Archives for August 2011

Yesss

Do you find yourself asked about your preference when you’re feeling indifferent? Sometimes having too many choices causes stress. We don’t need more stress, do we? We’re already stressed about whether to eat dinner or pay our mortgages. It’s unnecessary to make us choose from ten different salad dressings.

I’ve found a solution: Answer every “or” question with “yesss.” (You must extend the s-part, like a hissing snake, to have the proper effect. Oh, and smile when you do it.)

“For your salad, would you like Thousand Island, French, Blue Cheese, Ranch, or Raspberry Vinaigrette?”

“Yesss.”

“Huh?”

“Yesss.”

“Which dressing?”

“Yesss.”

See how easily I transferred the stress right back to the chick in the silly black apron? She’s not controlling my blood pressure.

“Say, what type of man do you like?”

“I’m attracted to taller men. Dark skin is nice as is a full head of hair. The toned and athletic look works too. He has to have a good job, be responsible with his finances, and act like a gentleman at all times.”

“Nice.”

“So, what type of woman are you attracted to?”

“Yesss.”

“No, I mean like blonde or brunette?”

“Yesss.”

“Tall or petite?”

“Yesss.”

“Do you prefer the younger ones or women closer to your age?”

“Yesss.”

I don’t want to choose. I love them all … unless I don’t.

“Are you ready for another round?”

“Indeed.”

“What were you drinking?”

“Vodka and vodka.”

“Funny. Which vodka?”

“Yesss.”

“I mean, do you prefer Kettle One? Chopin? Absolut?”

“Yesss.”

“Fine. Do you like it up or on the rocks?”

“Yesss.”

Stress transfer successful. Ladies, you rarely have no preference, yet you cause problems by claiming you have no preference when actually you do.

“Do you care where we sit?”

“Oh, not at all. Pick a spot, honey.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep. Anywhere’s fine.”

“OK, how about here?” he asked, while sliding into the booth he knew he’d soon be sliding out of.

“Hm. Well, it’s a little drafty here.”

“All right. How about over there?”

“That’s fine. I really don’t care.”

He tilts his head as he holds her chair, waiting for the inevitable.

“Actually, honey, would you mind if we sat on the other side of the restaurant? This side gets too much traffic because it’s close to the kitchen.”

“If you had a preference you could have saved us aggravation by sharing it.”

“It’s not really a preference. We can sit here if it’s that important to you.”

“No, it’s not important where we sit as much as when.”

“Well, don’t get an attitude now. I told you I don’t care where we sit.”

“Ugh.”

My new strategy will keep these forehead lines from deepening. I’ll answer in the affirmative and tolerate whatever comes my way.

“Do you want to go upstairs and fool around a little or should we have more wine?”

“Yesss.”

“Do you like it better when I’m on top or when you’re behind me?”

“Yesss.”

“Do you prefer the lace underwear or should I go with the thong?”

“Yesss.”

“Should we go hiking or walk the dogs?”

“Nooo.”

Can’t Drink That

It has been a bumpy road to the Majors. Our livers have gone through much, haven’t they? Oh, come on. You must recall such indulgences as Fire Water, Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill, and chartreuse (*gag*). When I think of all the things I’ve put my body through it amazes me that I can remember my name, last four digits, and where I left my damn keys.

The next time you walk into a bar, take note of the bottles on the top shelves and the dust they’ve accumulated. In the middle, you’ll find my buddy, Galliano. He’s taller than the rest and neglected more than most. Mix him with cola and you get something close to root beer that will, indeed, make you suicidal if you overdose. He gets points for a pretty bottle. He gets lonely because of the icky yellow liquid within.

An early favorite of mine was sloe gin. Jesus, that’s some gross shit right there. Yes, I’ve had a sloe gin fizz or fifty (and no, not while doing a limbo). I haven’t seen it around lately. It had a saturation of red that would instantly destroy any garment it came in contact with. I probably have a pink, pissed-off liver.

One day, a kind bartender turned me on to something much less vile: the Singapore Sling. This hangover seed was a funky combination of cherry-flavored brandy, gin, and sour mix. It was served in a frosted, tall glass with a big straw and a cherry. Yum. Then again, after a half dozen of those, my nose went numb and I parked on the lawn.

I tried to save money during my college years by indulging in such delicacies as Malt Apple Duck and Tango. (I apologize if I’ve just caused you mouth-puke a bit.) The former came in a 40-ounce bottle and tasted indeed like apple beer. The latter was what you’d get if you were foolish enough to mix cheap vodka with Tang. I drank a few of those my sophomore year and learned how to release fluid from both ends simultaneously. Don’t even act like you’ve never.

There was a club back in the who-gives-a-shit 80s that featured a Thursday night deal that probably wasn’t a great idea. It was $10 for all you can drink all night–anything you want. If I were the seasoned pro I am now, I would opt for something velvety on the rocks. As a twenty-something dingbat, I ordered Black Russians and lost consciousness. Who drinks Black Russians? Dumb white Italians, that’s who.

