Archives for August 2015

Top 10 Rituals to Keep You Single

stay-singleI’m fucking tired of top ten lists, aren’t you? There won’t be ten anything here. I’m using that headline because titles using “top” tend to get more clicks, and I’m a click whore.

So, I was reading about all these cute little couple rituals to help them stay together—leaving a morning love note on the fridge (ick), sending mid-day selfies (ickity ick), and making “what I love about you” statements at bedtime (I happen to love not doing that). Brrr! I just got a severe douche chill. My balls, they be a-shrivelin’.

If you want to keep your lover, do this: Be his or her best option.

Naturally, I’m single, which means I’m more likely to croak at a younger age. Not sure I believe those studies. Stress causes death, and it’s not very stressful taking care of half as many people as couples. One reason for my single-arity is my refusal to play these love games.

If you’re like me—enjoying your serenity—here are rituals (and not the fucking top five, ten best ever, guaranteed, proven ways, plus a Ginsu):

  • Always sit next to some guy’s gal at the bar. This will give the illusion of being occupied.
  • Don’t go to house parties with 50% or more couples in attendance. Seriously. They really suck hard. You want to have nooges try to set you up all night? Hells no. Want to spend the night explaining why you’re single? Nope again. Drop off the bottle of cheap wine, and leave out the back.
  • If you’re a guy, make your master bathroom female unfriendly. Remove all up-y close-y mirrors, leave three sheets on the toilet paper roll at all times, and keep bath towels hidden, except for one that’s just short enough to be unable to cover both nipples and nay-nay. Also, your shower must have no benches or seats, no loofas, and no shampoo. One bar of Irish Spring is all that belongs there (you can wash your hair with it, I promise).
  • If you’re a gal, make your master bedroom male unfriendly. Cover your bed with an ultra-thick duvet, decorative pillows, afghans, and annoying pets. His nightstand gets a lavender-scented candle. Yours should have a large black dildo, and foot cream in plain sight. Turn on your white noise generator (dolphins and oceans, please). Hang family pictures (especially ones of your father and young children).

Social media must be mastered by the singles. It is absolutely crucial that all of your photos are of either you, pets, landscapes, or memes. If any lover is in any photo, delete that shit, pronto. Also, never like any post featuring both irritants (aka, the happy couple). Instead, use one of these not top ten comments:

  • Aww. (Insert a puke moji if you have one.)
  • You two deserve each other.
  • So, which ex is this?
  • I’m placing this high up in my spank bank.
  • Wow, Cupid really shit the bed on this one.

The Fame-Addicted Generation

fameaddictionIf I ask college kids what their ideal occupation is, I’d bet most would drool over a career of cashing in on fame, without doing much work. They’ve been conditioned by reality TV, which features people with good looks and no talent, other than being famous for being famous. This is not good.

Maybe it’s also due to their parents both working long hours and neglecting their need for constant approval. Little Josh didn’t get enough medals. Little Katie didn’t get enough gold stars. Now, a thumbs up on any post they make strikes them right on their cerebral clits.

Fame means different things to men versus women. For men, the most significant benefit is more mating options. An unattractive famous man—even an incarcerated one—can get laid a lot easier than a hidden hunk. So, I blame women for creating these beasts. If you’ve ever fame-fucked a man, you created a horrible disservice to humanity in the form of an ego-maniacal slob with a podcast and a boner.

Look, I admit that if my fame opened the door to younger, hotter ladies, I certainly wouldn’t shut it. But, I’m not famous. I’m a writer. How many writers do you recognize? I could be sitting next to you at the bar right now. I could plant someone on the other side of you. That person could do all the foreplay I’d need.

(I start out a five, at best, on a good hat day.)

“Oh-emm-gee! Do you know who that is over there?”

“No, who?”

“He’s Phil Torcivia—a famous author. He has like fifteen books out.”

(And, now I’m a six.)

“Really? He’s kinda cute. What does he write?”

“Hysterical books. Ever hear of the Nice Guy series?”

“Umm, I think so.” (She has not.)

“That’s him. Fuck. He’s so funny.”

(Six point five.)

