The Knocked Up Plan

Ryder Lockhart stands in the doorway of the studio next to mine, his arm resting on the door. That’s one lucky door.

If someone needed a photograph for a catalog of the casual, cool, confident male, Central Casting would serve up this man. The white button-down shirt that hugs his delicious biceps is peeled up at the cuffs, revealing strong and worshippable forearms. The front can’t hide how flat and firm his abs are. I must thank the maker of that shirt in my daily prayers. His black jeans are neatly pressed and fit just so yummily on his hips. For the record—yummily is not an adverb, but it should be. I’ll work on my campaign to Merriam-Webster, starting tomorrow.

His eyes are full of naughtiness as he meets my gaze. “Clearly you haven’t tried the Wheelbarrow with the right man,” he says.

I tap a red manicured nail against my bottom lip as if I’m considering this. “You think that’s the issue with the Wheelbarrow? Not the fact that I’d be upside-down during nookie?” I ask ever so innocently.

A lopsided grin shimmers across his fine lips. Yeah, they’re yummy, too. He simply suffers from an extreme case of handsomeness.

“I do, indeed, think that’s the biggest hurdle. There are certain advantages for the fairer sex when it comes to that position, but it requires a partner who knows exactly how to hold on properly,” he says in that deep, gritty voice. He could read the phone book and make it sound like foreplay, which means everything he says makes you feel like a cat in mating season, even if he’s talking about changing the toner in the copy machine. I’d probably have a dirty dream about toner if he did.

But his filthy-fantasy-inducing voice is only one-quarter of the assets he possesses for wooing the ladies. The other three quarters? A thick head of soft and wavy light brown hair, cheekbones carved by the gods, eyes that inspire dreams of tropical waters, a body handcrafted by his own rigid discipline, and a brain shaped and chiseled by Stanford.

Fine, that was more than four quarters. Well, what-the-hell-ever. He’s got more than his fair share of chickadee-charming tools. It’s my job to notice this stuff.

Balancing my laptop and notebook on my hip, I shove my copper-colored hair off my eyes. “Is that your way of inviting me to take your wheelbarrow out for a ride around the garden?”

His lips curve up in a mischievous grin. “Nicole, don’t you know? You can ride this ride any time.” That’s where his teasing ends. “But holy smokes, the end of your show.” He clutches his hand to his chest as if he’s in pain. “Were you about to cry, too?”

“Oh, it was awful, wasn’t it?”

“So sad,” he says, shaking his head. “Almost makes me want to take on the job for Rachel myself.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“I’m considerate like that.”

“You’d be a Good Samaritan of orgasms, then?”

“Perhaps it’s my true calling,” he says, in a completely serious tone.

“Patron Saint of the Big O?”

He snaps his fingers and points at me. “Yes. That’ll go on my new business cards. Maybe I’ll even make house calls to administer my special brand of medicine.”

I make a stop sign midair. “You’re the worst. Seriously the worst.”

“But I’m the best at Ping-Pong. Are you all set for the match later this week?”

“I’m always ready for the matches,” I say, then pretend to whack a white ball with an imaginary paddle. We play on our company team in a tournament-style game that raises money for local kids’ charities. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise—Ping-Pong is a game that, if played well, is great for your ass. “Incidentally, I have a tip on the guys at RBC that we’re playing against. One of them has a powerful but ridiculously wide swing. So much that his teammate is constantly jumping out of the way.”

Ryder’s baby blues spark with strategic understanding. “Which means if we time it right when hitting to the teammate, we might find that the ball clatters to the floor while he’s trying to avoid getting whacked by the guy next to him.”

“Exactly.”

“Brains and beauty,” he says as he roams his eyes down my body.

He’s not hitting on me. It’s just his way. I give him a demure little curtsy as thanks. “Likewise.”

“Also, for the record, there are many ways to bring a woman pleasure with the Wheelbarrow. If you’re not enjoying it, he’s doing it wrong.” He steps closer to me, and I catch a whiff of his cedar cologne. He raises his index finger and moves it close to my lips as if he’s going to shush me. “And don’t let me hear those pretty red lips ever knock the Crouching Cowgirl again.”

I roll my eyes. “It. Hurts. The. Feet.”

“Boohoo. I bet it doesn’t hurt the—”

I pretend to zip his lips and throw away the key. I shoo him into the booth where he records his show. “Go dispense your manly wisdom.”

When it comes to on-air work, Ryder is basically, well . . . me.

But with a dick, and with the priorities that come with said appendage.

The funny thing is he was hired about a year ago, and his show was supposed to be a funny but earnest forum to offer dating advice to dudes. Lately, though, his show has been all about getting laid. It’s still funny, but it’s just different. A little crasser, if you will. Maybe it sounds like my show is about getting horizontal, too, but it’s not. My goal is to maximize women’s opportunities—for dating, mating, cohabitating, and, eventually, procreating.

“By the way, your show was great,” he says, his tone stripped of bravado now. He smiles, and it’s all genuine. “I always enjoy listening to it.”

I blush. “Thank you. Same to you.”

“Keep up the good work.” As Ryder heads into his studio, I linger a bit in the hallway, shifting my laptop to my other hand, checking out the man through the window.

I like to think of myself as a woman of many talents. I know how to run at the mouth on air, I can craft a snappy column on the dos and don’ts of the most popular fetishes, I can dole out excellent trash talk at sporting events, and I’m also a top-notch appraiser of men.

Picture an art appraiser. That crusty old fellow in tweed and elbow patches, wire-rimmed glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, cataloging the brushstrokes, the signature, the type of paint in a Van Gogh.

He wonders if it’s fake or real?

Is it real or fake?

That’s me when it comes to men.

I flip open my spiral-bound notebook with dogs in spacesuits on the cover. I uncap my pen and scribble some quick notes.

Nice jawline. Check.

Strong arms. Check.

Height. Check, check, check. Because, you know, height is some kind of Holy Grail.

Charming and likable. Check-a-rooney.

The Stanford pedigree makes him especially appealing, though. Empirically, of course. I’m only jotting down thoughts for my ongoing research into the male species.

I head to my office to work on my latest column on the best knots to use in your scarves for binding your wrists together in front, behind, or above the head, as well as for tying to the bedpost, a chair, or the fridge.