Before anyone came up with more vodka flavors than Baskin Robbins, we had three choices: vodka, cherry vodka, and (God forbid) lime vodka. If you drank lime vodka, you had definitely given up on life and were choosing a gutter nap. Anyone who polished off fifths of that neon green nonsense must now be pushing around a rusty shopping cart while yelling at imaginary beings.

So, now we’re left with micro-brews and SoCo lime. B&J and Zima are fading away. We’ll never pass around a bottle of Giacobazzi again. Sad.

Glazing

Today’s question comes from a sweet thing I’ll call “Nora L.” It will become apparent why I chose that name. Ladies, please raise your barriers so you don’t have to contend with such selfish men.

“I dated him for over a year and he never went down on me.”

“Horrors!”

“I’m serious.”

“Not that you should have had to, but did you ever give him a hint?”

“Such as?”

“You know–placing both hands on top of his head and pushing him down between your thighs or waiting until he falls asleep and straddle-mounting his noggin. I refer to the latter move as the clam-face. Depending on your proclivity, it could be a form of CPR.”

“You’re gross. No.”

“OK. Did you ever simply ask him?”

“I shouldn’t have to.”

“True. Might I assume this selfish lad was receiving oral favors from you?”

“He was–practically daily.”
“Damn. Have any sisters?”

“Seriously. What’s up with that?”

“Unreciprocated love is so frustrating.”

“Yes, I know.”

I’d love to corner her dude and solve the mystery by getting my information straight from the tongueless mouth. He’d probably be unreceptive.

“Dude, what’s with the no licky licky?”

“Huh?”

“Why won’t you go down on your woman?”

“I don’t know, I guess I didn’t think it was that important.”

“Duh. For some women, that’s the only way they can get to O-town.”

“She has plenty of orgasms.”

“Perhaps, but she’d still appreciate a little reciprocation.”

“Re-what?”

“Returning her oral favors, slapnuts.”

“She’s never complained to me.”

“True. Instead she complains to all of her friends and this random barstool warmer.”

“Oh God, that’s embarrassing.”

“Right? You’d better learn how to migrate soon or half the county will have you pegged as a lick-free Louie.”

“Maybe I’m worried I’m not very good at it.”

“It’s not brain surgery. Try drawing numbers with your tongue.”

“Like this?”

“Christ, man, NOT HERE!”

“Sorry.”

“Think ‘wax on, wax off,’ vary the speed and pressure, and listen for feedback. Avoid the typical up-and-down mistake called the paint-the-fence method.”

“What do I do with my hands?”

“Since you’re a rookie, I suggest grasping her butt or hips. When you finally get out of the Minors, consider employing the right hand come-hither method.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“You’re hopeless. Look, if you want her to continue bobbing on your knob, you’re going to have to go chin-glazing. Oh, and by the way, make sure you deglaze before heading back north. The back of your wrist will do, her sheets and thighs won’t.”

“Good to know.”

“Go get her, champ.”

This could have been avoided if the woman felt secure enough to deliver expectations and directions. Most women will tell everyone except for the one person who can solve the problem. Often, it’s with good intentions, as she doesn’t want to hurt her man’s feelings. Believe me; he’d rather have you tell him than your friends or, worst of all, me.

Work on bedroom communication and the rest of your relationship will become more secure and enjoyable.

Ditch Him

I play “Phil-in” often these days. My sarcasm is lost on many of my female acquaintances as they actually consider me to be somewhat of an expert on the male psyche. Silly girls.

“Come have a drink with me.”

“Isn’t that what your BF is for?”

“He has his kids tonight.”

“I doubt he would approve of your rendezvous with a man holding substantial arrears of loving.”

“He doesn’t need to know.”

“Sounds like trouble in paradise. Do tell–what’s up with that, kitty cat?”

“Meet me and I’ll tell you.”

“All right. You’re penciled in and don’t forget my liquid fees.”

“Scotch or vodka.”

“I’m feeling all vodkish and limish tonight.”

Women who hang with me convince themselves I won’t take advantage of any momentary weakness. I remind them not to push me.

When I arrive at my office, she’s already mid-lemon drop. She’s exceptionally primped considering her intentions to see Dr. Phil as a platonic advisor. I immediately entertain thoughts of nibbling her shoulders as I release her bra-stings. She brings me back to reality.

“I’ve slept with my boyfriend six times and we haven’t had sex.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Oral?”

“Nope.”

“A little hand release, perhaps.”

“None.”

“This is serious.”

“I have no idea what his problem is.”

“Well, far be it for you to ask him, so allow me to run a few possibilities past you.”

“Shoot.”

“Could he be gay?”

“No. He has a hard-on when we make out, especially in bed.”

“Have you tried to touch it?”

“Yes and he sometimes let me, through his pants, but when I try to go under he stops me.”

