Archives for April 2015

Free Signed Paperback Copies of How to Date Men by Phil Torcivia


As a thank you to my readers, reviewers, and supporters, I’m sending signed copies of my latest book to the first 100 fans who request it. I hope you read it, giggle a bit, review it, and pass it on to someone who needs “man” advice.

Name and address (US only) is all I need, and I’ll send one almost immediately. No obligation. Cheers!


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Things That Make Men Creepy

creepyLet me begin by admitting I’ve done my share of creepy things. Not denying it. Rarely, however, is my intention to hurt the target. Usually, my creepiness involves what I intend to be a compliment, not taken as such. Like humor, I can’t control how my comments are taken and, if I soften my comments, they become disingenuous.

Before I proceed with a helpful guide for men to avoid the wrinkled-nose access-denied glare from the next jilted lady, let me explain why there’s confusion.

A woman is either are stimulated or repulsed by comments based on the attraction level of the delivery vessel—him. If the woman is into him, she will appreciate being called gorgeous, sexy, hot, etc. In fact, if she’s sufficiently attracted, she may even be stimulated when referred to as a “dirty little (fill in the blank).”

Certainly, there are levels and timing to be considered—two things we men often suck at. Just because she enjoys a swat in the keister while doggy-styling, he should not infer that punching her in the shoulder at an MLB game would be similarly received. “Dirty little ho,” in the bedroom might work, whereas, “Smelly fuck pig,” at Starbucks may not. Ladies contend that a cultured man should know the difference. I agree. Let me know when you find that unicorn.

It’s all in the communication, and he’s not about to ask for it, so just sit his hairy ass down and lay it out. (Offer him a beer and some bacon to indulge in while he listens.) Give him a list of words he can use, and where they are appropriate. He needs lots of examples. Have him repeat them back. Also, explain that what is acceptable to you, his woman, differs from what is acceptable to young woman bartending, especially when you’re sitting next to him.

Example: “God, I love the way your ass looks in those jeans.”

Again, we men should know better, but we don’t. Also, qualifying the target before delivering the comment can be creepy in itself. Let’s say I’m a huge fan of Joelle Carter. (I am.) Let’s say I would dive face-first naked into a mound of horse dung for a chance to date her. (I would.) Let’s say I run across her. (Not likely.) Instead of going straight in for the kill, which would be less creepy, I could try to qualify the subject.

“Hello, Ms. Carter. I’m a huge fan. Are you single and sufficiently attracted to me to be open to the possibility of making out?”

She would run. But, how am I to know? Yes, I’m a mere mortal—an antique one, perhaps. Still, I’ve seen gorgeous women with icky men, so it’s possible. Chances are 99.99% she’d find my comments creepy, and deny my request. But, the denial rate is 100% when I don’t ask.

Then there’s the most severe mental punch a man can take: “Why didn’t you ever ask me out?” Ow, fuck. Ow, ow, fuck. God damn it! This is why nice guys finish last. I need to be creepy 9 out of 10 times to find the one. This is also why nice guys drink. Fuck! Really? Why didn’t I ask? I need a beer, and a big bowl of FML soup.

Locked in Phone Hell

phonehateI’ve never been so attached to something I loathe. Phones are hell, especially for introverts. Maybe, I don’t want to be connected. Access to information is nice, but connected? No, thank you. When my phone rings or dings, I want to throw it. Still, every day I’m stuck in the left lane behind some swerving nimrod who can’t put away her electronic appendage for five minutes.

I have to run around with a second lump in my pants—one that’s probably cutting off my circulation or giving me ball cancer. At least women can bury them in their purses. If it were soft, carried money, and would fit into my rear pocket, maybe I’d find this human accessory practical. A watch? Don’t get me started. The iWatch is stupid looking, no matter what it can do. Really? You’re going to talk into your wrist, Maxwell Smart? Plus, Apple, how do you expect blind old fucks like me to see the thing? We’d be forced to read text messages one letter at a time.

