Archives for September 2015

What Do You Want? Do You Know?

keep-calm-wantGuessing is fun until you’re about five, then it becomes stressful. We guess on tests, stock purchases, roulette, vitamins, and flu shots, only to worry and question ourselves. We guess in relationships all the time. No matter how well we think we know our lovers, we probably fall well short of expectations.

This is a small sample of things I “guess” when planning the first date:

  • Do I call and confirm? Text?
  • Upscale, casual, or dive? What should I wear? Baseball cap or not?
  • Do I pick her up or meet her? If I pick her up do I bring a gift? Wine? Flowers?
  • Do I show up on-time, early, or late?
  • Which car should I drive, or should we take Uber, or does that make me seem like a drunk ass?
  • Do I order a bottle of wine? Red or white? Expensive?

This is only what’s leading up to the date. Once the date commences, it’s more of the same. Sucks. I’d rather have specific directions. Once the date concludes, I’d love to have the following conversation (which will never happen):

“I had a great time, my dear. Now, let’s discuss next steps. Should I kiss you tonight? If so, where? French or not?”

“Yes. Upper lips. French, but don’t tongue my molars.”

“Noted. Do you want to see me again? When?”

“Yes. Thursday. Let’s grab sushi. Pick me up around seven.”

“You’re penned in. Now, how many dates before we have sex?”

“I’d say four or five, depending on my menstrual cycle. First times are messy enough without blood splatter.”

“Agreed and oh, goodie. Protection?”

“You’re fixed, right? That’s awesome, but do me a favor and wear a bag until I get to know you better. Cool?”

“Cool. Any kinks I should know about?”

“Bite my ear lobes, kiss my neck, hold my hair when I give you head, warn me before coming in my mouth, I come quicker after receiving oral, careful with that goatee, I don’t expect you to spend the night, especially if you snore, and please keep things out of my ass.”

“I think I’m in love. Oh, how long before I can say that?”

“I’ll ask the jury to strike that last statement.”

“Sorry. So, do you want to know what I want?”

“You’re a man. I know what you want. I’m not a fucking idiot.”

Why is Everyone Breaking Up?

breakupA friend lamented to me and my frosty beverage about struggles with her man. Good listener was I. Good listener was bartender too. She piled on some lament of her own, announcing her recent separation from Tyrannosaurus Ex.

My heart leapt with joy! More available women means more vacant parking spaces for my love.

“It seems so many of my friends are going through this. I wonder why? Does it have something to do with summer ending?” she asked.

“Sweetie, relationships end—that’s what they do. You don’t go around asking why people are dying.”

“How sad!”

See, she’s looking at it as a failure. When anything ends before expected (see No Country for Old Men), it causes angst. Adventures should not be judged by solely by length and destination. All that leads to the inevitable is what should be valued and cherished (see No Country for Old Men).

I’ve had plenty of short relationships. Some of those ended on not the kindest of terms. Meh. I concentrate on the enjoyment of the drunken one-night-slamfest more than her hasty exit sans phone number on nightstand. I’ve also had long relationships with sad, but amicable conclusions. Again, meh.

Goddamned Christian guilt rears its ugly head too often. “Divorce is a sin.” Bullshit, pontiff. Staying in an unfulfilling or abusive relationship because you’re afraid of eternal damnation is horribly cruel, and it does a disservice to humanity by keeping your wonderfulness from a more deserving lover (who will eventually leave too, so deal with it).

When your relationship trip is finally done, and you’ve unpackaged your baggage, look back at it with glee and appreciation. (Might be a good idea to hide all those Facebook and Instagram photos of you two lovebirds. Ew.) Here’s the key, though: As soon as possible, start planning your next trip. This means get your fucking act together (have your hair did, clothes re-did, etc.), and put yourself back out singles platform. If that means Tindering, go for it, and set low expectations. Do whatever it takes to find a travel partner who will enhance your trip in some way. If Mr. Next eerily resembles Mr. Ex in looks or manner, say, “Thanks, but no, thanks,” and keep looking.

Oh, another thing—rebound sex. Dayum, yo! That can be some fun shit right there I tell ya. Well, yes, it can suck too, but we’re remaining positive. Sex with Mr. Next may be somewhat awkward the first few times, but I’d take awkward over pedestrian any day. Heck, at least the new guy will go down on you for a while. Who couldn’t use a fresh licking?

So, yes, relationships die like snails on the pavement. Expect it, don’t let it get you down for long, and concentrate on the ride, not the goo left by the splattered snail.

Meet My Mom

meetmymomNothing is worse than meeting a delicious specimen who gives you that lustful look, then says, “Oh my god, you’re perfect. You need to meet my mom.” This is how old creepers are created.

