Archives for October 2011

How can she tell if he really likes her?

This is a problem most women have, although few men do. Perhaps it’s because women have more to invest and lose … oh, and because they don’t have hanging brains beneath their privates.

“How can I tell if he really likes me or just wants to sleep with me?”

“You’re hoping for both, aren’t you?”

“I don’t want to have sex with him if he’s not emotionally invested.”

“All right. That means you like him.”

“I do. I also don’t want to frustrate him and scare him away by making him wait too long.”

“Yep, that happens. Like you would with a new hire, you need to set expectations.”

“Right. I’ll tell him he can’t touch me until he likes me.”

“No, you need to be more specific. Show him some light at the end of the love tunnel. Tell him you’re selective about your lovers, and it could take a dozen dates before you’d be willing to go there.”

“Will a guy wait that long?”

“If he likes you he will … or, if his prospect pool has dried up.”


This is quite a love tug, isn’t it? If I’m attracted to a woman, by definition I want to have sex with her. That desire usually arrives before I have her name memorized. It’s a good thing as long as I don’t insist upon sex too soon, or have it and leave. It takes days or weeks to build a strong like; it takes seconds to build a strong desire.

I’m fighting myself by suggesting women make their men wait when women desire long-term relationships. Sometimes (right fucking now, in fact), a casual encounter is what the doctored ordered to get Russell the Love Muscle back in shape. A long sexual drought will cause a man to say and do whatever is required to close the deal. Humbly, I’ve been stunned by what came out of my mouth (and wallet) when I needed a slump-breaker.

Still, I bet most women can see through all the pleasantries and tell if there’s potential for a walk down the aisle or a walk of shame.

“If you know how you feel about him and have specific desires and goals regarding your relationship, you should tell him. Be honest. Be prepared for him to be scared off due to impatience. His departure will be a blessing.”

“Fine. Give me an example of what to say.”

“OK. Remove all distractions, sit across from him, and look into his eyes. It’s probably a good idea to hold his hands so he doesn’t sprint away. I’m kidding, sort of. Then say something to the tune of, ‘I want you to know I really like you and am excited about the possibility of building a significant relationship between us. I’m highly attracted to you and eager for the day we make love. If you feel the same way, we should enjoy the build up and not take things too quickly. Don’t worry. I won’t make you wait forever–just long enough to be confident that our hearts are equally invested. Fair enough?'”

“Wow. Can you print that on a note card for me?”

“Stop it, silly. Ad lib and he’ll find your sincerity refreshing … or, you’ll be back tomorrow for my consolation services.”

Older women are typically more skilled.

Don’t you love people watching? It’s my favorite spectator sport. While the MLB was having, arguably, its most exciting game in history, my fellow imbibers and I discussed mating strategies.

The prime subject was a fifty-ish woman with the usual (blond, bubble lips, boob-a-mungus). Her strategy, however, was a curious one. While sipping her vodka, she opened her suitcase-sized satchel and deployed her lure: a lollipop. Perhaps, when scientists come up with a way to create Maker’s Mark suckers, I’ll indulge. Hers was some reddish flavor, which matched her shiny lips. A female friend from the junior squad made the first comment.

“Do older women just love to give head or what?”

“Wow! Quite a sweeping generalization. Where did that come from?”

“Tell me you haven’t noticed Barbie-Plus-Twenty mouth-fucking her candy over there.”

“Yes, I may have, now that you mentioned it.”

“Right. So, answer my question.”

“First, let me respond by saying, ‘I sure hope so.’ Second, I think your question is best rephrased as, ‘Why do most older women love to give head?'”

“Fine. Why?”

This is one of those questions where my brutal honesty gets me into hot water–alone. After consulting my cougar manual, I provided the following reasons why one would have exceptional oral desires and skills:

  1. She wants to give her man exceptional pleasure. (Well, duh.)
  2. She realizes (Oh boy, how do I keep this one PG-13?) her engine oil is down a pint, as it would be on any classic machine, and she is providing additional lubrication to allow the piston to move freely without causing friction damage–affectionately referred to as “pink-socking.” (Calling you a pig would be an insult to pigs.)
  3. She has had lots more practice, young Asshopper. (What?)
  4. Her exceptional skills will distract from the bloody wreck below the neck. (That’s mean-spirited.)
  5. She finally admits that her quickest route to O-town requires the man to go down. Therefore, she is giving him a not-so-subtle hint that reciprocation will be required if he ever wants to receive another sheet-clenching, back-arching, ab-cramping, mental-sparks-a-flying BJ. (I’m assuming you’ve had one?)