“He has huge, puss-filled genital warts. Case solved.”

“Ew! He does not.”

“Has he flapped your pappy?”

“My what?”

“You know–plucked your pink violin?”

“Huh?”

“Jesus Christ, woman … HAS HE FINGERED YOU?”

“Only through my pants and underwear.”

“Maybe he has some sort of performance anxiety.”

“You think?”

“I’m not saying this has ever happened to me, but I’ve heard that some men have hair-triggers and if they don’t get the chance to launch a pregame batch into a tube sock, it could spell embarrassment later.”

“Please tell me men don’t beat off into tub socks.”

“…”

“You have deeply scarred me. I will never see a sock the same way again.”

“Well, fishnets are nicer, but they’re messy.”

“God.”

“Just tell him you’re coming over later tonight and he will either have penetrated you or returned your hair pulls and toothbrush.”

“I like this guy. I don’t want to lose him over something like this.”

“This is not a little thing, my sweet. An orgasmless relationship is always a dead-end.”

“What if he has herpes or something?”

“A distinct possibility. I’m sliding half my chips over ‘performance anxiety’ and the other half over ‘he’s getting it from someone else.'”

“Oh shit, I haven’t thought about that.”

“Maybe it would be best to end it now and consider sleeping with your therapist.”

“Nice try.”

“Damn it.”

I may be guilty of exiting relationships prematurely, but most of my female friends waste too much time trying to make something work, regardless of the warning signs. Odds say it won’t get any better, darling, so cash in, and move along.

Grease

People don’t want to waste time defending themselves, even when the critics are probably correct. We also don’t want to listen to people brag about themselves, relatives, or achievements. Lastly, we don’t need to be constantly reminded about how awful the economy and weather are.

When people log into their social media accounts, they want to hear about how wonderful they are, with a close second being hearing about how awful a rival or celebrity is. It doesn’t matter if the post is truthful. We feel recognized, loved, and appreciated when we read compliments and we feel superior when the mighty fall.

If I posted the following on your Facebook wall, even in jest, you’re probably not going to like it:

“Your breath smells like a Phoenix port-o-pot, you have puffy ankles, and the shirt you’re wearing is better suited for a table in a Mexican diner.”

Whereas, if I posted the following, it would be immediately liked and make you consider chest bumping yourself in the closest mirror:

“You are magnificent and I am fortunate to have you as a friend. Your skin is flawless, your eyes are luminous, and your intelligence is exceptional.”

Does this imply when complimenting someone, Phil is being phony? Sometimes. I don’t want to be surrounded by weepy peeps. Debbie Downers are no fun. When nearby anglers cast compliment lures, I’ll bite.

“I feel so blah today.”

“Aw, chin up there, shnookums. You’re fabulous.”

“Really? You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Well, thank you. God, these shoes are killing me.”

“Those shoes are killing me! I mean, come on. Look at your butt right now. Those shoes have made a masterpiece of your posterior and allow me to be the first to say I’d be hard-pressed to find a finer hiner.”

“Aw. You’re such a good friend.”

“I’m honored to be considered a friend. Whereas most of my acquaintances are cock-holding cretins, you inspire me to be a better me. I’m considering paying down the national debt by selling my Yankee candle collection.”

“You’re so silly.”

I bet if I created an iPhone app that texts random compliments throughout the day, it would sell like feather extensions. Women are thumb-tapping their phones all day anyway. Why shouldn’t they be interrupted by something other than the curb? In the middle of steering with her knees, sipping a latte, and texting Molly about what a horrible kisser last night’s Match date was, *bling*, a new message will pop up from the virtual nice guy.

“Hey, Janice. Your earlobes taste of honeydew and I want to nibble them.”

That would start the juices flowing, no? There would be time-of-day settings within the app, so once dinnertime comes …

“Janice, I so want to throw you on the table, smear fudge pudding on your breasts and take you to O-town right now!”

Once it’s bedtime, one final text from Virtual Phil before she snaps in the overnight charger:

“Sweet Janice, lie on your stomach, place a pillow under your hips, and clasp your hands together behind your back. I’m going to bind your wrists with a silk scarf and then devour you.”

Would you like to rate my app now? Yes? No? Later? Stop dreaming, Silly Philly.

Listen to Your Crotch

It’s not quite the Roxette version, but it applies. Don’t use only your ears when he’s calling for you. If you grant him access, you’re also accepting the fact that oxytocin will be released, making releasing him back into the wild difficult (unless he’s a horrible lover).

I don’t have a vagina. I haven’t even been able to borrow one lately. It’s not great. Willy’s not happy. Then again, I just saved 50% on dinner. Anywho, I found one online willing to have a conversation and enlighten me to the challenges of ownership.

“Hello, Miss … um … how should I refer to you?”

“You can call me Princess.”

“Fine. Princess, what’s it like, dealing with penises and all.”

“Well, it depends what they are attached to.”

“Ah, so size doesn’t matter.”

