kirk asks.
I nod. Then shake my head. “How about a different drink?”
“That was a terrible drink, wasn’t it?”
“Awful,” I agree, and reach into my purse, extract cash from my wallet. “But I’ll buy this round, and let’s try something else.”
*
Kirk and Iend up dancing later, and Katie finds us on the dance floor, tugs the guys she’s dancing with over to join us. For the next hour we’re all dancing and shouting over the music and sweating (at least I’m sweating), and by the time we escape the club, it’s after one. I don’t think I’ve been out this late in, well… in years. At least not since college.
I’ve only had a couple of drinks. And after several hours on the dance floor, my feet are killing me. I’m dying to rip my clothes off and climb into bed butt naked, but I had fun. Fun.
Is that weird, or what?
*
Monday arrives, andit’s work. After work it’s the gym, and I’m just glad when Monday’s over and Tuesday arrives, because that leaves only four more days in the workweek.
After I escape Olivia’s evil eye, I go out to dinner with Josh and Tessa, who act as if they barely tolerate each other, but I’m beginning to think are secretly seeing each other. We go to a little Cuban place in the Mission district, eat great food, drink more mojitos than we should, and then I cab it home.
Tomorrow I’m supposed to be out of the office most of the day on appointments, trying to generate new business, so I dress for success the next morning, spend extra time at home in the bathroom in front of the mirror, polishing my appearance, and the extra effort pays off. As I leave for work, I know I’ve come together okay. I feel like—and it sounds foolish, but it’s true—a million bucks.
Or a cool thousand.
But either way, it’s a heck of a lot better than what I’ve felt like this past year.
In the office I check my e-mail, return a few phone calls, attend a brief team meeting before grabbing a cab for the financial district.
Five minutes later as I walk down the street, portfolio beneath my arm, the San Francisco sun glinting overhead, and reflecting off the shining towers on California Street, from the corner of my eye I see heads turning. I pretend I don’t notice, but I do. On the outside I feel good. On the inside I feel… great.
Damn. I had to wait a long time to get this feeling. But it came. Shiny, bouncy hair. Clear skin. A couple of pounds knocked off. It helps that I chose flattering trousers and a fitted blouse that makes me look curvy on top with a nice, small waist. I’m wearing heels, too, which will kill me later, but I’m feeling no pain now, and as I walk, I just let it go.
I reach for the door of One California Street, and suddenly an arm stretches out above my head, opens the door for me, and I try not to smile too broadly as I glance up and nod my thanks. I’m not a particularly polished princess, and I think that deep down, men don’t really want princesses that are too sophisticated, too demanding. They want someone like me. Attractive but not plastic, smart and yet fundamentally kind. I can’t believe men really want the hard, beautiful bitchy royals out there. They want real, don’t they? They’ll want me, won’t they?
I press the elevator Up button, enter the elevator when the doors open, press 21 and step back.
Three men have entered with me, and they, too, press their floors and step back, and we’re all standing there, staring ahead. In the reflection I see one man looking at me. Watching me.
Glancing up, I see a shimmer of my face in the reflective stainless steel of the elevator ceiling, and for a moment I understand what this man sees—good hair, good face, good look—but instinctively I know that what he wants isn’t me.
He has his own idea of me. His own wish for me. I’d be the woman he needs, not the woman I probably am, and it crosses my mind that all the hair and clothes and makeup we women wear just add to the deception. Our exterior covers more than it reveals.
I’m not always so impeccably groomed, and I don’t want to be Barbie. And yet to get the attention, many of us put our best face forward, the carefully plucked, arched eyebrow, the flawless foundation, the smooth matte lip liner with the smoother tawny lipstick. It’s the illusion of a perfect face, but for me it’s not my real face. My real face is like me. Crooked. Flawed. Likable if you get to know it. But most men don’t get to know it. They get to know the shiny Holly, the Holly who cleans up well, the one who can talk sports and make pleasant conversation, and for most men, it’s enough.
For most men, that’s what they want. Well, that and nice tits and a hopefully cellulite-light ass. Oh, and also hot in bed, and a mouth that’s big enough to give a great blow job. And the desire, too, to give frequent head. Have I forgotten anything?