Whatever her reason was, spinning a lollipop between her plumped lips looked odd. I’m not sure I would have enjoyed it any more if she were Rihanna. Similarly, it doesn’t give me vicarious turgidity when I see a woman eating a banana, Popsicle, or hot dog. Any stimulation that begins, ends with the inevitable bite. My penis is not food. I’d like to think of Willy more like a straw than a Rocket Pop.

Do people overanalyze you?

Do you hate being evaluated and diagnosed for flaws you can’t perceive? If someone has a problem with something about you, it’s her problem, not yours. If he insists you should eat, wear, or do something, he ought to mind his own beeswax.

I receive constant analyses, especially from females who happen to be occupado. They usually do this by talking about me in front of me. Rude! At least when I write my sarcastic generalizations I’m not naming people directly. I protect the guilty by changing the names. These self-proclaimed relationship experts pound away at my psyche without the common decency to do so behind my back.

“Phil’s problem is he has a closed heart.”

“I’m right here! What the fuck does that mean?”

“I’m not talking to you. Would you agree, Sheila?”

“Hm. Perhaps. Somebody probably broke his heart into itsy bitsy pieces.”

“That’s untrue! Hey!”

“No doubt. Now he’s all guarded and alone. He won’t let anyone in because he’s scared. Poor thing.”

“I’m so not fucking scared.”

“I agree. I wonder what she did to him. She probably cheated on him.”


“Ah, yes, complete ego destruction. So, now he doesn’t trust anyone–hence, the recluse and his cats.”

“You leave them out of this.”

“Or maybe it stems from some childhood tragedy.”

“Yeah, he probably left a valentine in a girl’s desk and she laughed about it and tore it up in front of the entire class.”

“Wait … what?”

“He’s probably turned away dozens of women who would be ideal partners. How sad is that?”

“So sad. He’s probably like the rest of the forty-plus men around here who never grow up and waste their time chase young girls around.”

“I love ALL women, not just the lovely, young, firm, tight, unspoiled ones.”

“When will he learn?”

“Maybe never. I can picture him hunched over in the corner of the diner with his morning paper and no companion.”

“Fuck, I do that now.”

“Women shouldn’t waste their time with him anyway. I mean, he’s fit and cute, but not worth the effort.”

“He does appear to have slimmed down and toned up, though.”

“Yeah. Hey, Phil, do us a favor and stand up for a second.”


“We’d like to check your butt out. Lift your shirt too.”

“I’m not ashamed, damn it. Fine.”

“Not bad. Almost time for a trim, I’d say. Grab his ass, Laura, and see if he has been keeping up with his lunges.”

“Sure, let me see. Hm. Decent. Did you just flex your butt, Phil? Admit it.”

“Oh … my … god! I am not a piece of meat.”

“Yes you are.”

Why do I defend myself? I should ignore the barbs and concentrate on The World Series. What do I care if women think my heart is closed? Damn it. What’s my alternative? Should I bounce around the bar with bouquets of flowers asking ladies to invade my heart and my life? Yuck. Sure, I’m flawed, but at least I can live with myself.

Why is gray hair sexy only on men?

A little darling commented about my chin fuzz saying she liked my “salt and pepper” look. Why? Does the white in my beard suggest that I am a wise elder or, perhaps, God-like? (All the pictures I see of God show Him pre-Grecian.) There’s a term floating around for sexy, older men: Silver Fox. Hm. I don’t know. When I see one of these men I think, There goes Blue Pill Bill. Then, I realize Bill probably has the same impression of me.

It’s an interesting distinction between men and women regarding hair color. When a woman encounters a Silver Fox, she finds him sexy not because of his hair color, but in spite of it. Gray hair doesn’t imply the man is unfit, physically or emotionally. It implies wisdom and maturity.