“Is he married?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve seen him here before. He’s usually by himself.”

(I smile, nod, and send a round of drinks their way, as I become a seven.)

“So, does he write erotic fiction and stuff?”

“Totes. His books are pretty raunchy. Here, let’s check out his Facebook page.”

“Wow, he has a huge following.” (I don’t.)

“I bet he has a huge something-else too, ha ha ha.”

(Seven point five. I walk down and say hello to the fame drunkard.)

“Hi. My name is Phil. What’s yours?”

“Oh, hey. I’m Vanessa.”

“You’re adorable.”

“Thank you. I hear you’re a writer.”

“Ah, I’ve scribbled a bit here and there.”

(Fame is best served with a side of humility. I’m now a blushing eight.)

“Any chance I could get a signed copy of one of your books?”

“Aw, you bet. So, what do you do, Vanessa?”

(Having a famous person ask you about you is pretty fucking awesome. I know this. I’m an eight point five.)

“I’m a teacher.”

“See that? You’re a true hero. I’m simply a clown on Kindle.”

“So, Mr. Nice Guy, where’s your woman?”

“My heart is currently unoccupied, my love. Sadly, I’m left to my lonely libations. But, it has given me the opportunity to meet two lovely people here tonight.”

“Aw, you’re sweet.”

“Sorry. I was referring to the bartenders.”

“Ha ha ha.”

(Humor tickles the gates to love. I’m a nine.)

“Well, Vanessa, where’s your husband?”

“Oh, I’m happily single.”

“Not if I can help it. Hand over your digits, pronto!”

(Women also like strength and confidence. This is a hint that my love may come with wrist binds. Nine point five.)

“Sure. Give me your phone.”

You know the rest of this plays out. By the time I hand her the sex towel, she begins realizing that fame doesn’t infer soul mateness.

Like I was saying, though, fame means different things to women. Most aren’t seeking to have more mating options because of fame. For women fame is all about the acceptance and admiration of peers. More fame, more money, more sparkly designer stuff, more envy, more likes, more followers, more envy. Does fame mean more sex, more often, from men with more abs? Nope, and that’s OK.

Fame is overrated. It is no indication of the value of a person to society. Let’s get off the drug, and stop rewarding greedy narcissists for being good at being famous.

Guys, This is Not OK

notokAlthough I realize we men are in large part oblivious dimwits, it boggles my mind when I hear stories about men saying totally inappropriate things. Do boners steal all self-control? Just because it’s something you’d love to hear from an attractive woman, doesn’t mean it’s OK for you to say it to her.

A lady friend went to collect her final paycheck from her boss. On the way out, he stopped her, and said, “You know, you’re really hot. I’d really enjoy fucking the shit out of you.”

It’s so wrong on so many levels. This jerk has no business being the boss of anyone, as he obviously can’t even control himself. Also, every woman (including his wife … yes, he is married) should be alerted to avoid him at all costs. This guy needs a heavy dose of ass-beating and therapy. No wonder I find timid women all around me.

My friend doesn’t work for him anymore, so he thought it was safe to say such a thing. Nope. Never. Not even if she hinted she was interested. Here’s when it might be appropriate for him to say that to her: after they’ve gone on numerous dates, they’re becoming intimate, and she says, “I love it when my man takes control, and talks dirty to me.”

She defused the situation kindly, by saying, “Oh, don’t be silly. You’re married.” He deserved an arm-bar, not kindness.

She asks me, the King of Crass, what I think she should do. It sucks, but there’s little she can do. She doesn’t have any recorded evidence. It’s his word against hers, and she’s the jilted employee with a motive. He’s just another pig with a power penis, but there’s no proof.

She considers friending his wife on Facebook and filling her in, but she doesn’t want to ruin his family. I understand, but I have mixed feelings. I think his wife should know what a piece of shit she’s married to. Face it, she’s going to find out eventually. I say the sooner the better. “Your husband is despicable. Dump him, and find a better man.”

I said she’s best off letting it go, unless he tries to stay in contact with her. If he steps over that line again, she should trap him and destroy him. All she’d need to do is get a text from him—maybe a picture. He shouldn’t be dumb enough to incriminate himself, but give a boner holder enough rope and he’ll hang himself with it.