Yes, I know I misinterpreted the lust. After 54 years, you’d think I could get that right. My gay-dar works. I can pick up the rotation on a curveball. I can even detect spam mail before opening it. Lust? Not a fucking clue. If she’s hot, she wants me. If she’s not, she’s just being kind. I get that backwards often. Hence, I drink alone.

After that sweet-young-thing-loving-me fantasy dissolved, I recovered by making a biological prediction that hot offspring implies hot mama.

“Show me a picture of your mother.”

“I don’t think I have one.”

“Stop. How about her Facebook profile?”

“She doesn’t do Facebook.”

“I love her already.”

“Ha ha. Let me text her to send me a selfie.”

“OK, now this is important: Tell her to make sure she has decent front lighting and a dark background. Take the picture from a high angle. Don’t make a fucking fish face, and cleavage is highly appreciated.”

“Ew.”

“I know. Fish face makes me testes prune.”

“I mean the cleavage thing.”

“Fine. Boobs not required.”

Ten minutes later the selfie arrived, and Uncle Phil did a happy dance. Quite adorable—her, not my dance.

My next question was going to beg an answer I knew would cause angst.

“How old is your mother?”

“Um, like forty-three, I think.”

“Perfect. I’m eleven years older than your mother. Barkeep, another scotch, my friend. And, make it a dooblay.”

“Why? How old are you?”

“Before I answer that, can you get a selfie from your grandmilf?”

“Huh?”

“Fuck. I just celebrated the fifth anniversary of my forty-ninth birthday. Math doesn’t mix well with martinis, darling. Fifty-four years young. I was born well before selfies and seatbelts.”

“I think you’re perfect.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re funny, and you resemble her ex.”

“Shit. I’ve dated so many women, I may be her ex.”

“Naw. You’re cuter.”

“OK, you need to stop that flattering me thing. I could be your stepfather-in-the-making. A sfilf, so to speak.”

I flexed. She giggled. I took her mother’s number. I filed it, while suppressing the obvious fantasies.

I wonder if women ever have fantasies about father/son threesomes. Nah. Brothers? Nah. Cousins? Perhaps. Most female fantasies involve men in uniform or authoritative positions. Two gene-sharing men don’t rank in the top 100. Hmm. Maybe twins, though? Nah.

Here’s how this will play out: I’ll call and ask her out for a beverage. She’ll like me. She’ll ask what I do. I’ll be too honest about that. She’ll Google me later. She’ll gasp while reading my thorny prose, then ground her daughter for setting her up with a relationship retard.

I Shouldn’t Like You

heartI hate this part of me. Well aware of it, though. Logic should override biology. It can’t. I’m crazy about you, though I know you may not be good for me.

Why is this? Why do we want what we should not have? Is there some obscure silliness going on, and our minds don’t have access? “We want what we want.” But, why? Fuck! I don’t want someone who will raise my BP, and shorten my life. I’d rather live long and alone.

You woman. You motherfucker of a woman. You’re probably only slightly aware of your grip on me. I get the text. I know I should ignore it. I can’t. I respond. Then I wait. Of fucking course, I wait. What else would you make me do besides wait? It’s a control thing, maybe. Fine. You have control of me. Now what? Just have your way, then release me. PLEASE!

There’s some biological magnet that’s fucking with me. I’ll dig and dig, and leave nothing but scars. Why love someone who doesn’t return the favor? Or, is this how you love? Make me work for it. Make me invest enough to never leave.

Cruel.

All I want to do right now is squeeze you—fold myself into you. Get inside, and provide everything you need. What do you need? You don’t know, do you?

I can’t make you want me. I wouldn’t know if you did. Plus, if I come clean about my uncontrollable desire, it will spook you. Fucked. I’m fucked.

Screw it. I’ll stay here. I’m comfortable. Content. Sure, I’m missing out. I hate that. Damn. That’s OK. I can’t have it all. Why would I deserve to have you love me back? That’s not how it works. Learned that lesson well.

What if you do love me? What if I have this all wrong? Maybe you’re as scared as I am. Maybe you’ve felt it from that first glance, like I did. Maybe you’re just waiting to make sure I’m there, was there, will be there. I am. I was. I will be, if you let me.

Fuck.

This is why I drink. You don’t like that. Tough. It sedates me. I like sedation. Who doesn’t? Pain lessens, worries dissolve, and thoughts materialize. True, this isn’t the ideal place for my thoughts to manifest. Better that I simply pick up the phone next to me, tap, wait, and profess my true feelings. What’s the worst that could happen?

“That’s nice, Phil. You’re a good friend. Let’s keep that. Good night.”

Yeah, that would suck. Gin won’t cover that wound.

Woman, I’ll walk away. I’ll fight off my urges. But, I’m going to keep looking over my shoulder. Give me one glance—one tiny opening—and I will fly to you, heart on a platter. I love you, and you will know it before this is over.