Put gray hair on a woman and she’s not going to be sexy, no matter who she is. Funny though–it’s not many shades away from the platinum blonde color that distracts men and pushes women up the ten-point scale.

Hair coloring is something completely acceptable and expected for women. Maybe that’s part of the turnoff: If she allows her hair to gray naturally, she’s not concerned about being attractive, so why should I be attracted? If men color their hair, people see it as silly and vain (except for hair stylists and hair product salespeople.)

“Have you ever considered coloring your goatee?”

“Yes. In fact, I actually bought the stuff once.”

“Did you try it?”

“Nope. I couldn’t bring myself to do it and deal with all the barbs. People would start paying me compliments, which would cause me to lie: ‘Oh, you look great. Something’s different.’ ‘Did you lose weight?’ ‘Is that a new shirt?'”

“Why wouldn’t you just tell the truth and say you colored your hair?”

“Because that would be seen as a display of low self-confidence and put me in an indefensible position.”

“Not at all.”

“Oh, bullshit. You’d be kind and supportive, but you’d begin wondering if I’m wearing Spanx and eyeliner.”

“Ha, ha. Are you?”

“No, but I am carrying a bratwurst in my pocket. Wanna see it?”

I hear scientists have developed a pill that will turn our hair back to its original color. OK, if everybody does it, fine. I’m sure the pill will have some undesirable side effects. Maybe it will give men the desire to skateboard, play acoustic guitar, and hang out around Apple stores. Great. I’ll have a pill that helps me have sex with women I’m not attracted to, a pill that allows me to eat food that’s not good for me, and a pill to override my reminder to avoid doing things I’m too old to consider.

The Man Can’t Control Himself

Stay away from men in high demand. That’s the best advice I could give you, whether you’re a starlet or a high school senior. It applies forever. This doesn’t imply that you have low ambition. It’s common sense. You’re not taking home a piece of art or a sports car. The higher the demand is for your man, the more competition you have and the harder it will be to keep him loyal.

But, don’t just take my word for it. Look around.

No threats will keep a mega-opportunity-having dude from messing up either. Financial threats, limited access to loved ones, eternal damnation, reputation destruction, and physical pain aren’t enough. Why? Because men have fallen behind women on the evolution track.

Women usually think shit through logically and know not to jeopardize long-term satisfaction for short-term gratification. Conversely, as soon as two words make it from his ear to his cortex (“blow” and “job,” if you must ask), the future fades and the man reaches for the cookie jar. Bad boy!

I said this before to Sandra and I’ll say it again to Demi: You need to find a low profile dude who wouldn’t risk losing something so unobtainable for momentary bliss.

Think about it. When I walked into the bar tonight, two people were happy to see me, and neither one would ever consider sleeping with me–yes, the bartenders. The rest of the patrons may have noticed me and, heck, a woman looking to breed may have even raised an eyebrow at my fashionable jeans. Yet, no vaginas were tossed my way.

Now, if Ashton walked into the same establishment, practically every available coochie-toter in the place would suddenly be an option and, thus, a temptation. It takes too much to override that sensation. The male ego rises above common sense and creates an insensitive prick. The dude knows that if he were to plop two of these women into a hot tub, very little good could come of it. He knowsthe likelihood that one or both of those vixens will sprint to the nearest tabloid and cash in at his expense. He knowsthe hour-long boffapaloosa could never be worth the torment he’ll receive from the media, his wife, and family. He knowsthe potential financial devastation and total career destruction could be cataclysmic.

It won’t matter.

Here’s the oddest thing to me: The parts on the strange woman are going to feel remarkably similar to those on the woman he has waiting for him at home. The excitement coming from the naughtiness might make it slightly better–because, naturally, some of the passion faded at home–but not substantially. Less than ten seconds after he ejaculates, he’ll begin to regret what he did and wonder how he could be so stupid. Then he’ll go into justification, panic, and damage control modes. He’ll swear that if he’s lucky enough to get away with it he’ll never do it again. (Really?)

Go slumming, my dear. Find yourself a man who’s way out of your league–to the downside. Make sure he knows you’re way of it his league–to the upside. Then you have a fighting chance of keeping your puppy in your yard. Otherwise, don’t be surprised when you hear his lies.