“I didn’t say that. Let’s say size doesn’t matter if the penis is attached to a wonderful man. Otherwise, yes, size certainly helps.”

“Anything else? Shape? Color?”

“You’re not listening. Sex isn’t purely physical for me.”

“How about the balls?”

“Look, your hanging ovaries aren’t of particular interest. Show me that you know how to be a gentleman. Do you know how to treat a lady properly?”

“More foreplay?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I’m referring to. Do you open and hold doors?”

“Check.”

“Pay attention to me while you avoid checking out other princesses?”

“Check.”

“Communicate with me?”

“Check. Here I am–ears wide open.”

“Consistently treat me right and you’ll have more sex than you can imagine.”

“I have quite an imagination.”

“It’s no match. I have yet to meet a dick I can’t outrun.”

“Lovely. How many orgasms do you have in a typical week?”

“As many as I want.”

“Come on.”

“I’d say ten or so. They’re easy to come by. I had three last night.”

“Jesus. After one, I’m ready for a nap. Two and my internal organs ache. Three and it’s time to charge the paddles.”

“Sounds like you need more exercise.”

“I exercise plenty. Take note of all the reading glasses around my house. Speaking of exercise, what types of visual aids do you employ to hasten the process?”

“Mental imagery.”

“Oh, like two eighteen-year-old catholic school girl virgins locked in sixty-nine?”

“Gross. No, like one kind man with great arms, deep blue eyes, and defined abs lying next to me on a blanket at a secluded beach in Mexico. We watch the setting sun, while sipping champagne and professing our love to one another.”

“All right. Expedia, here I come.”

Although I am a veteran, I still have much to learn. The biggest challenge has been maintaining the patience to tolerate her changing moods, priorities, and preferences while adjusting my actions accordingly, so I can spend more time with her. If she’s not in the mood, I must resist my urge to assume the blame and force my way back. Unlike penises, vaginas sometimes need alone time for introspection and healing. When access is re-granted, I must show adequate appreciation and proper care, taking responsibility for any oxytocin leaks I cause.

Manly?

The pussification of the American male is nothing short of disturbing. Where’s Don Corleone when we need him to slap some sense into these whimpering messes? It’s the number one complaint women have: Why can’t men be manlier?

Most straight men already assume they are among the manliest beasts of the jungle. Not true. Dude, if your hands are softer than your woman’s are, you might be a pantywaist. At the base of each finger should reside a callus or blister. Your forehead, knees, or elbows should have sports-related scars. If you moisturize (my brown buddies excluded), you probably sit to pee.

The entire cast of Bachelor Pad shaves their chests. (This includes Vienna, who I am convinced in none other than a slow-eyed demon, risen from Hades to torment and annoy.) Hey, Old Navy doll boys, you’re supposed to have fucking fur. Razors don’t belong around your nipples. I can’t imagine the horror a woman has when she goes to caress her toy and finds stubble. I’m not saying there shouldn’t be some hedge trimming. I’ll also give a pass to men who apply conditioner to places other than their brain-closet. Go ahead and shave your balls, but stop with the chest waxing, will you?

Skinny jeans for men must be outlawed. Anyone wearing ankle-tight pants and Keds is in danger of sprouting a uterus. I saw a handsome young fellow enter my office (bar) last night wearing a deep V-neck and jeans so tight that I could see his labia. I wanted to take a picture and show him.

“Hey, Tinkerbell, have a look-see.”

“What?”

“This is you and note all of the people around staring at your ankles.”

“I guess they appreciate my taste in clothing.”

“Your taste is numb, dumb dumb. And, what’s with the duck’s ass on your head?”

“My stylist gave me the latest Twilight do.”

“It’s not a do, it’s a don’t. Duck’s asses belong on ducks. Also, before you do it, bangs belong on schnauzers.”

“But …”

“Shut it! Let me ask you something: Have you ever touched a boobie?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Nice, isn’t it?”

“It doesn’t suck.”

“You’d like to touch more boobies, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then, lose the fucking martini and man up, will you?”

The bars around here are encouraging this behavior by showing golfing, surfing, and skating videos instead of actual sports. Here’s what belongs on a bar’s TV: men competing against men while inflicting injury, pain, or at least discomfort to the opponent. Riding a fucking kiddie bike down a ramp, doing three flips, and finishing with a bruised-sternum landing isn’t manly, it’s asinine.

I wonder what these emasculated men do around the house. I bet they can’t change a flat, snake a clogged drain, or plant a shrubbery. They probably sleep until late morning in their fluffy sheets while cuddling their fuzzy bears. For breakfast, they foam up a latte and eat a scone. Then they flit away to their graphics designer job and listen to Maroon 5 while staring at their dual monitors.

Unless you ladies act now and refuse to grant access to such weenies, you’ll soon be stuck changing your own oil and dating your vibrators.

