Read Smart vs. Pretty for Free Online Page B

pimping me. Right? This whole thing is one big pimping operation. I’m right, aren’t I? I can respect that. Where do I sign?”
    After ninety minutes, sixteen men had been shown the door. Amanda asked, “Are we being too strict?”
    Clarissa said, “If there are enough applicants, we might as well make it competitive. Number seventeen!”
    Amanda’s eyes rose to watch number seventeen slide up to the table. He was tall, with strong legs to carry him anywhere he’d want to go. He wore a heavy parka over a faded flannel shirt made soft by dozens of washes. His jeans were dark blue and stiff. Amanda found his green eyes glinty, twinkly. His lips were plump and red, a beacon on his diamond-shaped face. Amanda could hardly drag her gaze off those lips. She said, “Hello there.”
    He handed his info to Amanda and turned his lush lips into a pillow of smile. Transfixed, Amanda merely stared. Clarissa coughed politely and took the card out of Amanda’s hand.
    “‘Charles Peterson, nickname Chick. Environmental biology grad student at Columbia,’” she read. “‘World traveler, mountaineer, thirty-two years old.’ Aren’t you a bit old to be a grad student?”
    “I took the summer after college to climb the three largest mountains in the Western Hemisphere,” he said. “A monthlong summer trip turned into a decade. I’m only just back in America after a long stay in Jamaica.” His voice was a bit high, an octave out of place, considering his height.
    “No offense, but the contest is for straight guys only,” Clarissa said.
    “You think I’m gay?” he asked, turning a tomato hue. Amanda flinched, feeling his embarrassment.
    Clarissa said, “If you’re not gay, prove it."
    Looking right at Amanda’s button nose, he said, “If you weren’t wearing that sweater, I’d be gone by now.” He was referring to her baby pink mohair crewneck. It highlighted her rosy glow and auburn hair. When she wanted to be lethal, Amanda wore this sweater, the epitome of hyperfemininity made for women with large enough breasts and long enough hair. If she played her cards right, perhaps she’d be pulling off the sweater with Chick Peterson later that night. No, no, she admonished herself. Control, girl.
    He said, “When I go down on a woman, I never flick my tongue. The clitoris is very sensitive, especially right before orgasm—in fact, it pulls back into its hood as orgasm gets closer and closer. Long, flat tongue strokes, up and down, sometimes round and round, work well for me.”
    “Works well for me, too,” said Amanda.
    Clarissa said, “Be back here at seven o’clock tomorrow night. Congratulations, Charles. You’re a finalist.”
    He left the store. Amanda wished his parka weren’t long in back so she could have a peek at his ass. She instantly began fantasizing about when she’d see him again. What she’d say and wear. How he’d respond when she ran her finger up and down the length of his naked arm. The idea made her own arm hair stand on end.
    “Earth to Amanda,” Clarissa said, elbowing her in the ribs. “Remember what I said about not dating the contestants. Number eighteen!”
    The next applicant was blandly handsome with a square jaw and shiny dark hair. The muttonchop sideburns saved him from being too conventional. He wore a suit and overcoat by Hugo Boss. Amanda touched it. “Cashmere,” she said. A coat like that cost over two thousand dollars. “What’s a natty guy like you doing at a coffee contest like this?” Amanda asked.
    “This isn’t the VH-1 Fashion Awards?” he asked. Clarissa chuckled. Amanda detected more than mirth in her response.
    Clarissa read from his card, “‘Walter Robbins. Age: twenty-nine. Profession: Catalog model.’”
    “Which catalogs?” asked Amanda.
    “J. Crew mainly, but my agent is trying to get me into Eddie Bauer and L.L. Bean.”
    “You do look familiar.”
    “You’ve seen one guy in a nylon shell, you’ve seen them all.”
    “Seriously,”