What to do if you don’t like a best friend’s boyfriend?

If I’m dating your BFF and you don’t like me, I have some advice for you: Go dry hump a cactus. Ah, just kidding. It would be unrealistic for me to expect everyone to approve of my sarcasm. It’s also too much work to win the approval of people who I didn’t choose as part of my decision to date my woman.

So, what should you do if you do not approve of the man your friend is dating? Here are some suggestions:

  • Make sure that your disapproval doesn’t stem from jealousy.
  • Get all the facts. Certain physical attributes and skills can override some of the most glaring personality flaws.
  • Be supportive of your friend’s decision.
  • If you’re convinced that he’s a toad, do some investigative work, and gather evidence before presenting your case. A good place to start is by looking for his profile on popular dating sites. He’s probably lying about his age by five years, minimum, so start there.
  • Find excuses to avoid double dates where you would make your disdain for him painfully obvious.
  • Keep it to yourself. You’re not dating him so get over it.

Please don’t:

  • Sleep with him to discover what she sees in him.
  • Threaten him with bodily harm if he doesn’t excuse himself from the relationship.
  • Break them up by telling him that she has herpes, hepatitis, and incurable halitosis.
  • Schedule an intervention with her, especially on live TV.
  • Get her drunk and introduce her to a parade of male alternatives.
  • Invite her ex-boyfriend to an event the new boyfriend is attending.

Shouldn’t we be watering and weeding our own lawns, ladies? If your BFF is happy with her man–regardless of how douche-y he is–be happy for her and support her decision. Lord knows she’ll probably be back sipping chardonnay in the circle of singles soon enough. Be supportive and wait until he’s gone before deploying the BFF’s favorite phrase: “You deserve so much better, sweetie.”

I rarely find BFFs who approve of me. How sad is that? BFFs look at me with a certain expression, which has become all too familiar. It’s hard to describe in print though. If I made the face, you’d recognize it.

You can replicate the look. Go stand in front of a mirror and imagine at the foot of your bed is the most amazing pair of shoes you’ve ever seen. They’ll go with everything. When you tried them on, they made your butt pop, and wearing them was like walking on a velvety cloud of (synthetic) mink fur. Got it? They were too expensive, but you couldn’t let them go. You splurged and bought them. You can’t wait to don them this weekend and be the envy of your tribe. Aren’t they marvelous? OK, now imagine finding an uncle ejaculating upon them. Quick, note your expression. Yep, that’s the one.

The Nicest Guy and His Lonely Penis – Free eBook

This isn’t your average self-help book filled with good news and inspirational tales nudging you toward your soul mate. This is reality, folks, and it’s funny as hell. Enjoy this collection of essays from Phil’s numerous works detailing the relationship disasters that have him considering a third cat.

Pick it up for FREE here:

I don’t want anything F’d out of me.

I’m sorry. I’d rather not have anything F’d out of me, aside from the obvious. Is that odd? Why do people use such terms?

“I’m going to F his brains out.”

“I’ll F the S out of her.”

It sounds somewhat gross to me. Naturally, I’m taking things too literally as I often do. My mind ventures into a scene where she’s bouncing away on top of me as the mattress squeals and I try to hold in my Orange Chicken. Finally, she has overwhelmed me, I lose control, and crap the sheets while a tiny bit of brain shoots from my ear onto the nightstand.


“There. I told you. I just F’d the S out of you and banged your brains out.”

“You’re proud of this?”


“Look, there are so many other S-words I wouldn’t mind F’d from me. There’s sperm, semen, sweat, snot, and even spit. Of all the S-words, why that one?”

“It’s just a figure of speech. You don’t want me to say I’ll F the sperm out of you, do you?”

“Not if you’re ovulating.”

“You know what I mean.”

“It all sounds odd and unfair. Conversely, I can’t F anything out of you, can I?”

“I guess not. Well, a baby, but that’s a delayed reaction.”


“I guess some women ejaculate, so it is possible.”

“Great. Next time I’ll warm you up by saying I’m going to F the milky white pussy snot out of you.”


