Archives for May 2015

What We Think of Him

third-wheelHere’s a little insight from too-honest me to all of you ladies who can’t resist posting photos of you and your love leach. Almost nobody likes them, even if they “like” them. It’s not a jealousy thing, or even misery looking for company. It’s just us, the uncaring mass.

It’s similar when I see happy couples out and about. I may smile, and say something kind like, “Aw, look at you two,” but I’m definitely burping up a bit of bile. Ideally, you don’t care if I care, happy couple. You don’t need me to share your bliss, which will probably last barely longer than the granny smith apples I have in my fridge. Go ahead, love it up. Play kissy-face, holdy-hands, and takey-selfie. I’ll play solitaire.

If the woman is attractive to the third-party male, his first thought is how much more deserving of you he is than that slug next to you. Although it’s not often the case, we third-partiers feel we are much better looking, and have more to offer. Your man probably beats you or, at least, he’s mean. Bet he’s broke. Probably has a teeny weenie weenie. You must have self-esteem issues.

Then, we look for an opening (not literally, yet). If your keeper strays too far, we’ll give you an indication of interest. Usually, that causes nose wrinklage. Meh. No swing, no hit, right? I guess it has happened. Never seen it, but would love to. Her man goes to the bar for a round of drinks, third party moves in, she bails with her new, improved man.

*Poof!*

You’d think we apes would be smart enough to think it through. If we were to hijack you away from the undeserving piece of shower lint you call your “honey,” that would make us the next version of him. Hence, we’d be facing all the “ew” faces. Nah. We have short-term results in mind. Get you to choose us over him.

Look, I know it’s sad, shallow, and immature. But, that urge to steal prey is something buried deep in our instincts. I can lie about it, and appear to be a supporter of the blissful duo. I often do this. That’s how I keep the “nice guy” title. Sure, I’ll attend your gatherings with my plus zero. I’ll even bring red wine and deviled eggs. But, you should know that cynicism burns deep within me.

It’s not just me, either. I’ve watched friends hijack women, only to leave them behind like a doggie bag. Oh, sure, there’s regret—about as much as the regret that those au gratin potatoes won’t be tomorrow’s lunch.

Here’s the other thing: I’m sure most single women look at the handsome man of the happy couple similarly. Ladies have more empathy, decency, and the ability to use logic to override instinct. I admire that. That’s why I love women—well, that and boobs. Yet, there are women hunters who will sprint by, and harpoon the easiest prey in the jungle: Horneous Manpigapus. Beware the scorned woman too. She’s exceptionally dangerous and adept. If she is sporting new shoes, and fully-healed cosmetic surgery, she’s the T-Rex of all predators. Run!

Aw, unfurl that brow, Sugar. I’m just messing with you. I truly wish you two live happily forever, and I look forward to your next post … like my next colonoscopy.

Your Post-Coital Conversation Guide

pcconvBack in my rookie days of sleeping around, I often struggled with how to handle the post-game festivities. Was it time to cuddle? Talk? Sleep? Leave? It all depended on the woman, and what sort of mood I created. If I got her to the ledge of orgasm, then sprayed her back like I was watering roses, chances are she wanted nothing more than to chop me in the throat.

Well, I found (through trial and ex-girlfriend) that humor was the best sex-press conference. As she lie there hoping my condom didn’t slip off, and wedge itself somewhere near her spleen, I’d lob something cute and witty.

“Wow. I think I need fluids. Could you pass me a Gatorade?”

All right. Cuteness is subjective.

I make an effort, at least. I don’t deliver the usual, such as:

  • “That was great.”
  • “You’re amazing.”
  • “Can we do this again soon?”
  • “I really like you. Do you like me too?”
  • “Shall I fetch a towel?”

I also know better than to let any of the following witticisms escape my salty lips:

  • “What’s that smell?”
  • “Do you take AMEX?”
  • “Be a sweetie, and pass me the remote.”
  • “Well, that didn’t suck.”
  • “You’re a much better lay than your sister.”

I’ve heard there are men who like to recap the entire activity. This makes me cringe. I know communication is an important part of any long-term relationship, but aren’t there non-verbal ways? If you grab an ice-pack, and slap in on your sore princess, while letting out a blissful sigh, I get it. If you turn on your Flashlight app while I’m going down on you, point well-taken. If you elbow me in the temple while spooning, I’ll aim a little lower.

But, if you need post-coital discussion, stick to neutral subjects. No politics, religion, or sports. You can discuss any of the following, safely:

  • The breakfast menu.
  • What the fuck is going on in Game of Thrones this season?
  • Does Uber come to this neighborhood?
  • Should weed be legalized in California.
  • Oddest place you’ve ever done it.

