Manwhore(4)By: Katy Evans
Unfortunately my market is tough. A freelancer before I even graduated college, I had no steady income. You live by your muse, and she’s not always ready with ideas for you. Then I answered an advertisement in the Chicago Tribune. Edge was looking for weekly columnists for topics such as fashion, sex and dating, innovations, decorating tips, and even fancy pet discoveries. The office covered two floors in an old building downtown, and it hardly represented the corporate environment I’d envisioned.
The top floor is littered with reporters at their desks. The floors are wood, the editorial offices peppered with bright colors and satin cushions, always full of the buzz of phones and people chattering. Instead of the business suits I imagined wearing to work, I write in an oversize, trendy T-shirt-with-an-attitude and a pair of socks that have the words I Believe on the toes. It’s a crazy magazine, as crazy as some of the stories and columns we put out—and I love it.
But bloggers are putting us out of work, our circulation growing tinier by the second. Edge needs something cutting-edge, and I’m desperate to prove to my boss that I can bring it to her.
“Gina!” I call to my roommate when I stroll into our two-bedroom flat.
“We’re over here!” I hear Gina call.
She’s in her bedroom, with Wynn. They’re my best friends. Wynn’s a redhead, freckled, pink and sweet, very unlike the dark, sultry Gina.
We’re like Neapolitan ice cream. In height, Gina and I are the tallest, while Wynn is an elf. Gina and I try to use logic; Wynn is “Team Feelings” all the way. I’m the career girl, Wynn is the nurturer, and Gina is the sexpot who hasn’t yet realized she could use men as her personal dildos (if she wanted to). She doesn’t want to. Really.
Dropping my bag at the door, I spot their huge Chinese food picnic and join them on the floor.
They’re streaming an old episode of Sex and the City.
We eat in silence and watch a little bit, but I’m not even paying attention to the screen. I’m too wound up, and finally blurt, “I’ve got my story.”
“What?” They both stop eating.
I nod. “I’ve got my first full story. It might be three pages, four—hell, five. Depending on how much information I end up with.”
“Rachel!” they yell in unison and come toward me.
“No tackle hugs! Shit! You spilled the rice!”
They squeal and then ease back, and Wynn goes to get the Dustbuster. “So what’s it about?” she asks.
“What about him?” Wynn asks.
“It’s . . . almost undercover.” They’re practically popping out of their skin with anticipation. “I get to meet him.”
“I’m trying to get an interview to ask about Interface.”
“But I’ll also be researching him in secret. I’ll be . . . unlayering him,” I tease.
“RACHEL!” Gina bangs my arm, knowing I’m usually straitlaced.
Wynn shakes her head. “That man is hot!”
“What do you two know about him?” Gina asks.
I pull out my laptop. “I was just online liking all his social pages, and the guy has over four million Instagram likes.”
We hop onto other sites and check out his Twitter feed.
I’m not impressed by what I read.
“His rep wouldn’t give me an appointment—she wrote me down on a list. I wonder if I’ll have better luck reaching out on social media.”
“Let’s look for a smexy profile pic in case Saint himself sees it.”
“Not happening,” I say.
“Come on, Rachel, you have to make yourself as appealing as possible. This one.” She points at a picture in one of my old social media albums where I’m wearing a secretarial skirt and blouse, but the three buttons between my breasts are about to burst.
“I hate that shirt.”
“Because it shows off what you’ve got. Come on, let’s do it.”
I change my profile picture, then send him a message.
Mr. Saint, this is Rachel Livingston with Edge. I’d love it if you granted me the opportunity for a personal interview in regard to your rising new star, Interface. I’ve put in the request through your office as well. I’m available anytime. . . .