Guys, you’re going to find a co-worker, bartender, friend of your daughter, and even a cousin attractive. Nothing wrong with that. You can appreciate art without stealing it. If you want to give a girl a compliment, go for it, but try to do it in a less-creepy way, which doesn’t involve fucking shit, or brains, or the dog out of her. Try saying, “Hey, Julie, lookin’ good,” with a thumbs up. Fuck. Even that’s creepy. Just don’t do it.

Ladies, I apologize for my cave-manic kin. You shouldn’t have to tolerate this nonsense, and if you want to take remedial action, you should. You might be saving the next beauty from a beast without brains.

The Problem with Fidelity

ashley-madison-hackedPeople are tweet-a-licious over the latest Ashley Madison website drama. Seems someone hacked the site and exposed information of people registered there. They exposed a hypocritical douche (Josh Duggar) for his extra-marital exploits after championing family values.

See, I don’t care if the guy cheats on his wife. That’s between them. What bugs me is when people hide behind veils of holiness and righteousness, judging others while rolling around in the very slop they criticize.

Enough about hypocrites. Let me cover this cheating thing again.

If a wife (no, I don’t have one) wants to have an affair, it’s because her husband is not fulfilling a need of hers. Who’s to blame? Both. If she expressed her desires to her husband, and he neglected to comply, then why shouldn’t she get some side action? Oh, because she promised not to when she got married? But, the terms of that promise were not kept by her husband, right? Doesn’t sound to me like he is honoring and cherishing her. She has a right to be happy and satisfied, and no paper will dissolve her desire.

Say, for example, she loves having her feet massaged. What if her hubby hates feet? That may not have been pre-maritally exposed. Or, what if he would rather someone else rub her feet while he watches the game? If it gives him a happy roommate, and leaves him with clean hands, that’s his choice. But, if he refuses to rub her feet, and absolutely forbids ANYONE from rubbing her feet, he’s being selfish, and pushing her toward another rubber.

I’d love to be all some woman needs. I can’t control that. Even if the woman I’m with claims I’m it, how would I know if she’s not simply being kind? And, if I happen to be it, there’s no guarantee I’ll be it forever, even if we both try our best to keep me in her pleasure zone.

People are going to stray. It sucks, but it’s genetic. Loyalty will always depend on opportunity. There’s a scenario where you would be unfaithful. It may involve a movie star, alcohol, or a moment of fuck-it-tude.

The best defense is a shrug.

I’ve cheated and been cheated upon. I see both acts as selfish, but only destructive if done with the intent of hurting someone, not pleasing oneself.

I was madly in love, and had the woman of my dreams tear my heart from my chest, and smash it with a croquet mallet. I was hurt, depressed, and embarrassed. Then, I realized—after the wound began scabbing—that what she did, while careless, was never done to hurt me. It was done for her pleasure. It happened because I didn’t fulfill her needs.

So, now my wall is high, and my heart is wrapped in Kevlar. If my love strays, I’m disappointed, not injured. In fact, I’m partly relieved to find out sooner than later so I can cut my losses.

Ashley Madison didn’t hurt anyone. The hackers who exposed the subscribers have done all the damage. Yet, much like the bullet and the shooter, thanks to the media, we’re horribly deluded and distracted. Pity.

The Scoop on Lady V

ladyvcatNot since the discovery of Spanish Fly has there been such a buzz. This new pink pill is going to hasten the next sexual revolution. I’ve been working closely (not really) with the developers of the wonder-woman drug (it’s not), and I have unique (not really) insights (again) into what you frisky ladies can expect.

