Let's Be Frank by Brea Brown Read Free Book Online Page B

alright?”
    “Poop Head?” Remus suggests with a giggle.
    “Penis Butt?” Percy chimes in with a four-year-old’s version of extreme profanity.
    Laughing at their silly potty mouths (hey, they’re not my kids, so I don’t have to be a mature role model), I say, “No! C’mon! At least make it something cool. How about Captain Poop Head?”
    They shriek and squeal at my joke, getting louder and louder as they throw out more outrageous, “illicit” names. Suddenly, from the top of the stairs, Hans’ voice booms at us, “What’s going on down there?”
    I cover my mouth and widen my eyes, shaking my head at the rest of them.
    After a suitable pause, Hans barks, “Cut it out, will ya? We’re trying to watch the game.”
    When I’m sure the coast is clear, I stage whisper, “Who wants to talk to Grandma June again?”
    Ten voices chirp, “Me!” as I set up the board once more.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Five
    This is a test. I know it is. I get it. “Chicks before dicks,” and all that business. Or, as guys like to say, “Bros before hos.”
    Whichever offensive, profane way you like to express it, the sentiment is the same: friends will be around after the inevitable breakup, so loyal friendship trumps romantic partnership every time. Or should. I suppose. Until you’re married. Then you’re supposed to reverse position on that and forsake all others. Is it any wonder we don’t have a clue as a society what we’re doing when it comes to all this shit? I mean, it’s confusing as hell!
    I will say one thing for men, though: at least we don’t parade potential mates in front of our friends like some kind of premarital inspection.
    I might understand if I don’t pass muster with Frankie’s best friend, Betty, it’s game over, but that doesn’t mean I don’t resent it. I do resent it. Why does this Betty person get the final say? And what if I don’t even want to move on to the next level with Frankie? It’s sort of presumptuous of her to assume that’s the case.
    As a matter of fact, after a few dates, I’m starting to think she’s not worth the trouble. And I’m not only talking about sex. Give me some credit. I’m not one of those guys who thinks a woman owes it to me after a few dinners and drinks and my sitting through some godawful comic book movie (during which she moaned and drooled over every silicone-coated man in tights that flew, zoomed, and leapt across the screen). I don’t feel even close to the way I need to feel about a woman to go there with her.
    But—at the risk of sounding like a misogynist asshole—she’s said more than one or two things about her past relationships that make me think she doesn’t have the same standards for sleeping with people that I do. There. I said it without using any ugly, judgmental words. I’m not judging her; I’m merely observing and comparing.
    But that means I’m starting to wonder what about me doesn’t meet her seemingly low standards for sexual candidacy. And it’s messing with my head a little. And leading me to do uncharacteristic things. Like, obsessively checking my breath and chewing gum, even though it aggravates my temporomandibular joint dysfunction (TMJ, or jaw pain, for those of you laypeople out there); dressing more preppy, then less preppy; experimenting with body sprays and colognes and deodorants… It’s costing me a fortune, all for something purely academic, since I don’t think I’d say “yes,” even if she suggested we did have sex.
    And now I’m being evaluated by the best friend? I don’t know… It chafes, that’s all. Honestly, if I weren’t feeling so vulnerable right now, like I’m running out of chances, like maybe I’ve bailed too early too many times in the past, I would have already lied several times about being too busy to hang out with her, hoping she’d give up on me before I had to have that awkward “It’s not you… well, yeah it is” conversation.
    “So, is she always