The Shortest Path to Payday


You know why I love one-night stands? Well, sure, it gets the poison out. That’s not the main reason. It’s because I HATE job interviews. The one-nighter is typically the shortest path to payday.

I understand, dear. You’ve found your best friend slash soul mate slash partner. (Please pardon me while I slash my wrist.) I’m glad you’re happy. Enjoy it, preferably somewhere out of my line of sight.

Can I get a virtual high-five from my single sisters and brothers? Amen.

“So, do you have children? Want children? Any pets? What do you do for work? How important is travel? Are you religious? Spiritual? How often do you workout? How’s your credit? What do you drive? Where do you live? Any roommates? Do you vote? Health issues?”


You know what’s fun to talk about? Current events and entertainment. I get all I need to know about a potential lover by gauging her reaction to Obama, Breaking Bad, and the dirtiest joke I know. Those other prying questions don’t matter because, much like when on a job interview, your date is going to tell you what you need to hear, if he wants the job.

Sample #1: Subject is a gorgeous Latina twenty years younger.

Question: “So, Pheel, do you want to have children someday?”

Actual Answer: “If it would make my woman happy, and enhance our relationship, absolutely.”

Facts: I’m fixed. I don’t like children. They’re inconvenient, noisy, and smell horrible. I’m horny.

Honest Answer: “Fuck, no.”

That honest answer would have gotten my resume tossed, leaving me un-laid.

Sample #2: More age-appropriate woman who is intelligent and doesn’t want children (not that one implies the other, much).

Question: “Spirituality plays a big role in my life. Are you spiritual or religious?”

Actual Answer: “Not really, but I respect and support people who are. I’m always curious and eager to learn about faith.”

Facts: I’m way atheist.

Honest Answer: “No, and if you believe in angels, demons, and chakras, you’d better keep that shit to yourself, you deluded, hot mess.”

Kicked to the curb again.

I’ve learned from my 40+ years of dating, to give the right answer, which may not be the honest answer. I do this because I want the job. I love enough about women to tolerate the other stuff. And, don’t you wrinkle your nose, dear. You do the same.

Sure, it’s slightly different between the genders. If a woman is sexy enough, there’s nothing short of telling me there’s a meat slicer in her vagina to keep me from wanting in. I guess the biology of a potential nine-month investment makes women consider more than washboard abs as the golden ticket.

It’s just becoming more frustrating and harder to hide behind the right answers. I’d love to simply blurt out the truth, and give zero shits about how it’s received. Maybe I’d find the perfect match then—the one who doesn’t douse me in buttery Chardonnay.

I don’t mind holding doors, lathering on compliments, rubbing feet, and paying the tab. I accept my role. But, telling her what she needs to hear is becoming tougher to do with a straight face. My internal cringe rises to the surface, and it’s hard to hide it with a fake sneeze.

If I had the answer, I’d have my love on my lap instead of this carefree cat.

I had a dream … I think.

I found an odd combination of substances causes vivid dreams. Drink Coors Light and piña coladas in the hot desert sun while floating in a pool full of bath water. Add three or four sake bombs (depending on your weight), many rolls of sushi, tequila, and a tightly-rolled, dark-skinned cigar. Then, stumble home and hit the hay, preferably before you hit your nose on the pavement.

“Hey, cutie.”

“Huh? What?”

“Remember me?”

“Fuck. Where … what the … who?”

“From the pool? Melissa?”

“Yes, yes, right. Sorry it’s dark. Wait a minute. How did you get in here?”

“Your roommate gave me the key.”

“Kudos to him. He gets a wingman of the year nomination from me.”

“So. What would you like to do, now that I’m here?”

“Um, bake a cake?”


“Well, I do have the sweetest ingredient.”

“Don’t you want to kiss?”

“Why, sure. I must warn you, though, I smell of fermentation and burned leaves. My penis is also at the perilous stage between being unable to rise to the occasion and unable to return to its original state.”

“Whiskey dick?”

“Something like that.”

“Let’s see what I can do.”

The dream girl peeled down my boxer-briefs and began inflating her love doll (me). I had a tweener. I kept thinking, please, Willy, don’t let me down. Luckily she was quite skilled and Willy rose to the occasion. I never really know for sure if a woman wants me to finish, unless she tells me, which is extremely rare. When she sensed the point of no return was approaching, she climbed back up and whispered to me.

“Do you have a condom?”

“Um, yeah, no.”

“Which is it? Yeah or No?”


“Shame on you. What sort of man goes on vacation without a condom.”

“The fixed kind who is also a low expectation having mother fucker.”

“Hm. That’s a shame.”

“Damn. You just want to sleep now, right?”

“No. I meant it’s a shame that you don’t want to have babies.”


“Well, no, I’m not getting pregnant tonight,” she continued while sliding her thong to the side and inserting me, “because I’m on the pill. I came prepared, Mister.”

The sex was good, I think. Dream sex always is, isn’t it? There are never premature ejaculations in dreams. No people walking in on you. No broken penises or bruised taints. No wet dog’s nose in the mix. No “oops, my period started early.” Dream sex is always awesome, except for the part when you wake up the next morning and realize it was just a dream. Then you limp through a breakfast buffet of runny eggs, stale bacon, and blintzes, wondering if that sort of serendipitous sex ever happens in real life.