Another idea would be a quick game of Checkers. If there’s a TV close by, you can flip on the evening news (not Dancing with the ’tards). A better choice would be anything on Comedy Central. Don’t read a newspaper. No playing Candy Crush. You should also resist the urge to clip toenails or pluck eyebrows. How about moisturizing? Squirt a dollop of Ponds into his palm, and have him get that mid-back spot you can’t reach. Now, there’s a fine solution.

Do Men Prefer the Hunt?

fudd“Shhh. Be vewy, vewy, quiet. It’s woman season. I’m woman huntin’.”

My answer to this often asked question is, “It depends.” There are many factors that come into play, including how old (and tired of chasing) the man is, and how long it’s been since his last meal. It also depends on the hunted. How attractive, drunk, and willing is she? Is she a friend? Friend of a friend? Married? There are so many factors, I’m considering creating an Excel pivot table to assist with my calculations.

I’ve been “oh-for-spring,” so you can rest assured that if you toss your vag my way, I’ll bite … or nibble. I’m also willing to have Segway love—lots of fun, until one of my friends sees me, takes a picture, and posts it. You see, when a man is all backed up, he needs to let out some poison, or he’s going to do something silly and expensive.

Now, the friend thing can complicate matters. If you cross the friend barrier and bump nasties, the relationship is going to change. Before the sex towel comes out, some level of regret will rear its ugly behind. The only way to combat this is to get blackout drunk, and run to a taxi cab within one minute of the orgasm. What happens after five shots of tequila is anyone’s guess.

After you sleep with your pal, where do you go? If the sex was mutually good, do you keep on tapping the sex keg? What happens when one of you starts dating someone new? Keep fucking? Yikes! What if the sex kind of sucked? If it sucked for both, you can laugh, and part amicably. If it sucked for one, and was great for the other, well, that’s a conundrum. For most men, disappointing sex is way better than no sex. For women, disappointing sex is traumatic, often resulting in disclosing his ineptitude to numerous friends, and a Netflix series marathon with two bottles of wine, and something salty.

I’m sure there are readers out there who say, “Come on, Phil. Women don’t go tossing their va-heenas around like rose petals.” Some do, my dears. Some even do it for free. I’ve been the fortuitous, yet gracious recipient.

I must admit that my first reaction to oncoming labia is skepticism.

“No strings attached? Baloney. What’s the catch?”

“No catch. I just want to fuck you.”

“What? Why?”

“Why do you care what my reason is? Do you want to get laid or not?”

“Nobody rides for free. I remember that from the seventies. ‘Ass, grass, or gas,’ or something. Fuck, if I know. You’re not going to whip it in, wipe it off, and walk away. You’ll probably stab me in the neck with a wine key.”

“Where do you come up with this stuff? Christ. Look, just take me home, and let’s get it on, Marvin. Or are you gay?”

“Ah, the ‘gay’ challenge. I concede. Take me to your master, woman.”

… but, I Still Want to See Her Naked

melonsIt amazes me that no matter how poorly some women behave, an exposed nipple causes male amnesia. I realize we are visual beasts, but isn’t there any way for us to override this? Logic dissolves as skin is exposed.

A woman has no problem with this. The sexy man treats her poorly, and she loses her desire to see his abs. Done. Gorgeous guy gets sloppy drunk, and she’ll ignore his shapely bum.

Not so with us, though.

A pair of women enter my office (dive bar). One is pretty, one is holy-fuck hot. Pretty one is dressed sharply. Other is dressed inappropriately, unless on MTV Spring Break. She has tight jeans, an exposed midriff, and fake boobs so obnoxiously large that I expect twin aliens to pop out at any minute.

Two men walk in and instantly target the ladies. I sip my frosty beverage, and scoop another fist of buttery popcorn into my skull while watching the attack. Man One wisely approaches the not-as-hot one. Man Two goes for the prize.

Roll forward three shots, two spilled drinks, one selfie, and zero sentences without the word “like” in them. Miss Pregnant Chest is now trashed, and obnoxious as an elevator fart. Man Two gives up, sits next to me, and seeks guidance from the wise sage.

“Oh my god, is this woman bonkers or what? Jesus. Talking to her is like trying to reason with a four-year-old hyped up on Pixy Stix.”

“Ah, but you’d still love to see her tits.”

“Oh, fuck yes. I think she’s pissed that more guys aren’t paying attention to her.”

“Correct, you are, young Grasshopper.”

“Who?”

“Before your time. Listen, instead of wasting more time and money on her, I suggest you target another pair of dangling fun bags.”

“But, look at those!”

“Yes, I know, son. They are balls of silicone wrapped in vodka-soaked scar tissue. Her nipples are sitting on top of ghastly Y-shaped scars, and her asshole has probably migrated somewhere between her shoulders from all the skin stretching required to plant those globes.”

“Shit. But, I still want to see them. Is that wrong?”

“You have not mastered your instincts. If you want to see them so badly, put some pepper in her drink. Maybe she’ll sneeze, and blow a piston.”