First, we need to discuss side-effects. Don’t worry, they do not include rectal bleeding unless, of course, you become so horny that you decide to cram an eggplant up your ass, stem first. (Don’t do that. Zucchini, maybe. Eggplant, nope.) Here’s a list of things that could result from taking it:

  • You could fuck your not-so-cute, but kind of funny and cuddly like a teddy bear, neighbor. That’s going to make things awkward. Blame the pill, or tell him you have vag fungus.
  • Possible flooding from too much time in the tub trying to position your throbbing love bean under the faucet. You could also burn yourself when trying to adjust the spigot with your feet.
  • Your husband is going to begin scouring your cell phone and email, because he can’t find any good reason why all of a sudden having sex with him involves screams of joy instead of yawns of dullness.
  • You’ll look at certain appliances and devices in a whole new way. Washers on spin cycle, electric toothbrushes, doorknobs, banisters, and even decorative pillows will cringe as you stare.
  • You might actually stay in a bar after last call, in the odd chance that Chase, the bartender, and his shaven chest is serious about taking you home with him (and his three roomies).
  • You’ll begin to take back all the rude comments you made about Steph and her drunken sexual exploits including lesbian experimentation, peeing on her husband, Ralph, and screwing a college Freshman while high on E.

There are specific directions for Lady V use and, if you don’t follow them, I won’t responsible for your clit blisters.

First, they go in your mouth. Putting them “down there” won’t work. If you need to speed things up (his boner is becoming boneless), go ahead and chew one. I suggest you wash it down with some nice Prosecco.

Second, it’s perfectly fine and acceptable to tell the man you’re about to drain that you’ve taken the pill. Men don’t even give even one tiny shit. Anything you say that ends with “before I have sex with you” will be ignored.

Third, you’ll only need to buy five or so. Once men realize vaginas are open for extended business hours, those men will take their paychecks directly to Rite Aid and stock up on enough pills to choke a horse.

Last, you’re going to need to find a better excuse than “I’m not in the mood” because he’ll insist you simply take a thrill pill. I suggest diarrhea. You don’t need to actually have it. The thought alone should send him spanking.

There are numerous commercials in the works. Finally, we can stop watching bumpit-headed Flo pimp insurance. Instead, she’ll be in a hot tub on an ocean cliff watching the sunset as she positions the jets on her meaty, red love button. Another will feature the wife doing dishes as hubby sashays up behind her, nibbles her neck, and whispers.

“Hey, sweetie. You feelin’ frisky?”

Before Lady V: “Jesus Christ, can’t I have ten minutes to myself? Get that thing away from me.”

After Lady V: “Get those jeans off and give me that cock now! Ram it so deep that my nose bleeds.”

“Honey, I’m bringing Chinese food home tonight. I was thinking maybe we could send the kids to your mother’s and have a date night. What do you think?”

Before Lady V: “Screw Chinese food. Bring home a blue box, and maybe I’ll go down on you after Top Chef is over.”

After Lady V: “I’m touching myself right now, dreaming of your meatiness. Hurry home, stud monkey.”

Women, rejoice! No longer will you need to wade through ten pages of horrible prose to get off. It’s time for the miracle pill to end all vaginal drought.

So, ask yourself, when the time comes, will you be ready? I know I’m ready. I’ve cleared the Advil and old cologne from my medicine cabinet. Now, it’s one row of Lady V and one row of morning-after pills. How you doin’?

People on Those Dating Sites

seedyHad another young lady curl up next to me at the wonderful bar of therapy the other day. We discussed dating. I confessed that I’ve been in a serious drought. Received no sympathy—not even a pat on the head.

We got onto the topic of online dating.

“Seems that guys on those site are only after one thing.”

“Sea bass?”

“Um, no. Sex.”

“Ah. I’m unfamiliar. Do tell.”

“They troll around the site looking for hookups. Here, look at how many emails I received just today.”

“Better to be in demand than incontinent.”

“Not really. It’s time-consuming weeding through the pigs. I’d bet half these guys are married.”

“Then it’s their wives’ fault for not giving it up enough.”

“WHAT?”

“Oh, I kid. Yes, men are piglets.”

“This one cute guy I connected with said he didn’t feel like driving all the way down here. So, he said I should come up, with an overnight bag. We haven’t even met yet!”

“The nerve of him to not provide toiletries and morning wear. Guys like that give the rest of us a bad name. I’ll have you know I am fully stocked with Listerine, lady boxers, and espresso.”