Quiet lovemaking is what I long for: no words–just moans, grunts, and sighs. I’ll give a pass to directions. We could all use those. Future bedmates, take all the liberties you want with “To the left, right, harder, softer, faster, slower, and kindly get the F off my hair.” Please don’t F anything out of me. Please don’t refer to me as Papi or Daddy and don’t refer to yourself as a bad girl, slut, ‘ho, or a dirty anything. Keep it clean!

Ground Down – Should marriages last forever?

Do you find some people wear you down over time? The tiny quirks shrugged away early in the relationship eventually become festering boils. We all seek companionship, yet it seems we’re not setup to tolerate the same people and situations for long. Comfort wears thin.

I recall my grandparents on my father’s side and their weekly visits. The performance changed little each time. Grandpop sat in a recliner staring into space, swirling his Seagrams while Nana kibitzed and helped Mom in the kitchen. I was just a kid but I vividly remember the look on Grandpop’s face. It was as if he were sedated, trapped in a room without an exit, and seriously contemplating how peaceful death would be.

What do I know? As I said, I was only a kid.

Every few minutes he’d instinctively defend himself, say something, and endure another lashing. If he ignored the wife, she said he never listened. If he voiced his opinion, she called him derogatory names in Italian (stugots). I assume my pop was used to the banter because it didn’t affect him. My mother dried the next dish and brought her husband another Bud.

I watched and wondered: Isn’t marriage supposed to be a happy union? Where’s the love and affection? I’d rather be alone than in misery. Maybe watching this scene damaged me–more than Linda Blair pissing on the floor in The Exorcist.

When my Nana passed, an interesting thing happened–Grandpop suddenly came back to life. His slouching shoulders squared, his subdued voice boomed, and his glassy stare cleared. The quick recovery, apparently, also involved another woman. The relatives were disturbed. It seems by their standards he hadn’t mourned sufficiently. (Nobody can set your time limit for mourning. You’re done when you’re done.) This new woman was regarded as evil. Nobody understood how he could go there so soon.

I didn’t see it that way. Sure, he loved his wife and shared decades of memories with her. Still, the air between them grew stale, as it often does between couples who have been together forever (although most won’t admit it). He didn’t kill his wife. She was oblivious to how the relationship was slowly killing him. Her departure was serendipitous. What a contrast to the formulaic scenes in romance films.

I blame the social pressures around the permanence of marriage. It works against nature. It must. Look at the statistics. Of the happily married minority, half of them are lying and heading down the dark path that consumed my grandfather. Most happy marriages have expiration dates, whether stamped on the certificate or not.

Why be sad about it? If your relationship continues blossoming in the fall, that’s awesome! If it doesn’t, might as well get back in line and try again. You should be improving along the way. Consider your past relationships as reps and sets towards strengthening your emotional fitness.

Let’s pledge to leave before we become zombies. Whether it’s a spouse, a job, or your hometown–when things start breaking bad, don’t be sad. Break away.

Nipple or Not?

A retired veteran claims he encountered a rare nipple sighting yesterday afternoon while casually strolling the city streets. Frederick Fudd, distant cousin of the late Elmer Fudd, alerted authorities when he allegedly saw a tiny brown wonder while crossing an intersection. Luckily, traffic cameras snapped a few shots before the mysterious object disappeared beneath fabric. Scientists are now scrambling to verify the sighting.

“What we need to determine is if the exposed area is indeed part of a woman’s nipple or a mole,” Professor Cuppington explained. “Nipples are rare this time of year, north of the equator. If what Fudd saw was indeed a nipple, it will be new evidence supporting global warming. If it’s a mole, I’m going to be fucking teed, as will an estimated ten million men when they realize they masturbated to a damn mole.”

When Fudd posted the now famous pictures on his Facebook page, people began viewing and sharing at record rates. Rallies cropped up in major cities, appropriately named “Occupy Bald Teat.” Fudd had no idea he’d be the spark that caused numerous sick days, random gatherings, hand jive, and a shortage of poster paper and Sharpies.

“Look, I don’t know nothing about any mole. What I saw was definitely a nipple on the end of some part-Asian girl’s tit. It wasn’t no wart neither. Son, do you have any idea how many nipples a man my age has seen? Thousands, I tell ya. Mole, shmole. Damn ingrates trying to make me look stupid.”