“Yes! You’re a genius.”

“Live long and prosper.”

Kiss My Dad Butt

dadbodGirls are into the dad bod? Right. That’s like guys saying they’re into naturally saggy boobs, saddlebags, and cellulite. Being into something is different than tolerating it. If you’re into it, you’re implying you prefer it. No woman prefers a beer belly and man tits.

I can understand if the angle is that the woman doesn’t mind her man a bit doughy, so she can spend less time eating lawn on the Stairmaster. I get that. Nor do I want to date a woman with abs and ripped calves. That woman would raise an eyebrow as I raise a fork full of rigatoni. Then, I’d have to add more Parmesan and order a cannoli, just to assert my non-fuck-givery.

If you’re in a relationship with a dad-bod guy, and he suddenly does a juice cleanse, begins wearing expensive cologne, and trims his ball hair for the first time in months, does that impress you? It shouldn’t, because he’s probably doing it for someone other than you.

I’ve gotten thicker and more saggy over the years. I don’t enjoy seeing only the end-half my wiener, or watching my man-chest bounce as I jog. That pisses me off to an extent—not to the extent that I’m willing to make a lifestyle change. But, I’m not going to justify my sloppiness by pointing to a silly article by a woman (who was probably held at gunpoint) about how she’s into the dad bod. Nay. I’m this way because I’m old, and the reward for having abs is not worth the effort it would take for a 53-year-old drunk with a sweet tooth to get them.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that we all look similar, naked, lying on our backs … in dim lighting … after a few drinks. My second trimester gut flattens out as I recline. Granted, it doesn’t migrate to my armpits like natural old boobs do, but I do become more pear-ish. You like pears? Ah, I like you.

Actors like Seth Rogan, Louis CK, and Will Ferrell have graced (sic) our movie screens with their naked pudginess. So, that makes it OK? A few women say, “Aw, isn’t he cute?,” and next thing we know there’s a hotel pool full of belly-scratching dads carrying pool noodles and Budweiser.

Note that when Lena Dunham (her Chubbiness) flaunts her naked knobs in Girls, no man says, “Aw, how cute,”—not even those of us with dad bods. The typical man would say, “Ew, yuck. What the fuck? Why couldn’t you show me Marnie’s ass? God damn it. Can’t un-see that shit. Now I need an eye enema.”

Just like there are men (of all colors, and one more often than others) who will absolutely have sex with a mom bod, there are women who will bed Homer. They’ll do it, but they won’t prefer it. If they were honest, they’d admit that the fit version of Homer is more fun to bounce upon. But no, we can’t hurt anyone’s poor wittle feewings.

Women are partly responsible for the dad bod, too. If you’re cooking bacon and carbs, and stocking the shelves with kettle-cooked chips, you are responsible for building the dad bod. Now, bring Buddha an Oreo, and tell me how much you love my dad bod.

Clumsy with His Prey

lionA hungry lion (me) is sitting at a bar in a fine sushi restaurant. It’s Saturday night—the dreaded couples night. Across from me is a couple around thirty. She’s stunning; he’s pissing me off. Why? Because he’s neglecting her.

You see, while his lovely brunette is on his right, there’s an unattended blonde on his left. Sure, she’s attractive also, but he has plenty. Still, he’s distracted. Heck, so am I, but I’m a hungry lion with no meal at hand. He’s being greedy. I wish his woman would dump hot sake over his snidely skull.

What’s up with this fella? Sure, he’s twenty years my junior, but he’s old enough to know better. Is it possible that everyone he has dated up till this point has been an overly-tolerant, low-esteem-having woman? Might he have never been smitten for misdeeds toward his kitten?

Guys, the most important thing your woman wants from you is your attention when you’re with her. It’s not that difficult. Pay attention to her. Listen. Sure, you can glance about, but stop fucking staring. It’s rude! If you caught her drooling over the dreamy biceps of some other dude, you’d be none too pleased. Quit it!

He doesn’t quit it.

He goes so far as to offer her some sake. This is where the other woman should begin taking remedial action. He’s obviously with someone. If he’s distracted, it’s not because the blonde is superior; it’s because he’s unfaithfully gluttonous. The blonde should realize this asshole will treat her similarly, given the chance.

Her response to his offer should have been as follows.

“No, thank you. Um, is that your girlfriend next to you?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name, sweetie?” (To her.)

“Elaine.”

“Elaine, why are you wasting your time with this fucking loser? There are thirty men in this bar alone who will treat you better than this waste of testosterone. Demand better. Dump the douche canoe.”

But, that didn’t happen. His lady bookends ignored the offense. I swear he was filling his woman’s water glass to get her to hit the ladies room so he could slide his card to the blonde. That’s an old trick she may have expected him to pull, because that night she had a basketball bladder, and gave him no opening for misdeeds. (Here’s hoping she gave him no opening in the bedroom, as well.)

