The Liberator

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Real men don’t cross their legs.

In an emergency situation, like if you need to adjust your junk, a dude can place ankle to knee. But that’s it. There shouldn’t be any danglage. I shouldn’t see one leg lying limply over the other, and I definitely—definitely—shouldn’t see you bounce your dangling foot.

The guy in front of me is breaking this Man Rule. And about a dozen others.

He’s wearing black-framed glasses I’m sure he doesn’t need and a Burberry scarf that’s as phony as he is. Even worse, he’s sipping champagne from a friggin’ crystal flute.

And he’s talking to my girl, Charlie.

And making her laugh.

Music from the party throbs and echoes off the basement walls. I’m not sure how I got here, and I’m certain I don’t know how Charlie ended up on the other side of the room with Guy In Touch With His Emotions. Raising a bottle to my lips, I watch as the guy uncrosses his long legs and recrosses them.

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