Demonstrators marched outside of the nation’s capital with signs supporting Fudd, such as:
“Jobs or nipples–we’ll take either or both, please.”
“Don’t tax the tatas.”
“Dang, it’s nipply out.”
“The end (of her boob) is near.”
“Jane 36:DD.”
“Hi Mom. Was I breastfed?”
“God save the funbags.”
“Nobody wants to motorboat moles.”
“Nothing would be finer than to also see vagin-er.”
“Fudd is Godd!”

The movement has certainly gained media attention as Fudd is scheduled to appear on Conan and in a local strip mall parking lot outside Subway. Although Fudd claims to be a Christian conservative, some Republican Party members have questioned his resolve, referring to his view as a “false nipple.”

“How can we be sure it’s a nipple?” asked a reverend supporter of republican candidates. “Sure, there are millions of milk-bearing boobie berries on God’s green earth, but He never meant to have them confused with skin maladies. There is only one true nipple. In times like these, we need to ask, ‘What would Jesus do?'”

When reporters caught up to Fudd at his home and told him about the reverend’s comments, he responded, “I’ll tell ya what Jesus would do: He’s point and say, ‘Look at those tits!’ just like I did.” It was the last comment obtained from Fudd before he slammed his camper door and mumbled something indiscernible.

Only time will tell if that controversial brown dot was nipple or not.

“How do I get a boy to like me?” she asked.

A high school student asked me how she could get a boy to like her. I engaged my parental guidance filter, hired three witnesses, and made sure the cameras were rolling. Just kidding, but I had to temper my answer.

I initially felt sorry for the young lady. Even a kid doesn’t want pity. I didn’t want to discourage her by disclosing the hundreds of fruitless crushes I have had. I figured the best way to dance around this issue was to ask questions.

“How do you know he doesn’t like you already?”

“He doesn’t even know who I am.”

“Is he a movie star or something? If it’s Bieber, this discussion is over.”

“No, he’s gross. It’s a boy in my high school.”

“Is he under eighteen?”

“I guess so. He’s in high school. Why does that matter?”

“It just does. All right. Is he in one of your classes?”

“No. I just see him around.”

“Next time you see him, smile at him.”

“OK, then what?”

“See if he smiles back. If he does, walk up to him and say hi.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Make sure he’s alone so he’s not distracted.”

“Fine. What do I say after hi?”

“Start with small talk. Ask him what his favorite movie is. After he answers, tell him you won two movie passes, and ask if he’d like to join you.”

“What? No! Boys are supposed to ask girls out.”

“I know, but you can put it out there.”

“Ugh. Can’t I just leave a note in his locker?”

“Bad idea. He’ll read the note and assume it is from some cheerleader he has a crush on. Then, he’ll follow her around like a puppy. He’ll probably find out where she lives and drive past her house, hoping for a glimpse. Then, he’ll arrange to run into her various places. He’ll finally get the courage to walk up to her and he’ll stutter like a fucking (sorry) ass. She won’t even know who the fuck (sorry again) he is and she’ll think he’s a nerdy, douche-y stalker weirdo. Her ape-sized college linebacker boyfriend will walk over and give her a kiss. Then he’ll give the stalker kid a wedgie, which will send the kid into a deep depression, which he’ll try to deal with by writing sad memoirs about how every woman he falls in love with is unavailable. Who knows? Maybe the lonely lad will publish a few books or write a movie script and drown his sorrows in bourbon.”


“Um. Yeah, leave a note in his locker. Great idea.”

It’s easier to give advice to mature women.

“How do I get this guy to like me?”

“Show him your tits.”

“You’re such a dickhead. Seriously.”

“Your ass?”

“Come on.”

“How about writing a note in lipstick on a bar napkin?”

“Welcome to nineteen-seventy.”

“Buy him a drink. Maker’s Mark is a fine choice.”

“Nice try. Get your own.”

“Damn it. Just walk up to the guy, get his attention, knock on the center of his chest, and ask, ‘Excuse me, is this open for business?'”