I’ve tried all versions of the phone too, dating all the way back to pagers. Whether it’s a Crack-berry, iFuck, or Sam-dung, I can find something to hate about it in less than an hour. It’s too slow, and there’s no coverage. I’ll tell you what my Samsung Galaxy 4 is: an annoying Siamese twin. Just now, it rang (my ringtone blows just a little less than others’), it distracted me, I swiped ignore, it buzzed and beeped, distracted me again telling me there’s a voicemail from someone who knows I just ignored him but he didn’t quite get my point, and now it’s blinking a green LED, distracting me yet again.


I suppose I could shut it off or leave it home. That would simply leave me more time to be annoyed by other people on the phone …

  • sharing pictures. – Nobody wants to see what you had for dinner, with whom, where. Stop it.
  • using nav. – Why not use the rotting thing between your ears to watch where you’re going and take mental notes?
  • playing games. – Fine, if you’re on the toilet.
  • listening to music. – I’ll give you a pass for this too, especially at the gym. At least you can drown out Taylor Swift, and that sweaty asshole grunting on the weight bench.
  • posting and checking posts. – Back in the oldern days, people would have verbal conversations. When they wanted to know what was going on outside, THEY WENT OUTSIDE AND LOOKED AROUND.

I know. Where is all of this anger coming from? I’m an introvert who wants to be less connected without feeling inadequately equipped. I don’t want a text message; I want a letter—a hand-written letter, in cursive, even. I would like it on pastel paper, lightly sprayed with Coach Poppy Eau de Parfum. That’s far more exciting than block letters in a yellow bubble. No clever emoticon needed. Draw a heart, or a circle with two dots and a curved line, like my adorable server did last night. (If she drew a winky face, I would have kicked her in her shapely buttocks.)

Please, can’t we go back to simpler times? Bring back the pay phone, which, by the way, was in a booth for good reason. I’ve got my dimes ready.

Sexuality—All Flavors Are Delicious


We are gradually moving away from defining people by their sexual preferences. That’s wonderful, right? We really have no reason to care about another person’s preference. Yet, when I take personal inventory in the sense of, “How do I feel about …?,” I do find some interesting results.

For example, if the woman I’m dating tells me she’s into women, I’m not bothered; heck, I’m downright gleeful, as long as she’s also into me. I admire this woman. She has twice as many options as I do. Granted, if she has taken on a female lover because of a sexual inadequacy on my part, that’s disturbing. I’d want to fix that shit … yesterday. But, if she occasionally enjoys a female touch, I understand and concur whole-bonerly.

When I spin this arrangement, things become curious. I bet my woman would not be as comfortable if I confessed to liking the occasional sausage in my sexual diet. Why? Is it an internal thing? Is it because she’s worried about my sausage being dirty places? Fine. What if I’m a bottom-only boy? Would she approve? Perhaps. I suppose she could strap one on and deliver the goods. Still, she almost certainly won’t be tickled over the concept.

Aside from having twice the choice in partners, the other perceived benefit to bi-sexuality is the possibility of a threesome. Yes, I realize that is possible with straight people, but I’m not referring to what I call shish kabobbing. The more enjoyable threesome (never had one, piss me off) would have each of the three players involved with the other two. A friend insists they don’t work because somebody gets more attention, causing jealousy.

So, as legendary as it would be for Mr. Straight to be with two bisexual ladies, I’m predicting it would be a bit ew-y if it were a straight woman with two bi males. Look, I know I’m a naive rookie in this arena. Am I off base? I think not.

I just find the whole sex thing interesting. The best part is where the line is drawn, because it’s unique for each of us. The worst part is I think about this shit all day, and don’t get my goddamn laundry folded before it wrinkles.

One more rant.

How would you feel, ladies, if you came home to find your man having sex with the neighbor’s 18-year-old daughter and her friend? Shitty, right? Oh, he’s definitely getting the boot. Fine. What if he’s masturbating while spying on those two making a lick soufflé? A serious offense, no doubt, but possibly not terminal. What if you catch him in the shower backing into a suction cupped dildo while screwing a fleshlight? (Sort of a threesome.) That’s some prime kinkery right there, but I’m not sure you’d shut him down. Finally, what if you caught him judging a two-headed dildo tug of war? He’s not involved in the competition. He’s just watching carefully to see which side of the bed the center flag crosses. Oh, and he’s wearing zebra stripes and has one of those fancy ring whistles. I see you wrinkling your nose. Whatever.