Peel Me

I went to the usual Monday drinkerie, said hello to the usual rum-toting nurse, and received a kind word with my skinny pirate: “Somebody here thinks you’re handsome.” Well, that sort of unsolicited flattery is highly irregular and greatly appreciated. Then I realized that the amount of appreciation I had would be directly proportional to the attraction of the source.

“Who?”
“Somebody who works here.”
“Is it you?” he asked confidently.
“I do think you’re handsome but no, it wasn’t I.”
“Does this person have a penis?”
“No, silly.”
“Phew. OK. Does this person outweigh me?”
“I doubt it.”
“Is she blind?”
“How would she serve tables if she were blind?”
“Carefully?”
“She’s cute, silly.”
“Which one?”

Once I found out who it was I swelled with pride. Then my dark side rose and began planting the seeds of doubt.

I’m probably twenty years older than she is. So what? If she doesn’t care why should I? She certainly is cute. I guess I should do a little research and make sure she has career aspirations, high credit scores, and good housekeeping habits. Right. Her lovely posterior renders the rest insignificant.

God, it would suck to be a woman. I can detect mate’s worthiness from twenty paces. A woman must do all sorts of background checks before proceeding. She can’t look at his hand and surmise Cockasaurus Rex will do. No. She must get to know the inside. Her digging only confuses the male and causes him to lie. He must not allow the tainted darkness to spoil his candy coating.

I tell myself it matters if the source of flattery is kind and smart, but it doesn’t–not really. Well, sure, long-term it will matter, depending on how amazing the sex is. Right now, she thinks I’m handsome (“cute” is reserved for men under 40) and that’s enough. As she peels away my layers, I hope it doesn’t make her cry.

Scopes and Quotes

As I search for readers, I realize most of the ones I have found are women who also enjoy horoscopes and love quotes. Interesting. Perhaps I should shift my style from twisted reality to fluff. I can lather on thick coats of compliments and inspiration with the best of them. Still, when I practice this at a bar I usually hear, “Aw, that’s nice. Now, please remove your hand from my butt cheek.”

Who doesn’t enjoy compliments?

  • Leo is beautiful.
  • Aquarius is deeply concerned about the world we live in.
  • Scorpio is dedicated.
  • Gemini is playful.
  • Pisces is understanding.
  • Libra is romantic.
  • Taurus rewards friends lavishly.
  • Sagittarius is outgoing.
  • Capricorn will do anything to make you happy.
  • Virgo is writing this and rapidly dehydrating as he pukes all over his keyboard.

I wonder why men don’t get into astrology to the same degree. It must be due to a combination of pussification-fobia and being jaded. When someone delivers compliments, I know they’re typically expecting reciprocation. Depending on how lonely my penis is, I may indulge or resist.

“You have nice teeth.”

“Thank you.”

“Nice triceps too.”

“Really? Thanks. I work out.”

“I love those jeans.”

“Me too.”

“…”

“So …”

“Tell me something you like about me.”

“OK. You have wonderful taste in men–present company included.”

“All right.”

“Your turn.”

“I just gave you three compliments and that’s all you can come up with?”

“Ah, well, there’s another one: you’re generous.”

The love and sharing of inspirational quotes is another interesting pleasure for women. Men will have none of it. Men enjoy movie quotes. Inspirational quotes make our testes shrivel, unless they come from a movie about sports or with violence. Women hear Tom Cruise say, “You complete me” and gush; men hear it and say, “God, what a pint-sized pee-tard.”

How often do you hear women quote Scarface? Never. I have never heard a woman utter, “Say hello to my little friend.” I, on the other hand, deploy that ditty every time I stand at a urinal and then watch the man next to me scramble to zip up and run away.

Imagine you’re taking Mom out to dinner and she orders dessert. You remind her of her high cholesterol and she responds, “… they may take our bread pudding, but they’ll never take our freedom!” Not likely, is it? In fact, if you don’t have useless nipples and an Adam’s apple you probably have no idea from which movie that quote is derived. Braveheart! Jesus, woman!

I’m simply too jaded to gain inspiration from quotes, and that’s sad. My inspiration comes in the form of credit card statements, to which I respond, “Fuck ’em! Fuck ’em in the ear! What are you talking about? Fuck ’em in the other ear!” Don’t tell me you don’t know that one? Seriously? You know “Funky tasting spunk,” but you don’t know Morrie’s rant about Jimmy Conway in Goodfellas? Ugh.

Between the Ears

I think I have two minds: one reflexive, one romantic. Some people call them instinct and conscience. Whatever. The challenge is to keep them in balance. Too much instinct leads to recklessness. Too much conscience leads to paranoia and stagnation.

Here’s how the two minds teeter-tottered last night as a sexy woman approached me.

“Wow, she’s cute.”

“Is she coming over to talk to me?”

“I wonder what her nipples look like–big, juicy eraser tips. Yum!”

“Holy shit! Shit is coming over to me. Hm. Maybe I have something on my face.”