Three couples stood nearby as I worked on ridding another bar of its alcohol infestation. Out of respect and indifference, I usually ignore married women. However, I have noticed that when you ignore certain people they’ll display odd behaviors to grab attention. She wasn’t holding any signs, but began performing humping-jacks.

“Hey, how are you?”

“All right.”

“Are you from around here?”
“You’re married.”

“I know. My husband is right over there.”


“So …”


“Ah. You’re really cute.”

“You’re married.”

“You can still be cute,” she said while grabbing my arm.

“I guess it depends on your angle.”

“Wow, you have great arms too.”
“You’re married.”

“I know. Look, he’s cool. We’ve been married fourteen years. He trusts me. This is my friend, Emma,” she said, dragging her friend into the conversation–confusing me further.

“Hello, Emma. I’m Phil … and you’re married too.”

“Yes, I am. My husband is over there talking to Megan’s husband who, by the way, is my gyno.”

“Of course, he is.”

Both women continued the unwelcome flirtation with my buddy and me. It was disturbing not only because they were married, but because they were distracting us from the unwed. They finally left us to refuel, and we debated their intentions.

“Dude, I’ll hook up with a married woman, but not while her husband is a few feet away encouraging it.”

“You think they’re swingers?”

“No doubt.”

“They could be Christians.”


“Some sort of cult thing, possibly. Perhaps they lure single men back to their dens, drug them, and shove speculums up their rectums.”

“No more rum for you.”

“All right. They’re swingers. Would you do it?”

“Hell no. You?”

“That little spinner, Megan, is right in my wheelhouse.”

“Go for it.”

“Nope, but I must play along.”

Megan returned, sneaking up behind me and grabbing my ass cheeks like peaches.

“Wow, you have a great ass.”

“By all means, help yourself.”

“It’s harmless. See? It gets me all worked up and then I go home and fuck the shit out of my husband.”

“Happy to be of service. I assume it’s OK for him to go a-groping too.”

“Sure, but he’s talking football with his buddies.”

“‘Tis the season.”

“You can grab my butt if you like,” she offered as she turned away, bent over, and lifted her skirt–exposing her tiny pink panties. She looked over her left shoulder, smiled, and winked. Naturally, this caused me to imagine the next great one-handed catch Vincent Jackson would make.

“I like and I won’t, but thank you.”

My buddy asked if he saw what he thought he saw. I reassured him and excused myself to the restroom to cool off. After a few shakes I walked straight into Megan, who grabbed me and planted a slippery kiss on my paranoid lips.

“Hey, you.”

“Megan, what the …”

“Shh. Let’s go into a stall and do it. Want to?”

“Yes and no.”

“Don’t worry. It’s cool.”

“You have an unconventional marriage.”

“We just do what we need to keep it spicy.”

“Have you tried the jalapeño nachos?”


“… or beef. Both are picoso.”

My instincts prodded me but I couldn’t do it. What strange times we live in.

Enhance Me or Leave Me

No, I’m not seeking duck lips or melon boobs. If you’re currently single, don’t you find it interesting that as you age you limit entrance into your life to people who enhance it? The more self-sufficient you become, the less tolerant you become. I’m not speaking exclusively about sex. I doubt I’ll live to see masturbatory equipment make the other gender obsolete. It’s more about spending significant time with another person.

When we were children, we had little choice. We can’t select our siblings, neighbors, and classmates so we cope. Once we leave school, we begin to have options but the peer and familial pressures shove us down the aisle.

We go through the big wedding, nesting, reproducing, and straying. Once we hit our forties we begin to wonder what’s left. Some of us take the brave and expensive route of reentering the mating pool with what some people will call damage and baggage. Pity. My experience taught me well. I’m not damaged. I’m just fine.

Then, a new strategy arises: We’re no longer out to find soul mates; we’re casually seeking people who make us happier. We’ve learned that more than one person is qualified for the position, so we don’t race back down the aisle again. We enjoy the rides and step off once things get complicated. Expiration is approaching so there’s no time to force together pieces that don’t fit.

I’m sure some people (married ones) see this as a dysfunction. It’s promiscuity, perhaps. Still, I don’t desire casual sex; I desire pleasurable sex with minimal aftertaste. I’m confident that one woman at a time can deliver those goods, but I won’t find her without hunting.

