You've Got Male

Author note: Since it automatically removed my fictional website addresses, I am putting spaces in them.

Chapter One:

Be My Valentine, Monty Burns

"I can be your Valentine."

Smithers looked up with timid eyes to meet Burns' stony gaze. Mr. Burns scowled, sipped his brandy from his antique armchair, and said simply, "You?"

It surprised and pleased Smithers that his quiet plea hadn't evoked hostility from the object of his affection. "I mean, as long as we're both single, why should we spend the holiday miserable and alone when we could spend it together?"

"I suppose you're right," he said, sighing.

He put his hand on Burns' shoulder. "I know what will cheer you up. I'm preparing a special dinner for you tonight. I'm making roast pheasant, a steak and chard roulade, crepes with raspberry compote, and something I'm keeping a surprise." He moved his hand away and walked toward the kitchen. An hour later, he returned, pushing a cart conveying the elaborate meal. "It's unseasonably warm tonight. Why don't we dine outside in the garden?"

"Yes, very well. I could use a night out of the house."

Smithers' eyes lit up. "I'm glad you think so, sir." He pushed the cart outside to a little table set up with an antique candlestick cradling a candle that bore a lambent flame and dripped wax onto the lacy tablecloth draped over the table. He laid a cushion on the seat of Burns' chair and pulled it back, then guided him into his seat and pushed him in. As he cut and apportioned Burns' dinner, he said, "I hope you like it." Before taking any for himself, he stood at Burns' side, his breath arrested as he waited for Burns' appraisal of his cookery.

"Mm! Excellent, Smithers," he said, taking a bite of the roast pheasant. "Cooked to perfection."

"Thank you, sir," he said, smiling warmly. As bitterly as it stung when Mr. Burns upbraided him for falling short of his demands, it made it all the sweeter when he doled out compliments – Mr. Burns was not a man who would lie to spare his feelings, so he knew they were sincerely meant.

He summoned a string quartet from behind a nearby hedge, and they began to play a minuet. Smithers apportioned his share of the feast onto a dinner plate and took a seat opposite Mr. Burns. For a solid minute, he sat there, cheek resting in the palm of his hand as he watched Mr. Burns eat. If he could not have him for a lifetime, perhaps he could have him for a day.

Although Mr. Burns clearly enjoyed the food, his eyes drooped, forlorn. Smithers furrowed his brow in worry. "Mr. Burns, what's wrong?"

"Aren't we pathetic? Two single men spending Valentine's Day together."

"I love spending my time with you, sir." He uncorked a bottle of champagne and poured them two glasses. Tilting his glass to Burns', he said, "Cheers, Monty."

Mr. Burns listlessly picked up his glass and clinked it with the lightest of touches against Smithers'. "Cheers, Waylon." Each drank from his glass, then resumed eating.

Smithers put his fork down after a minute, noting Mr. Burns' lethargy persisted, intensified. "Cheer up, sir. I still have a surprise for you."

"Well, let's have it."

"Ah-uh," he chided. "Not until you finish dinner." Still staring into Burns' dejected eyes, his own softened with relenting sorrow. "Oh, I'll give it to you now." He lifted a tall metal lid from a tray, revealing a chocolate sculpture of Mr. Burns about a foot tall. "It's premium quality chocolate, but it's still not as sweet as you are."

Mr. Burns snatched the card from beneath his likeness rendered in chocolate. He read it aloud: "'Happy Valentine's Day, Monty – you'll always be the boss of my heart.'" He crumpled up the card. "I can't stomach this charade any longer."

"What charade?"

"Your pathetic simulacrum of a Valentine!" His eyes lowered as he said in a frail voice, "There isn't a soul who likes me for who I am."

"I like you, sir."

"That's what you're paid for."

"I stayed by your side when you lost your entire fortune. I wouldn't have taken you in if I only cared about your money."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. But you're still a third-rate substitute for a Valentine." He sighed ponderously. "Oh, but who would want anything to do with this lonely old man?" Without even looking, he knew Smithers had opened his mouth and so interjected, "And don't say you do!"