“She has real tits. Thank God! I want to touch one. Natural boobs are such rare finds these days.”

“How kind of her. She complimented my shirt. She seems sweet.”

“I picture her face down on my bed, squealing in ecstasy while I bang away. Ah, the sound of my balls slapping against her clit.”

“Boy, I hope she’s not looking to have children. I can see myself hanging out with her.”

“Oh, that’s a delicious ass right there. I’m definitely going to hit that. In fact, I may sleep on it.”

“She’s a single mom with a great job. Intelligence is such a turn-on.”

“When she finds out I’m fixed, she’ll want to mount me in the parking lot.”

“There’s no wedding ring. Oh, the possibilities!”

“She just touched my thigh. My cock is twitching. She’ll probably want to play ‘Just the Tip.’ Nah, she’ll beg me to be balls deep.”

“Now, how do I go about extracting her number? I wish I could get over this shyness.”

“Cum dripping off her chin. No, wait … sprayed all up and down her back, running down her butt cheeks. I haven’t made shower babies lately, so I should have a heavy coat stored up.”

“She likes movies. That’s awesome. Maybe on date three we could curl up with a nice bottle of wine and watch a romantic comedy marathon.”

“She’s an ultra-orgasmic squealer. I bet she squirts like the fountains of Bellagio.”

“I love that perfume she’s wearing.”

“Tomorrow I’ll be gently awakened by her using my manhood as a pacifier. Morning sex is my favorite.”

“Yes, she gave me her number. I wonder if she’s ‘the one.’ I’ll play it cool and wait twenty-four hours to call.”

“I’m going to fuck her in her bathtub tonight. We’ll get so crazy that the bathroom will resemble a sudsy rainforest. I can’t wait to soap up her ass.”

“I feel tummy butterflies. This is awesome. I don’t want to seem too forward, though. She’ll see it as desperation. Gosh, I really do like this woman. I could talk to her for hours.”

“I bet she’s freaky. She’ll want to invite other women into bed. She must have a shaven monkey with puffy lips. She probably tastes like cherry cordial juice. Yum!”

All for naught. I got her number and a gentle goodnight peck after I courteously walked her to her car. She left without wearing a single drop of my semen.

___k

I’m conservative at times. Yes, I’m a liberal skeptic. I’m writing about between the sheets. Sex to me feels fine without the addition of some things that I frankly find humorous, awkward, or downright painful. I’m not alone on this island. Ask your man if he wants his balls nibbled. Go ahead; I’ll wait. See?

Here’s a recent lovemaking session:

“Yes … yes … ___k my pussy.”

My mind goes to work. (It runs on propane. Beware of fumes.)

Wow, that could be one of a variety of things.

  • Fuck
  • Lick
  • Like
  • Kick (nope, scratch that one)
  • Poke
  • Flick
  • Stick
  • Rock
  • Ask
  • Dick

The problem is thoughts don’t traverse my waxy brain matter as quickly as they used to. I can’t see well enough to read her lips and I can’t hear well enough to figure out what she wants. Then logic kicks in. Logic, while refined near fifty, still ain’t right because I’m still male.

Ah, I got it. Her pussy is getting slightly dry because of all of the great sex I’m giving her so she wants me to go down on her and “lick” her pussy. I can do that.

Ten seconds later, she’s grabbing me by the ears, pulling me from the chilly ocean. Now, I’m quite miffed. Either she did not mean “lick” or I really suck at eating pussy. I can’t possibly suck so much that she won’t give me a minute, for Meg Ryan’s sake. It must be something else.

Shit. I can’t think about this too much or I’m going to wind up stuffing a spring snake into a can. (Those of you not nearly as ancient as I am will not get the analogy because you did not grow up with what was quite possibly the greatest prank of all time: the coiled snake in a can. Google that shit.)

Obviously, she just wants me to fuck her pussy. Duh. I can do that. In fact, I can get nasty talkie while I do it too.

“Yeah baby. I’m fucking your pussy.”
“Yes, yes. ___k my pussy.”
“I am.”
“Do you?”
“Huh?”
“___k my pussy?”
“I am!”

Oh, shit. Now what? Jesus. It shouldn’t be this complicated. Can’t people just fuck quietly? I don’t mind some moaning and pleadings toward imaginary deities. These kinky words leave me speechless. I suck at it. Isn’t there a book available with ready-made terms, which I can memorize and deploy as required? I have a Kindle, damn it, and I will buy that fucking eBook mid-stroke.

“Do you want me to lick your pussy?”
“No.”
“Baby, tell me what you want.”
“___k my pussy.”
“Can I buy a vowel?”
“What?”
“Honey, I can’t figure out what you’re saying. I’m sorry.”
“LIKE, you ass. I’m asking if you LIKE my pussy. In other words, tell me how much you like my pussy, which will boost my esteem and get me much closer to orgasm.”
“Like? Heck, I LOVE your pussy.”
“Well, that’s nice, but when I have to explain it to you, it takes away from the moment. You know?”
“Shit.”
Yep. Hand me the remote.