For example, say you left your husband today. (If it is easier, assume he left you.) You’re single and free. Cast away all of the financial nonsense and parental guilt that will keep you tied to an unhealthy relationship. You’re single, financially secure, the nest is empty, and your hormones are still flowing. What will you do?

I’ll tell you.

At first, you’ll timidly stick a toe in the mating pool. It’s chilly. You’ll consider going back to what you know (sucks). You’ll stick another toe in. It’s the post-marital Hokey-Pokey, if you will. You’ll have good sex with bad men and bad sex with good men. You’ll be frustrated and consider going back again. You won’t. You’ll gain confidence that you can find good sex with a good man. You finally find it and hang on. Then it sours.

Suddenly, you’re approaching fifty and you realize you don’t need your sentences finished for you. You’ve arranged your nest the way you like it and it doesn’t need more birds. You’ve found your happiness and you’re not about to trade it for penetration. Mr. Next is going to have to enhance your life significantly or he’ll remain with his competition on the fringes.

When you’ve reached this point–whether pets are involved or not–you’ve become the most attractive person you’ll ever be. Isn’t that ironic?

One of Those Days

It’s midnight. You stare at the ceiling wondering where Steve Jobs went and why you’re not sleeping. You try to think of nothing, which means you’re thinking of thinking, thus shooting your sheep in the feet. You finally fall asleep and then your bed shakes. Fluffy decided 1 a.m. is a great time for a lick bath. Kick the sheets to chase away the nocturnal nit, sigh, and roll over. Oh no, now you have to pee. Maybe it can wait. You’re getting up at 6:30, so there should be bladder room. Nope. You get up and pee.

Back to bed. Find the warm spot. Arrange the pillows. What time is it anyway? Oh God, don’t look. You don’t want to know. Sleep now. Please!

Argh! Where is that awful sound coming from? Your alarm clock? It can’t be 6:30. Oh, shit. It is. Five more minutes. This DJ is too bubbly. He must have gotten a good night’s sleep. Prick. We don’t care what happened on DWTS unless it involved aliens and blood spatter. 6:32. Three minutes. They play the same goddamn songs every morning. “Today will be a good day … today will be a good day.” How about a sick day? Ugh. 6:35. Get up.

Why does the hot water take so long to get here? Great, the shampoo is almost out. Shake it like ketchup. Why don’t they make the top flat so it can be set on end? Stupid fucking engineers. If you try to wash your feet, you’ll probably fall, crack your skull, and eat your remaining meals through a straw. What would blended prime rib taste like? Yuck. Ouch, now you got shampoo in your eye. Nice move.

No time for a complete breakfast. Stop at Starbucks and grab a fritter and a joe to go. What’s that white spot on your slacks? Toothpaste? Christ. Lick and wipe. Holy shit, you have two different socks on. That woman coming this way is cute. Smile. Don’t look down. Stay eye-level. She smiled back. Ah, it is going to be a good day. Check out her ass. Nice, except her friend caught you doing it and is telling her how much of a colorblind creepy swine you are. Well played.

Be a nice person and hold the door. You dropped your phone. Good thing you have that armor on it. Bend down, pick it up, and drop your sunglasses. They don’t have armor, but now they have a pupil-centered scratch. Get to your desk before you’re buried in an avalanche.

So much junk mail. Why is the computer so slow? Ugh. HR is annoying. Add a snarky remark-y and forward that silly meeting reminder to your pal. Uh oh. Check your sent messages. You hit reply instead of forward. Fuck! Send the “just kidding” message and begin formulating apologies.

That looks like an interesting email from Gail. Could that be the Gail from happy hour? Click and nope, it’s an ad for the penis pump “guaranteed to add two inches.” Great. The IT guys will have a hoot with that one.

Be careful reaching for your … now you spilled coffee all over your keyb#^~!#$_*&^! … *bzzzt**fft*

Sarcasm – It beats killing people.

Facebook has turned into one large mosaic of inspirational, humorous, and political pictures and quotes. I feel like I’m at freaking Spencer’s. This is why I prefer porn.