Ooh, I Need a Dirty Woman

DirtyWomanThere are those women who enjoy the occasional hair pulling, dirty talk, and spanking. I get it. There’s a time for love making, and there’s a time for fucking. (And, fuck if I know which is when.) Well, here’s news for ya ladies: Men go through similar sexual mood swings.

There comes a time—after a long drought—when I stop looking for the next wife, and I begin seeking a dirty little skank ho pig slut to help me get the poison out. Don’t you judge me! Hypersexuals need love too.

What makes such an animal? Allow me to offer my sexplanation using stereotypes:

  • She’s typically not a ten. More like a six or seven depending on the time of night.
  • She is proud of her promiscuity.
  • Although they deny it, men constantly try to make her the girlfriend.
  • She might have tats, piercings, raunchy red lips, and excess cleavage.
  • She typically has a sidekick who comes off as aloof and frigid, but is actually quite a cock monger herself.

So, the next question would be, “Uncle Philsy? What makes a woman dirty, sexually?” Funny you should ask. Allow me to pull out my (no, not my pet snake, you sicko) handy, dandy thewhoreus. Ah, here we are.

As Hoget (pronounced ho-zhay) describes, a dirty woman enjoys the following sex acts a-plenty:

  • One-night stands (… wipes, and goes home).
  • Sex in the driver’s seat. (Please do not attempt while driving.)
  • Extremely close-up text pics. (Wait. Is that my missing Cartier?)
  • Choking herself whilst delivering oral goodies, causing rear throat slime to ooze, which she usually spits on her fist. (Better than wiping it on the sofa cushions or cat, I suppose.)
  • Slaps herself on the love button while taking a good pounding. (Best to let her do that. If you attempt to bat-a-tat-tat her bean, you might get a good swift nee-na-nee-knee in the nanners.)
  • She’s quite vocal. (Not the typical Christian pleadings either. God covers his eyes around this woman.)

Oh, how I love these love monkeys! You can have your sweet little innocent daisy. I want a prickly weed of a woman. Last thing I want to be doing while emptying my testes is coaching. The woman beneath (or above, or in front of, or next to, or hanging near) me had better know how to play her position. I want her makeup smeared. I want her lower back sweaty. I want salty sex smells. I want funny looks from neighbors and pets the next morning. Shit, man, I want to limp. Fucking bruises! Scratch marks too. I want her to be so dirty that I can hardly face myself in the morning as I de-glaze my face and change the sheets.

Yes, Mr. Floyd, I too need a dirty girl.

Is it Hot or Douchey?

hotornotI’m so frustrated. It’s as fruitless as buying stock or picking horses at the track for me. I rarely have what I’m about to do or say interpreted properly, leading to my desired outcome.

Here’s an example. Years ago, I had a surprise one-nighter while on a company trip. My coworker roommate (bless his heart), who was half my age, returned to our room late night with a two-pack of lovely specimens. Next to a cold six-pack of Corona, that certainly did not suck. He was generous enough to escort one my way. It was dark enough to obscure my facial fault lines. She was drunk enough to give zero fucks anyway.

An awkward, yet delightful evening of bumping nasties led to an even more awkward morning of facing the music. I rather enjoyed the previous night’s events. I was unsure whether she even remembered them. I watched her wiggle to the westwoom in my wittle t-shirt. I high-fived my joyous penis.

She came from the bathroom fully clothed, and handed me my neatly folded t-shirt. I sniffed it. The next thing that oozed from my gin-soaked lips was quite possibly the dumbest thing said by man since, “Watch me throw this M-80.”

“Ahh. I’m going to wear this. It smells like you.”

Even if we had been married for seven years, that would have been quite douchey. I realize that now. Well, I realized it as she cringed, actually. There was no taking it back. I basted in my silliness.

She left in a hurry, and I did some post-game analysis as I watched ESPN do theirs. If she really, really, really liked me, that might not have been so douchey. She may have found that flattering (as intended). That statement may have dampened her ’tween the legs, and led to another morning rump-a-bump.

There have been numerous times when I’ve volleyed compliments that were not taken as such. I’m beginning to realize that’s due to one of three things:

  1. Her insecurity.
  2. Her lack of feelings toward me.
  3. Her preference of a more dominant mate.

What sucks is I rarely have an inkling about women’s desires. Worse yet, they change minute by minute. Maybe my best strategy would be to offer compliments with a spicy coating, to cover the widest range of possibilities. Instead of pussy puckering prattle, I could have tried some of these:

  • “You keep it. Next time you touch yourself, I want you to wear it, and remember Big Daddy.”
  • “Who told you to cover that sweet ass of yours? Get those clothes off!”
  • “Who are you?”
  • “When you come back for more cock tonight, either bring some weed or a covered dish.”
  • “Be a doll and grab me a latte. When you return, I’m going to lick you like a Rocket Pop.”

Nah. Still douchey.