"But I do, sir, I do like you. I like you a lot."

"I need a woman, Smithers. And not just some gold-digging harlot. I need someone who truly loves me."

"There are people who love you."

"Who?" Smithers' breath hitched in his throat as he struggled to come up with a vague yet true response. "Mm-hm," said Mr. Burns, convinced he'd caught Smithers in a fulsome lie. He pushed his plate away and stood from his chair. "Valentine's Day is over. Dispose of this."

"Yes, sir," he said, eyelids heavy with dolor, his woe stemming more from empathic concern for his feeling of being unloved than disappointment at his casual dismissal of the meal he had imbued with adoring conscientiousness. As Mr. Burns headed indoors, Smithers sent away the musicians and cleared the table.

Mr. Burns sat by the fire in his sitting room. "Women aren't lining up down the block for me like they used to, Smithers. I'm beginning to get on in years."

"Sir, you're just as beautiful as the day I was born."

"How would you know? You were only a baby then."

"You're in this photo of my father at the company Valentine's Day party." He retrieved a photograph from his wallet. His father stood beside Mr. Burns with a group of employees beneath a banner reading, "We (heart symbol) Nuclear Energy."

"Oh, yes, I remember. Your father brought the most delicious sugar cookies. But no sooner had the party begun, he left work, leaving me no choice but to dock him a half day's pay. What could have been so damned important for him to take off without any warning?"

"Um, my mother was giving birth to me that day."

"Oh, that's right. Today is your birthday, isn't it? Well, isn't my face red; I had forgotten completely."

"That's okay, sir. You don't have to get me anything. Your presence is present enough for me."

"Oh, spare me." He took the photograph from Smithers' hand. "Even then, no one loved me."

Smithers stiffened his lip, angered at the thought of people making Mr. Burns feel unloved and unwanted even as he was gladdened to know the chances of a woman snatching Monty away from him were as slim as his rail thin physique. "If they can't appreciate you, it's because they just don't know what they're missing."

"Well, I sure as hell know what I'm missing. Having millions of dollars is peachy, but it can't buy me a soulmate. I can't pay someone to love me."

"You don't need to pay me," Smithers said, flinching at his impossible to resist slip-up, "...to help you find someone who loves you for who you are."

"It's no use. I've tried chatting up women at soirees and mixers and carousals and wingdings to no avail."

"I have a feeling we won't have to venture far."

"Oh, who am I kidding? Courting is a young man's game."

You wouldn't need to court me, sir.

Mr. Burns caught a glimpse of his MyPad on the table beside him. "Perhaps I've been going about this all wrong." He tented his fingers. "Tell me, Smithers – what is the trendy, hep new way people are meeting these days?"

"Um...at bars? Conventions? Coffee shops?"

Mr. Burns scoffed. "Get with the times, Waylon! It's the twenty-first century. I shall harness the power of the Internet to find a girlfriend."

"Are you sure about this, sir? Remember that time you tried Chatroulette?"

Mr. Burns shuddered. "I didn't know a balloon could even inflate up there. I wish I still didn't know." He shook his head as if to shake the image out. "No, no, nothing like that. I'm going to sign up for one of these computerized dating appliances." He took his MyPad into his hand. "I've been looking at some that seem promising. Have you heard of PlentyOfFish?"

"Oh, sure."

"I'll start there." He tapped and swiped at his device for a few minutes, then grunted in aggravation. "Blast it! They're mostly bald old men, and the few women are geeks!" He tossed the device to the ground.

Smithers picked it up. "See, here's the problem. You weren't on PlentyOfFish; you were on PlentyOfFission. This site is designed to facilitate professional networking for physicists and engineers."

"Oh. Well, that's a stupid name for a dating service, anyway. Too cutesy."

Scrolling on Burns' MyPad, Smithers said, "I found a list of dating sites. I'll read them off for you, and you can tell me if one sounds good to you." He looked down at the screen. "Snatch .com?"