Dump

The stock market has taken so many dumps this week it makes me wonder if bad sushi is to blame. If you listen closely, you can hear broke people snickering. All of the F-U money I swam in evaporated during the last five years, so now all I can do is shrug. I have little left to lose and no desire to be constantly reminded about it.

“Hey, but at least you have your health.”

“Shut up, asshole.”

“You know, when life gives you lemons …”

“… throw them at your annoying friend’s head?”

“There’s no use being angry about it. Nobody can predict the markets.”

“You’re not helping.”

“It’s not how much money you have; it’s how you feel about what you have.”

“All right. Let me check. I feel useless credit cards in this pocket. I feel lint in this one. I feel like shoving this square-tipped shoe up your pretentious ass.”

“Maybe meditation would help take your mind off things.”

“Maybe Scotch would.”

“Liquor never solved anything.”

“I disagree. Liquor has solved many a problem I’ve encountered by distracting me until the problem went away. Now, hand me that bottle and let’s hope the rest works out like it usually does.”

“Gosh you really are depressed. Maybe you should come to church.”

“No, I should start a church since it seems like the most stable enterprise around.”

“There are some excellent books I’ve read that may help you.”

“Unless they contain naked boob pictures, hundred-dollar-bill bookmarks, and recipes for pot brownies, I’m not interested.”

“Why don’t you cut your losses and buy precious metals?”

“Because, if there’s one thing this spastic market has taught me it is that the minute I move to a safe haven, that safe haven will implode. I’m going to keep what’s left under my pillow and hope it doesn’t rain there.”

“I’m fortunate to have a supportive family at times like this. Our love can get us through anything.”

“Really? Can it? Can it get you through the Carl’s Jr. drive though? Well, I’m not eating that slop. I want my fucking strip steak and by golly I’m going to have it.”

“You’ll only make things worse.”

“No, you are making things worse by giving me unsolicited advice. Things suck right now and the only way to unsuck them is for me to piss, moan, and suffer my way through them by myself without a self-proclaimed wealth advisor buzzing around my ears.”

“I’m only trying to help.”

“I’m only trying to get you to stop.”

“If you would have listened to me before …”

“I swear I’m going to bite you. Can’t you understand that you got fucking lucky? That’s all it is: gambling and luck. This time you guessed right and I guessed wrong. Yay for you. Next time it might be different. For now, enjoy your good fortune, pay your taxes, and leave me be.”

“Jeez, you don’t have to get huffy about it.”

If you want to help a brother out of the ditch, buy him dinner … or how about a beer? Leave it at that. Don’t say why you’re doing it. Don’t flash wads of cash. Just tell him you love him as a friend and that’s what friends do.

You’re Beautiful

I’m not just saying it to get laid. I don’t say it enough. Honestly. Woman, you’re hot. Oh, come on. Don’t be shy like that. All of those fine things you adorn yourself with are tiny sprinkles on my luscious cupcake.

Well, your hair, for one, is silky marvelous. It feels like satin flowing between my fingers. My hair, I could probably use to scrub a pan with, but yours I could curl up and sleep in. Sure, it tickles my nose sometimes as we spoon–a small price to pay. Sorry, I can’t stop touching it.

“What else?” you ask. Ah, look who is fishing for compliments now. I kid. Actually, I could go on for hours since I haven’t even made it down to your eyes, which are exceptionally expressive. Through them, I can read your mind. I’ve often been with vacant eyes, so I appreciate the beauty and transparency of yours. Right now, they love me a little more it seems. Lucky me!

Your button nose is like a toy for me. I want to poke and nibble it. Your ears too. They’re so cute–like soft jelly candies. And, how could I go any further without mentioning your marshmallow lips? I miss them when you’re away.

I hear you sometimes say you don’t feel sexy, but I never see that side of you. From every angle you’re an angel and I’m burning to share your cloud.

I wish my skin were half as soft as yours is. Your neck holds the scent I can’t get enough of. Your curves are perfect. The way your back narrows like a cascading flow to the luscious curves below drives me crazy. Thoughts of you distract me.

It’s funny how you’re always concerned about stubble on your legs. It doesn’t bother me at all. Caressing you is unavoidable, no matter how long it has been. Maybe this is odd, but watching you shave gets me going.

You know I’m not a foot person, but yours are too cute to ignore. You love when I rub them, so let me do that for you. I don’t care what TV silliness has my attention. You plop down next to me with lotion anytime, and I got your back (and feet).

That’s enough for now. I can’t lay it on too thick or I’ll desensitize you. Remember this:

When you’re not around and I’m struggling, bored, or blue, thoughts of you get me through.

I love you.

Pub Crawlers

Rookie drinkers were out again last night. The latest travesty, I mean strategy is themed pub-crawls. I blame the parents of these clowns for giving Halloween too much attention. I guarantee their parents were the ones who dressed up and begged door-to-door with their children. Sad. The last beggar who came to my door was dressed like a painter and offered to paint my house number on the curb. I told him to scram (I was out of mini Snickers).