Can we all agree to be less uptight about this? It’s just a little pleasure between friends—scratching an itch for a buddy, so to speak. Like after a hot shower, heavy bong hit, or Cadillac margarita, we’re all happier after an orgasm. How we get there is nobody’s business.

A Kinder, Gentler Cupcake

cupcakeHave you noticed the trend of young people demanding instead of requesting? Maybe it comes with the sense of entitlement 90s children have. Perhaps they were spoiled by Mommy and Daddy’s portfolio fattening during the decades of excess. Whatever the reason, these brats need to learn we old-timers don’t react well to demands.

Take this scenario: You’re unhappy with the steak the server just delivered. It’s overcooked, and tastes like your grandfather’s belt. If you’re over 50—old like me—you’ll react differently than someone recently off his skateboard. The child will throw a tantrum, demean the server, chef, and establishment, and demand retribution. This may result in a refund, but it most definitely will result in a dozen people thinking, What a douchebucket! If that steak is replaced, it will contain foreign substances such as spit, pubic hair, and floor dust.

The wise sage isn’t starved for attention. He knows he can capture more bears with honey. His disappointment with the meal will be apparent, but not exaggerated.

“Gosh, I really love this place. Your chef is so talented. I just wish this were a bit more pink. Guess I should have ordered it medium-rare.”

The server will go out of his way to remove that disappointment. The sage will get another steak, and a complimentary dessert. Whereas the brat will likely stiff the server, the sage will raise that gratuity into the 20-25 percent range, thus rewarding and encouraging good behavior.

This applies to almost anything. Any sentence that begins with, “You need to …” makes my middle finger twitch. We mustn’t give in to the demands of adult infants, lest we encourage their silliness.

I’ve had similar issues with young women. One delicacy somehow made it to dawn. My morning wood rose with the sun. I kissed her neck, and introduced my sword subtly by spooning and poking. Her response?

“I’m not wet.”


“You need to go down on me.”

Now, there’s one thing worse than morning breath, and that’s morning vag. (I just lost 95% of my female readers while my brethren nod their silent acknowledgement of my clumsy stance.) It’s not like I’ve never given a good breakfast-in-bed licking. I simply felt her demand would have served better as a request, or a challenge, even. Yet, I went down on her. Boner beats logic.

Another way to handle these demanding folks is to cry, faint, or call them funny names. For instance, instead calling the bartender an ornery cunt, try “frosted cupcake.” Her reaction will be confusion and bewilderment. Only you know what your “frosted cupcake” is. Instead of dealing with gasps, finger-pointing, and an angry bouncer, you’ll deal with a blank stare. If she doesn’t snap out of it, don’t call her a twat waffle—try, “gummy bear.” See that? A kinder, gentler patron enjoys stiffer drinks.

The Selfie Dick

SelfieStickI glance over to the community table, and, much to my horror, watch some self-absorbed nitwit unfold this odd device, place his phone on the end, and take a team selfie. The stick reminds me of the folding ruler we had in grade school. Much like the Nuns back in the day, I’d also like to smack him across the knuckles with it.

Wouldn’t it be more logical to simply ask the server to take the picture? Yes, I realize she is busy, and not tall enough to get the proper above-shot perspective. Is there a timer on your camera phone? Use that. No? Have you considered that none of your Facebook or Instagram followers give a gnat shit that you’re having dinner? You’re doing something not noteworthy. We all eat. Oh, I see. You want to mark the occasion for your own reference. So, if I want to take a picture of you taking a picture for my own reference, then tag it with #howtobeadickhead. Is that cool?

