Shifting Priorities

I’ve been noticing lately that my priorities have shifted dramatically. I mean, sex is certainly going to remain in the top 10 as long as I can draw breath. Can’t turn that off. Why would I? But, other things once thought insignificant have climbed the list.

Is this typical for all men? How about women? They love romance, shopping, and a buttery chardonnay. Does that change once they hit 40? 55? 70? When do foot rubs break the top 10? Mid-20s? Heck, if I had the answers, it would serve my love pursuit quite well. I fall back on old reliable, “Can I buy you a glass of wine?”

Once we hit around 13 or so, men are overcome with finding a warm, moist* place to host our little pet. 

*Note: Yikes. Yes, I know women hate that word. Let me check synonyms. How about damp? Fuck. No bueno, either. Um. Dewy? Hmm. Let’s try it in a sentence: “Sweetie, is your princess dewy enough for visitors?” I said it aloud just now in a British accent. There is no woman in my house. My cat, Symon looked and blinked. No reaction from that fucker until he hears the can opener. I apologize for the digression.

So, yes, once we’re teenage boys, it’s all about finding someone to touch the ding dong. Sad. All else falls by the wayside. Sure, school, sports, and games are all important, but easily ignored when there is the prospect of seeing a boob. We are such beasts.

Once out of school and in the workplace, we begin searching for a more-regular dose of sexy time. We figure that all of the first-month sex with Miss Steady will only increase once we bend a knee. We ignore the elders who warn us about how misguided that thought is. We go all in. Every night we lie with our ladies, comes with the possibility of sexy time … until it doesn’t.

Being single in the second half of life has taught men to override that urge to accept any receptive host. This is in part because our instinct to continue pursuing young, fertile women is hard to deny. We become creepy old guys looking for ladies with daddy issues. Worse, the ladies know it. Sure, once in a while one of these women will toss a sympathy romp our way, but that’s rare. Much better it is to raise a glass to her loveliness and be content with a bourbon high.

Nowadays, chasing tail (welcome to the 60s, Philsy) has dropped in priority behind paying bills, drinking wine, eating steak, and getting a full night’s sleep. Look, I’m not joining some freaky celibacy group. I still want to get laid, dammit but, fuck, I have flannel sheets on a Tempurpedic. Be serious.

Do mature women go through this? I remember Mom swearing off men after she finally kicked Pop to the curb. She couldn’t be bothered with dating. She enjoyed grandchildren, pets, and the occasion Sambuca or box wine. No man necessary.

Is this typical? Do you ladies load up your Netflix queues, wine cabinets, and yoga pants drawers instead of dealing with courtship? No man could bring you to orgasm quicker than you. Save time. Man be gone.

This does not bode well for me. Alas, I’m tired. Nap time.

There is only one person who could ever make you happy, and that person is YOU.

happy(quote by David Burns)

You want to have an enjoyable evening? Best enjoy your own company. Otherwise, you are paying for entertainment sure to disappoint.

I sat alone in a sports bar, watching the Super Bowl last night. I received my share of curious glances, but I’m comfortable on a corner with Coors Light, wings, football, and people to watch. Most friends go to house parties. I avoid those parties, because they are unhealthy–not to mention, mating opportunity sparse. Think about what goes on at house parties:

  • You stand next to a buffet, which has been visited by dozens of germy fingers, and overdose on sweaty cheese.
  • A gambling addict constantly bugs you to join the pool.
  • Drunk friends tell you the same story you heard three times prior.
  • If male, you need to clean up after you blow up the guest bathroom.
  • People talk over the commercials–often the highlight of the evening.

This is why a sports bar is ideal. All was fine, until friends came as couples to put an end to my serenity. Couple #1 shows up, and something’s amiss. Man goes to restroom. Phil puts on therapist’s cap.

“What’s the matter, kitty catter?”

“Funny. He keeps asking me that.”


“I tell him ‘nothing.'”

“Yet, something is wrong, right?”

“He isn’t taking our relationship as seriously as I am.”

“So, the way to get him to take it seriously is to pout and tell him nothing is wrong.”

