Page 22 of The Boyfriend Experience

“Yeah, you know. When men make women feel stupid by trying to explain something. Like… OK, you’re in real estate. The way you assumed I didn’t understand property values. That’s mansplaining.”

I point at her. “I didn’t do that. And I know what mansplaining is. Just… what am I supposed to mansplain about?”

She looks me up and down. Smiles. And says, “How about fitness? Jordan was right. You are very fit.” She lifts her eyebrows up as she says the word.

“Are there gonna be a lot of women in there?” I ask. “Like who am I directing this behavior towards? These guys bringing their girlfriends?”

She huffs. It’s sorta cute the way I exasperate her. “Love that you just assume everyone in there is a dude.” She rolls her eyes. “And no. Do not insult their girlfriends.”

I laugh. “So they are all men?”

“Obviously I’m not a man.”

“Obviously you’re not my target.”

“There’s only one other woman brewmaster in Colorado.” She makes a face. “Hanna Harlow. Do that to her. And,” she says, like this is another great idea she just thought of, “smack her on the ass too.”

“What? No. I’m not smacking anyone on the ass, Oaklee.”

“Just do it!” she says. “I paid a lot of money for this opportunity, Law. You need to do what I say.”

I have a childish urge to tell her she’s not the boss of me. But she kinda is. And she did pay a lot of money to have me hang with her for two weeks. So I say, “If the opportunity to smack her ass comes up, I’ll do it. But I’m not going in there with that as my goal. Give me something else here. I have no idea what we’re doing.”

“Just flirt with her, OK?”

“Her? I thought I was your boyfriend.”

“You are. Just trust me.”

And with that she turns and walks towards the door, waiting for me to open it for her.

I follow her, my hand on the door handle to pull it open. But then I stop and clarify because this makes no sense. “So I‘m supposed to act like your jealous boyfriend, mansplain biceps curls to this Hanna chick, and then be a douche and hit on her?”

“Exactly.”

But there’s no more time for talking because she places her hand over mine and pulls the door open.

Inside it’s dark and loud. Not with music, though there is some music playing on an old jukebox as we pass through the small lobby, but with gregarious conversation. Lots of men holding mugs, excitedly chatting with one another. All of them sporting beards. Most of them wearing tight jeans. A few showing off tattoos. All of them hipsters.

Hipsters, for fuck’s sake. I should’ve known this. Probably did know this unconsciously. But it never occurred to me how much I’d stand out in this crowd.

I am not a hipster. This Johnny Cash t-shirt and these old-school black Chucks can’t hide that fact.

As soon as people notice us there’s a chorus of “Oaklee!” being shouted out from all corners of the room. She’s very popular, I guess. Of course, if the entire craft beer movement in Colorado has just two female brewmasters, that’s not surprising.

She starts introducing me to them. There’s a Rosco, a Duke, a Cormac, an Ace, a Beckett, a Bear, and a Jack.

I feel like any minute now we’re all gonna break out into song. Start singing Sugar Boats by Modest Mouse and then talk about Whole Foods and our cool vinyl collections as we complain about people who drive cars.

Until I realize Law is kinda hipster too.

Fuck.

Their girlfriends are called Beatrix, Magnolia, Tallulah, May, Piper, Frankie, and Juniper.

Oaklee fits right in there as well.

Jesus. We’re a hipster couple. I suddenly feel the need to grow a beard and buy some pot.