“Good to know. I won’t be coming to your house either.”

“But …”

“Plus, so many of these guys make rude comments about my photos.”

“May I?”

“Sure, here. They’re classy, right?”

“Um, to be honest, you’re kind of leading with your tits, sugar.”

“Oh, so just because I show a little cleavage, it means I’m a slut?”

“Well, you know what they say: ‘If there’s cum in your boobie gutter …’”

“…”

“Kidding again. No, of course that should not be inferred. And, you’ll want the man you eventually land to appreciate your valley of the melons.”

“I don’t think you’re helping me.”

“All I’m saying is, you ladies consider men to be disgusting slobs when you’re not attracted to them, and they act lustfully. But, if you’re into the guy, and he says he wants to spank you like a naughty school girl while spraying genetic man syrup all over you, that’s hot. How’s a guy to know? Will there come a day—perhaps on date three or four—when you’ll tell him it’s OK to lust after you? Up until that point is he supposed to stick to neutral topics, and avoid looking at your boobs?”

“Calm down there, Sparky.”

“No, I will not calm down. This pisses me off. You should not be able to change my meaning and intent based on how you feel about me. If I tell a young bartender she’s gorgeous, she might think I’m a creepy old guy who wants to drug her. That’s fucked up.”

“So, you’re not Phil Cosby.”

“No, I’m not. That bartender is gorgeous. If she asked me to have sex with her, would I? Of course I would. Yet, I realize her flirtation is solely based on her desire to increase gratuity, which is also fucked up, and is akin to prostitution. Don’t even get me started on that.”

“Didn’t mean to get you started.”

“I’m not done. So, there are men on dating sites who want to have sex. Is that really a fucking epiphany? You prefer a man who writes poetry, and seeks a partner to join him in yoga classes?”

“I don’t do yoga.”

“But you are aware that there is this exercise activity called yoga, and those classes involve contorting one’s body into positions loosely related to sex positions.”

“Huh?”

“Downward dog? Yogi, please! But, I digress. Look, if I walk into a titty bar, I expect to find naked hyper-sexual women. If one walks on stage with a puppy and a candle, then proceeds to read excerpts from her eFondleMe profile, including how she enjoys couples cooking and sunset walks, I’m calling horseshit. She’s trying to give me the impression she’s not your typical stripper. Nay. She’s a strong-minded woman, secure in her sexuality. Thirty minutes later she’s in the VIP room milking hundreds from some poor slob like me, who would love to believe she’s unlike the rest.”

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with POF.”

“Every man on that site wants to get laid. Every man on every fucking site. FarmersOnly? Same shit, only with hay and overalls. ChristianMingle? J-Date? More deluded sex slobs, hiding behind a book of morals they don’t abide by. eHarmony? It’s simply men willing to take a longer trip to the same fucking destination … your ass.”

“Jeez. Um, ooh, look at the time. Sorry, sir, but I have to go. It was super nice meeting you, and I wish you good fortune with your writing and dating endeavors. I’m sure you’ll find a nice girl.”

“Pfffflppptttplbbbth!”

What Men Want – 2015 Edition

iohawkWe’ve come so far, haven’t we? Not the savage, sex-hungry beasts we used to be. Our lives do not solely consist of sex, food, and football. Nope. We live in search of meaningful relationships—romance, tender kisses, long walks, and snuggling … oh, and bacon. We’re not moving past bacon.

You sense some sarcasm, no doubt. Clever you.

It’s sad, but sex is still atop the mountain of man-likes. The only thing I’ve found that has evolved is the types of sex now available. Men now have new masturbatory options: artificial vaginas. That’s it. Nothing else changed. Sex is sex, but now a man can fuck a fleshlight as often as his woman rides a rabbit.

The next logical step in man’s sexual evolution is mechanical vaginas. I’m sure the throbbing, pulsating, and temperature changing types are already on the market. What about a robot vag? It has to be in the works. You can set it on the bed next to you with a 7am alarm. At seven, it kicks on (along with the coffee machine), crawls over, and gives Mr. Aintsobadbeingalone a wakey-wakey robo hummer. It does this without reminding him about putting out the trash, or paying the cell bill. When it’s done, it rolls into the bathroom and cleans itself. Then, it hides so his friends don’t find it.

