The Rom Con(8)
Ugh, Brawler—Siren’s nemesis and the thorn in our collective side. Just hearing the word spikes my blood with adrenaline, bringing with it the memory of Brett’s rejection like a fresh, still-stinging wound.
Originally founded a decade ago by a pair of college roommates as a site focused mainly on sports betting, Brawler unwittingly stumbled upon a substantial—and lucrative—untapped market: emotionally stunted man-children hungry for validation of their sports-and sex-obsessed lifestyles. Once the site’s scope was broadened to a more comprehensive “by men for men” format, they quickly amassed an army of rabid fans and never looked back. The content they churn out is about what you’d expect: sports scandals, toilet humor, click-through galleries of scantily clad coeds. With its provocative, clickbaity headlines and misogynistic editorials designed to drum up as much controversy as possible, Brawler lives up to its name—and then some.
Siren’s long-running feud with Brawler dates back years before I worked here, and legend has it it’s all because of George Clooney.
Here’s the backstory: Not too long after Cynthia founded Siren, George proposed to Amal, and they married later that year in a splashy, star-studded Italian wedding. Their nuptials dominated entertainment news, with every outlet running near-identical versions of the headline A-LIST ACTOR AND NOTORIOUS BACHELOR GEORGE CLOONEY MARRIES LAWYER. Despite an accomplished life and impressive résumé, Amal was relegated to a nameless footnote, her identity immaterial, her only noteworthy accomplishment apparently taming an untamable man. Galled by the slight, Cynthia penned a wedding announcement of her own: TRILINGUAL, INTERNATIONALLY RENOWNED HUMAN RIGHTS LAWYER AND FORMER ADVISER TO UN SECRETARY GENERAL AMAL ALAMUDDIN MARRIES SOME ACTOR.
Overnight, Cynthia was crowned journalism’s latest “It” girl, the feminist voice of the digital media generation, putting her and Siren squarely on the map. But just as her fledgling website was enjoying the warm glow of the spotlight, Brawler wrenched it back by publishing their own snarky hot take: bachelor George Clooney’s obituary. And since the media loves nothing more than a feud, the headline tug-of-war and resulting press frenzy catapulted both sites into a battle of the sexes so intense, we’ve been locked in a death match ever since.
Cynthia slams her laptop shut with more force than necessary. “I hate them, but traffic is traffic. So let’s all thank Brawler for spreading our message,” she says, raising her hand to the window in a one-finger salute.
“Speaking of Brawler, have any of you heard of ‘Sacred Saturdays’?” I ask as everyone starts gathering their things.
“Ugh, yes,” Kara, a petite, freckled blonde and one of our beauty editors, groans from across the table. “My boyfriend thinks it’s hilarious. News flash: You sound like an asshole.”
“I made the mistake of dating a ‘Brawler Bro’ once,” Jordan says as she twists her hair into a bun. “Worst few weeks of my life. He forced me to tag along with him one weekend when he went back to hang at his frat house. He was twenty-seven.” She grabs her laptop and stands. “Never again.”
“Thank you for validating me.” I briefly summarize my run-in with Brett the buffoon and am gratified by their appropriately outraged reactions. “I guess I didn’t realize Sacred Saturdays was a Brawler thing, but I googled around, and get this: They’ve trademarked it.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Cynthia tosses over her shoulder, scrolling through her phone as she heads out the door. “If there’s one thing those lowlifes at Brawler have figured out, it’s how to monetize being a Neanderthal.” She waves as she exits, her harried assistant rushing to keep up with her.
“They’re like a cult,” I muse to Natalia as the rest of the women file out. “With an army of brainwashed followers. Why does everyone pretend they’re a legitimate news organization?”
“Because if you go after them, their fans go after you,” she points out, looping an arm through mine and tugging me toward the door. “It’s not worth the hassle.”
“They’re basically encouraging an entire generation of men to be the worst versions of themselves, and no one’s going to call them out on it?”
“That’s about the long and short of it,” she says blithely. “Listen, I’m seriously about to gnaw off my own arm. Can we go?”
* * *
“DO YOU THINK this dress sends the right message?” Nat asks later that afternoon, pirouetting on the pavement as we wait to get checked in. “I’m going for I’m bold and beguiling, but won’t upstage you in the press.”
I fan myself, trying not to melt in the city’s muggy late-August heat. “I think it says I’m single and ready to mingle, which you most certainly are not,” I respond dryly, thanking the publicist as she waves us inside. “Does Gabriel know you talk this way?”
“Are you kidding? I sent him a selfie before we left and reminded him that Eric Jessup is number one on my hall pass list. A little jealousy goes a long way.” She checks out her reflection in the mirrored glass walls as we walk past. “Can’t have him getting complacent.”
I chuckle, knowing her outrageousness is (mostly) for show and she’d never cheat on Gabriel, her devoted boyfriend of more than a year. They’re so into each other, it’s actually kind of disgusting. In fact, I’ve often wondered if she wishes she’d moved in with him instead of me, though at the time her rent was hiked and I found myself searching for yet another new roommate, it was too early in their relationship for cohabitation. Natalia Kimura was my best work friend prior to becoming roommates, and while I initially worried we might get sick of each other, her frequent sleepovers at Gabriel’s quickly negated that concern—and despite our differing personality types, our living situation has proven surprisingly harmonious.