My lover went MIA.

This is a typical complaint I hear from ladies in the dating arena: “After I finally give in and sleep with a man, he doesn’t call me.” Harsh. Let’s see if I can spin this in such a way that it will hasten healing.

First, the man who doesn’t call you is not interested and you should be glad you found out sooner rather than later. Yes, it hurts. You feel cheap and used. Well, don’t. Turn it around. See the situation as you using him. He wasn’t that great anyway and there are plenty more where he came from.

If you must know, the reasons he doesn’t follow up can include any of the following (and trying to determine which one it is will drive you bonkers, so don’t):

  • He was in it for the conquest. His mission is complete.
  • He has a woman he’s emotionally attached to and he doesn’t get to have sex with her, so you took care of the physical part.
  • He’s embarrassed about his performance.
  • He feels too much pressure to meet some standard you’ve set for allowing a man to sleep with you.
  • The sex wasn’t enjoyable.
  • He’s not ready for a relationship.
  • He was drunk and horny.
  • He has been rejected by numerous women over the years and now he’s getting even.

None of those reasons are painless, but you get to decide the intensity of the pain and how long it will last.

Society frowns upon selfishness, but I suggest you become more selfish. If you’re considering sleeping with him, consider your motivation. If you’re sexually hungry, say it and do it. If you’re desperately seeking a soul mate, you’re putting a shit-ton of pressure on the poor fellow unless he happens to be honestly looking for the same thing and the stars have aligned.

It’s that goddamn oxytocin messing with you. Fight back, Babydoll. If you concentrate on what you want now instead of many years hence, you’ll enjoy the ride. When you decide to get naked and sweaty, if both minds are blown, you’ll probably get the call and your relationship will blossom. If you’re on the sexual see-saw at the top looking down at him, you’ll need to avoid staring at your phone tomorrow and steer clear of the chardonnay and sappy movies.

Band of Mothers vs. Band of Brothers

It was a full moon on a Saturday–a perfect night to put on my drinker’s cap. The scene: a local pub showing MMA fights. In one corner (of the pub) was a band of brothers who traded their weapons for lady-killing devices. They were young and hungry. In another corner was a band of mothers who traded their mundane married lives for a night on the town wearing bull’s-eyes. A confrontation was inevitable with me stuck in the middle.


I ask many questions; women like that. I do more pinging than ponging because other people’s lives are more interesting than mine. When a question comes my way, I deflect and redirect. I wasn’t out to sell any books last night, so I played ring announcer as I interviewed the contestants.

“These are my friends Kari, Eve, and Beth.”

“So nice to meet you all. Give me the tale of the tape.”


“Single, married, divorced; kids; occupation; and what-have-you. Just the facts ma’am.”

“We all have teenage children.”


“Kari here is divorced and she kind of has a boyfriend.”

“Kind of?”

“Her boyfriend is like twenty years younger, so …”

“‘Nuf said.”

“Eve is separated and looking to have fun, if you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“Beth’s relationship is complicated.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“She’s married, living with her husband, but they don’t sleep together. They’re staying together for the kids and because it would be too expensive to split.”

“I may have heard that story somewhere before. So, these ladies are in the arena for what purpose?”

“To have fun.”

“Which includes?”

“I don’t know, hooking up, I guess. I’m married so I can’t relate. I’m just here as a friend.”


“Must husband travels for work, that’s why he isn’t here.”


“We’re fine. I mean, he is away most of the time–like three weeks a month.”


“Sure, I wish he were around more, but …”

“Sounds to me like you could be joining this band of mothers soon.”


Kari was flirting heavily with the brothers as her teammates giggled. Then, I spoiled the fun by pointing out the flagrant foul.

“She’s into these young boys because there’s no way she’d fall in love with one. It’s safe sex, so to speak.”

Eve was the most aggressive of the bunch, but she was also the most critical. I expected that when I noticed her designer outfit, hair extensions, and various enhancements.

“What are you looking for, Eve?”

“There are only like two attractive guys in this whole place.”

“None taken.”

“How do you know you’re not one of the two?”

“Just a hunch, sugar.”

Beth was the rookie. Her smirks and shy smiles told me she wanted some quick naughtiness without complications. A toy to kiss, touch, and leave without her number would suit her just fine.

“Beth, you have a mischievous look.”

“I’m feeling kind of frisky, I admit. You seem cool enough, so I can tell you.”

When a woman calls me “cool enough” she means I’m not a mating option, so she can tell me sexy, slutty stories without defending herself. Works for me.

“Do tell.”

“I had my first ever one-night stand last weekend.”

“You naughty girl.”

“I know! It was so bad. I felt dirty, in a good way. It was my birthday party and I was a little tipsy. God, it was awesome sex.”

“Sorry I missed it.”

The mothers and brothers flirted and teased. An hour of the game is all I could stand. I excused myself, paid my tab, and headed for the showers. I hope both teams scored.