When I saw Halloween in August last night, I had to ask.

“So, what was the bet?”

“Huh?”

“The bet you lost.”

“Oh, no, we’re doing a Johnny Depp pub-crawl.”

“How does that work?”

“We each dress up like a character from one of his movies and then walk pub to pub having a beer at each one.”

“Interesting. Which character are you?”

21 Jump Street … get it?”

“Well, duh. How could I not? Hey, can I suggest a theme for your next crawl?”

“Sure.”

“Amy Winehouse.”

“But, she’s …”

“… dead, yes, that’s the point. You each can put on bump-its and drink until you die and then meet up with the Weekend at Bernie’s theme crawlers.”

“…”

“Too soon?”

Why can’t people just crawl from pub to pub old-fashioned style? You enter, have a beer, look around, and if nobody interests you by the time you hit bottom, pay your bill and stagger to the next pub. No costume required.

My friends and I do this every weekend. We enter, survey the premises, and decide whether to set up our tree fort or crawl to the next pub. Aside from the obvious–short skirts, high heels, and breastuses–the bait that keeps men rooted includes:

  • frosty beer mugs
  • hot wings, burgers, and tater tots
  • flirtatious bartenders and servers
  • ESPN (excluding the fucking WNBA)
  • pool tables

I assume packs of women do it too. Women can spend most of the night discussing treatments, fashion disasters, and Lululemon. They don’t need swinging dicks around to keep them interested. When and if they decide to open for business, customers are easy to find.

Beware, however, that while some of the following may appear to be pub-crawl themes, usually they are not:

  • Men with shaven upper chests in v-neck shirts are not from Studs R Us.
  • Men in extended-toe shoes are, indeed, Jokers. Ask them to juggle for you.
  • Men in Tommy Bahama shirts are not Love Boat escorts.
  • Men in cargo shorts are not plastic Old Navy models.
  • Men wearing sunglasses indoors are not Men in Black.
  • Men in visors are not on the professional golf tour.
  • Men in skinny jeans are not Cock Olumpians.

Bitch Toe

Don’t look now. I just learned how to tell if you’re “unpleasant” before you speak a word. Men are always open to shortcuts to mating targets. We can’t trust the usual any longer because doctors and fashion experts have found ways to camouflage and enhance certain attributes. Well, there’s no fixing this one. If your second toe (index toe–the one next to your big, fat one) is longer than your big toe, you … are … a … bitch.

Calm down, Sweetiepie. Hate the game, not the spotter.

No, I don’t believe it’s accurate. I’m smarter than that. Still, I must admit I spent the rest of the night measuring fucking toes. The women must have considered me a rude foot fetishist.

“Is something wrong with my feet?”

“Oh. Hey, there. How are you?”

“You were staring at my feet.”

“Yes. Yes, I was indeed. You see, I … um … design shoes.”

“Really?”

“Yep, and those are nice. You have excellent taste.”

“Thank you. You should meet my friend, Freddie.”

“Why?”

“I think you two would hit it off. He’s a salon owner downtown.”

“Wait a minute. You are making an assumption that I’m gay, just because I like shoes.”

“And you’re making an assumption that I’m a bitch based on toe length.”

“Uh.”

“Right?”

“So, I’m not the first guy to check your toes?”

“Third one tonight.”

“Ouch.”

Yep, it’s accurate.

I’ve heard of similar analyses regarding finger length. There’s one measure called the 2D:4D digit ratio (as in length of second digit divided by length of fourth digit). If a man’s ring finger is longer than the index finger, causing a ratio under 1.0, it indicates that he:

  • Has a huge sperm count, but doesn’t release any.
  • Keeps his heart under lock and key.
  • Sees a fatty in the mirror no matter how skinny he is.
  • Carries around a massive penis–I’m talking HUGE, people. The poor guy must have back problems. Gosh, his women must be completely satisfied. Just sayin’.
  • Suffers from occasional depression when he checks his 401(k), closet, and ear hair. He also is saddened by flirtatious, yet unobtainable bartenders.
  • He can be schizophrenic. No, he can’t. Yes, he can.
  • Struggles with eating disorders including, but not limited to, discarding the burger bun, eating french fries off other people’s plates, and having dessert before dinner.
  • Maintains an alcohol dependency, which he uses as an excuse when he writes silly nonsense like this, tweets excessively, and selects his women based on toe length.

OK, you can remove your shoe and check now. If that second toe is dangling, you may want to curl up that fucker. Glue it down, for God’s sake. An even better idea is to wear closed-tip shoes. Don’t allow men to disqualify and avoid you because of a silly trait you can’t change. The next time you catch a man staring at your feet, tell him:

“Eyes up, you ape. I spent four thousand dollars on these tits. Forget the toes.”