"No, I don't want a woman who's into weightlifting."

"E-Horny?"

"Too crass."

"OK Crooked? Says here it caters to wealthy businessmen who skirt the law."

"No. I told you, I want someone who loves me for who I am, not for my financial success."

"The last one on this list is WannaWife. It's the oldest dating site still in operation, and it's geared toward finding a life partner."

"That one!" He leaned forward enthusiastically. "Smithers, set up my profile!"

"Yes, sir," he said, registering an account. "What alias should we use?"

"Hm...Morty Barns."

"And what should I write for your bio?"

"I am a playful spirit seeking someone to share in my good-natured contempt for humanity. I like making money, crushing my enemies, making peons bend to my will, and poisoning pigeons in the park on Sunday afternoons. In my spare time, I enjoy playing the clavichord, sitting by the fire with a good book, and playing a round of golf. I dislike unions, hippies, and sunshine."

Smithers took a moment to edit out autocorrect errors from the device's automated dictation software. "All right, sir. Your profile is now online. Now, we just need to take your profile picture." He pointed the device lens toward Mr. Burns. "Say cheese."

"No, wait, Smithers! I'm not ready. I'm in my robe, my hair isn't combed..."

"Nonsense, sir. You look ravishing." He snapped a picture, and the lighting was very good, making him look brooding, yet approachable. "This is a great picture of you. It really captures your intensity." He uploaded the photo to Burns' profile. "Hm."

"What is it?"

"Well, it says here that to complete your profile, you need to upload ten more pictures."

They looked each other in the eyes and held their gaze for a few seconds before simultaneously donning a gleeful grin and shouting, "Photo shoot!"

They walked into Mr. Burns' costume room, Smithers retrieving a tripod equipped to hold a MyPad steady. He set up the tripod in the middle of the room, then rushed to Burns' side as he sifted through racks of clothing. "We should take pictures with different themes – on the beach, in the jungle, off at sea, in a biker gang – ooh!" He pulled out a leather jacket and handed it to Mr. Burns. "You definitely need to put this on." He pulled out a sailor suit, a safari outfit, and a speedo. He kept some of his favorites of Burns' outfits together on one readily accessible rack in the event that Mr. Burns would want to dress up. "Wear these with the jacket," he said, handing Mr. Burns a pair of leather short pants.

"What shirt do you recommend?"

"Oh, you don't want to ruin the look by covering up those pecs." Mr. Burns disrobed and changed into the leather ensemble Smithers had given him. "Looking good, sir," he said, taking a candid photo of him.

"Smithers, I wasn't ready yet. Now, how shall I pose?" He looked to his feet.

"Get on that settee," he said, pointing to a burgundy sofa with midnight blue satin pillows perched atop it. "No, lie on your stomach. Then stretch your torso up."

"Like this?" he said, adopting the position with a modicum of difficulty.

"Excellent," he said in unconscious mimicry of Burns' usual manner. He adjusted the positioning of the MyPad camera. "Now, show me your sexy." Smithers had him cycle through a variety of poses, lying down, standing up, sitting down, kicking a leg up, hugging a pillow. Smithers then had him change outfits and repeat the process. During the hour, he took several hundred pictures. "Oh, these are terrific." To himself, he muttered, "Boy, am I going to have fun sorting through these tonight."

"These should reel in a real looker, eh, Smithers?"

Remembering the purpose of their impromptu photo shoot, Smithers' eyes grew sullen. "Oh, of course, sir," he said in feigned enthusiasm.

"I think I'll retire now," said Mr. Burns, yawning and grabbing his pink and white nightgown and nightcap.

Mr. Burns wrestled his way into the garments, then Smithers tucked the MyPad under his arm and took him by the elbow to guide him to his room. Mr. Burns fell asleep almost as soon as he'd tucked him in. Smithers smiled and gave his hand a brief squeeze before departing.