It’s not so far-fetched. I realize most women find this creepy. If you walked in on your man fucking a synthetic love pocket, you’d freak. Funny how vice-versa doesn’t apply, as finding the woman masturbating with anything but John, the neighbor, makes it a really, really good day. Heck, we realize we can’t compete with those undulating clit-slappers. Go for it, and leave my robotic Joan alone.

All right, there are other things men want. We always want gadgets. I saw a gadget at a recent convention that gave me an electro-boner: an IO HAWK. It’s an intelligent personal mobility device. It’s a battery-powered bar with two wheels that you stand on, and steer by leaning. Damn! I’m not about to fork over $1999 to accelerate my laziness. Maybe, when it drops under $1000 I’ll indulge just so I can tool around the outlet mall knocking flat-billed caps off little gangstas.

Men also want food. Nothing really new in the food area that I’m aware of. I guess the fried egg on a burger thing is recent. Still, nothing is challenging bacon and buffalo wings for the top of our pyramid.

Beer is still king. Lately, there have been craft breweries sprouting up everywhere around me in SoCal. I’m so glad these have progressed past that annoying friend who has been brewing Ass Hiner Bush in his basement. Men love the concept of these craft brews because we get to see big, burly vats of steel cranking out the fizzy yellow goodness.

Yes, we still love cars and trucks. We’re a bit sad about losing the Hummer. As long as there are Ram trucks, Escalades, and Harleys, we’ll survive. Sure, there are some men who prefer $100,000 toasters (Tesla) and others who save the environment (my ass) by biking everywhere. I don’t consider those men. They’re sissy la las. Don’t have sex with them until stop hugging trees. Instead, find a manly man, and give him a silicon replica of your princess.

Signs That You May Be Too Single

cupidAre you a self-sufficient, intolerant fuck like me? Yikes! We need to be careful. Social unacceptability—a trait we treasure—is frowned upon by those of the coupling kind. First, we need to identify the signs of single-doom, see if they apply to us, then obscure them.

Here are some clues that you may have become too single:

  • You have created a nest, and consider guests to be pests.
  • The ratio of self-given orgasms to orgasms delivered by others exceeds 2-to-1.
  • You have stimulating conversations with your pets.
  • When you succumb to hosting a bed-warmer, you spend a significant part of the evening staring at it, wondering how to make it go away.
  • When a friend offers to set you up, you politely respond that you would rather snort Drano.
  • Public displays of affection, where they used to make you smile or trigger a bit of envy, now make you cringe.
  • You insist upon separate tabs.
  • Before dating someone, you now consider what types of baggage they are carrying more important than kissing skills.
  • Facebook updates announcing engagements and pregnancies are almost as annoying as Adam Levine’s falsetto.

Did you find your-solo-self somewhere in there? Fret not, my friend. You and I have evolved beyond the cavemen who surround us. It is not our duty to perpetuate the species. It is our duty to drink wine—entire bottles, completely unshared.

Yet, to avoid having angry fingers pointed at us, and insults thrown our way, we can camouflage our serenity. The last thing we need is Fox News covering a bunch of married curmudgeons marching on our front lawns, carrying signs with awful slogans like, “God hates monosexuals!”

Ways to obscure your plus-zero preference:

  • Attend house parties, when invited. Bring wine. Drink wine. Raid the medicine cabinet. Sneak out the back.
  • Find another plus-zero, and agree to use each other when a partner is required. (Technically, this is only when playing on a seesaw. I’ve played ping-pong with myself, and I once saw a picture of Ron Jeremy blowing himself. So, there.)
  • Don’t post solo pictures. Have the bartender take a selfie with you.
  • Avoid cruises, line dancing, and cooking classes.
  • Sit at the bar next to someone attractive and somewhat age-appropriate. No need to converse. Simply place your wine bottle between you, giving the illusion you’d actually share.

There you go, Han Solo. Enjoy yourself while enjoying your self. Be proud. Be strong. Be you by your side.