If I were the alpha-type, instead of the passive-aggressive cat that I am, I would have sneaked up next to her, and stolen his prey. I’d treasure her, and make her feel secure in my love. The other women in the room would be invisible to me. Sure, she’d probably feel suffocated, and eventually return to Mr. Rubberneck.

Ladies, please start calling your man on his shit. I don’t care if it’s in public. Do it, or don’t complain about being the easy prey.

Free on Kindle This Week: How to Date Men by Phil Torcivia

How-to-Date-Men_Front2-800Get it here: http://amzn.to/1uwDFfW


Odds are, somewhere between 99% and 100% of your romantic relationships have ended. You are the common denominator, so logic would say you suck at relationships.

I wouldn’t say that.

You see, at this point, 100% of my relationships ended. Some served their purpose and ended nicely, while others definitely failed. I’ll not take or assign blame to either party involved. Olive oil and balsamic vinegar are each wonderful, but they don’t mix. The problem is in the mixing.

In this book, I lend my expertise as the datee, not the dater. I’m the man who knows men, and how you can net the one you want (for the time being). True, we men are slightly different, so you need to approach your prey appropriately.

Don’t go hunting birds with hammers, my dear.

Let’s say you’d like to date a married man whom, I assume, you’re not married to. That’s quite an evil desire, according to some. I’m not here to judge. Perhaps you want to bed a man who desperately needs something new, and who will leave you alone thereafter. Fine. Well, you need to approach this fellow a certain way. (It’s in here.)

What inspired me to write this, aside from the desperately needed therapy I get from venting? Amazon recommended a book for me, like it does (and usually does pretty well). The book was entitled, How to Date Asian Women.

I shit you not.

I thought, What could possibly be any different about Asian women, and what sort of freak(s) would need a fucking book to lay it out? I’m sure it’s chock full of little ditties, like “Best to avoiding binding her feet or letting her parallel park.”

Then I considered all the different breeds of men there are, including but certainly not limited to:

  • Short
  • Older
  • Hairy
  • Pretty
  • Brown

I’ve got plenty of these breeds in my life. I witness the dysfunctional approaches of interested parties. I slap my ever-growing forehead and exclaim, “You’re going about him all wrong!”

So, whether you’ve targeted or already adopted a man-puppy, Coach Phil is here to help. Have a seat on my knee, imbibe your social lubrication of choice (wine is fine), and pay attention. He’ll be yours in no time, kiddo.


Get it here: http://amzn.to/1uwDFfW

Caretaker or Troublemaker?

mischievousWhen my buddies go radio silent, guess who gets the call? Me. This puts me in a difficult position. There are numerous reasons why my friends don’t want to speak to their women, few of which actually involve me. So, why call me?

Many would say it’s because I’m the responsible type. Others would say that if there’s debauchery, I’m usually either the cause of it or recording it. I’m 53, ladies. I’m no longer that pesky kid who leaves burning wads of dog turds on your front step.

I suppose by writing about this, some of these man-keepers will think twice before making me next-in-line when the call goes straight to voice mail. No skin off my knees. I hate my phone anyway. It’s more rude than convenient. However, I have created a handy guide that helps me respond to the orphaned wives.

When Mrs. Dickhead calls me, if he’s standing right next to me with a blood alcohol level so high that he’s flammable, here are my choices:

  • Don’t answer it.
  • Answer it, and act like I can’t hear anything she’s saying.
  • Answer it, and make an excuse for him, such as he’s changing a flat, dealing with a horrible case of the squirts, or he’s retracing his steps because he thinks he left his phone on the roof of his car.
  • Answer it, and hand it to him.

How I handle the call often depends on how prank-y I’m feeling. Sometimes, I like mayhem. Perhaps, I’m in the fortunate position to return some ball-breakery. I can do that. When asked where he is, my guide gives me the following response options:

  • “Passed out on the floor next to me. Three men are about to pee on him. I’ll text you pictures.”
  • “He’s riding a mechanical horsey in front of the grocery store.”
  • “A ghastly woman just whisked him away by his penis.”
  • “He has been deported.”
  • “He’s closing a drug deal—twelve blue pills for the love of his life. My advice to you is to lube up, Sugar Cup.”

My friends have mixed reactions when wives call me. When asked, I usually admit to being a surrogate lover. They don’t believe me, which is somewhat hurtful. I think it would be a small, yet appropriate act of reciprocation for all the minutes I waste coming up with fresh lies.

There are occasions when a buddy’s daughter will contact me. Depending on her age, I may tone down my silliness, and say:

  • “Daddy’s getting a tattoo.”
  • “He’s at the shelter buying you a puppy.”
  • “He’s right here but he doesn’t want to speak to you because he doesn’t love you anymore.”

Guess that makes me the troublemaker.