“Shh! Here he comes.”

I’m cruelly distracted from the game by their antics. He moves in. She backs off. He shrugs, and goes to bar. He drinks. She texts. He returns, and tries to recover. She resists. He persists. She relents. They’re happy now. He says something stupid. She backs off. He asks what’s wrong. Nothing. He gets another drink. I wish the power would go off in the bar.

Then, happy couple #2 arrives. Perhaps this will go better. They seem happy. Thank goodness. Touchdown, Baltimore. She calls him a “fuckface.” I like that word. I laugh. He plays victim. She apologizes. Server visits me. Yes, I need a stronger drink. He tries to hook me up with server. I know where this is heading. She can’t ignore the 22-year difference. She has a boyfriend. I have a swig. His girlfriend calls him a “fuckface” again for ignoring her. Funny again.

Finally, as both “happy” couples poke and stroke each other, I reach my boiling point.

“Hey, guys. Listen. Do you hear that? That’s the sound of my date not giving me any shit.”

I pay my tab, tip the lovely server well for putting up with the embarrassment of being shoved toward an elderly bar maven, and make haste in my shiny blue Volt. I assume the happy couples got along famously without the audience of one. Perhaps there’s an odd strategy at work: Annoy, tease, fight, and go home and take the anger out as aggressive “hate you, love you” sex. Meh. Sex is overrated. Nights like these, coffee with Bailey’s and a thick slice of peanut butter pie are fine orgasm replacements.

The Long Tail of Chasing Tail

It’s the latest buzzword, so if you’re unfamiliar, here is what the long tail is: Strip out the bestselling, most popular, common anything and you’re left with the long tail. It’s all the rest of the stuff that people want, when they consider themselves rebels who can’t live with the popular choice. Think of shopping. 7-Eleven carries the short head due to limited shelf space. Amazon carries the long tail. The local movie theater carries the short head (new releases), while Netflix carries the long tail (e.g. documentaries).

The latest marketing tactic is to ignore the short head and go after the long tail because there’s too much competition at the top. This is why boutiques are becoming more popular. Perhaps, this is a tactic singles should employ as well.

The short head of the dating world from a man’s perspective would be blondes in their mid-twenties with big boobs, fit bodies, long hair, clear skin, and an insatiable need to have one particular penis inside them. From a woman’s perspective, the short head would be tall, dark, rich men with abs, lots of money, and talented tongues. Let’s leave those two alone deal with each other’s neuroses and investigate the long tail of tail, shall we?

My long tail woman would probably be 45-55, five to ten pounds overweight, and have slightly droopy, somewhat lopsided boobs. She’d have any hair color or style except a gray buzz cut, a few moles here and there, and the occasional desire to allow me to have sex with her even when she’s “really not in the mood.” I’ll make the long tail longer by suggesting she has no children under 18, no dogs, no dietary/religious/yoga/political obsessions, and no spouses currently living with her.

I’m a long tail fellow. I’m mature (old), sarcastic, hairy, not rich, and I own two cats.

Unfortunately, it’s difficult to get women away from the short head of men. I blame romance novels and the typical young man’s desire to dump sperm everywhere possible. Ladies, you need to stop chasing the short head. Yes, the Brads are lovely gentlemen. But, much like I get to admire, not drive Dodge Vipers, you don’t get to mount Brad. So, look for that long tail man overlooked by your competitors. Don’t fight with cougars over Twidiots. Don’t load up on Botox and wrestle with money-grubbing kittens over Blue-Pill Bill. You be you and find that diamond–nay, crystal in the rough.

Here’s another important lesson for women to learn. (Oddly, this doesn’t apply to men because we don’t date someone based on potential.) When you decide to date a long tail man, don’t try to push him into the short head. Stop changing his wardrobe and cologne. Stop begging him to come to spin class. Stop telling him he should apply for better jobs. Stop dragging him away from Thursday Night Football to have dinner with your friends and family. Stop suggesting he read the latest self-help nonsense. Keep him in the long tail or you’re going to lose him to a short head woman.