There is now a selfie shoe. Did you know this? I feel a great big WTF coming on. You put the phone in the tip of your shoe, lift your leg, and click! This is idiotic, unless the selfie shoe is taking up-skirt shots of your tightly clipped baby oven beard. Do that. Take those, and post them. Fuck, just email them to me. I’ll give you a free review.

The GoPro device is asinine too. Self-important twats wear those. I watched an NCAA dunk contest, and one of the kangaroos had it strapped to his chest. A dozen high definition cameras in the fucking arena, and yet this butthead thinks a jittery shot from his nipples is superior.

You want narcissism? Fine. Here’s what I’m going to do for my next date: I’m going to use my dick as a selfie stick. I’ll use a Velcro strap I got with my ear buds, and make a pecker harness. To avoid being tossed in the can because there might be children in the area, I’ll wear a black sock over it first. I’ll undo my zipper, dangle my selfie dick, and record the mayhem that ensues.

Think of all the wonderful Kodak moments?

  • My date all wide-eyed, wondering how I became so resourceful.
  • Under-table shots of partially chewed gum, a fork, and knees.
  • Great perspective shots of the post-date tongue-wrestling that might happen in my car if we get sufficiently sloshed.

And, if she’s a real trooper, I’ll take my selfie dick to the bedroom. At some point (let’s hope), I’ll need to unstrap it. Internal shots aren’t likely, as the lighting isn’t adequate. Up to that point, there should be great stuff captured by my fancy device—sounds, too!

“Honey, maybe you can use the flashlight app.”

“Ah, great idea. These shots are coming out too grainy.”

“Um, no. I mean use the flashlight so you can find my nipples. You’ve been licking a mole for the last five minutes.”

Ah, the lighted selfie stick! I’m patenting that fucker.

Loving Unhealthy Stuff

unhealthyLet me ask your advice. If there’s a woman I adore, and I know (well, I’m pretty sure) if I ever hook up with her, we’re going to miserable (or, blissful), should I continue to pursue the relationship? I know—of course not.

My problem is I don’t like wanting. It’s a sign of weakness. I’d rather have it, and suffer the consequences, so I can get over it. Doesn’t matter if it’s an unhealthy relationship, beverage, or habit. I need to sample it, and see what happens, otherwise the thought of it consumes me.

Don’t you hate when healthy people “should” on you? Me too. Then, why do we “should” on ourselves?

I should drink tea instead of coffee. I should get more sleep. I should limit my alcohol consumption. I should seek more appropriate women. I should exercise more. I should pass on dessert. I should slow down.

This internal parent is making me manic. I want to run away.

Maybe the key to health is balance. With every cup of coffee, I should eat a fistful of walnuts. Every time I masturbate, I should make a donation. When I have that extra drink, I should take a taxi. When I come too soon, I should give her a foot massage. When I eat bread pudding, I should run three miles. When one woman turns me down, I should rescue another cat.

This isn’t helping.

Let me get back to the woman thing. So, I met her many years ago, and I’ve never even kissed her. As a supportive friend, I watch her select horrible men who treat her as expected, then I console her. Occasionally, she’ll select a fine man, then sabotage the relationship. You’d think all this love carnage would be obvious signs for me to stay a safe distance. But, I’m afflicted somehow. My mind twists all this into a masochistic pretzel. I justify all the issues by insisting the right man (me) would solve it all.

Arranged marriage seems plausible.

What would the healthiest meal be? It would be delicious. It would be warm, sweet, and healthy. It would be low calorie and inexpensive. It would aid digestion, help reduce belly fat, and sharpen our minds. It would be delivered to our doorstep first thing in the morning, and not require refrigeration. It would be salty and crunchy, perhaps with optional bacon bits or ranch dressing. We could eat it while driving, and it would not leave a stain when spilled.

I’m sure General Foods is working on it.

What would the healthiest lover be? It would be there when you’re lonely, and gone when you’ve had enough (without crying about it). It would be able to do things you can’t. It would do these things only for you. It would like the same TV shows, home decor, and food. It would help take care of your things. It would buy you gifts. It would always be happy and appreciative, and never disappointed.

I’m sure Apple is working on it.