Archives for November 2015

I Don’t Get You

dontgetyouThis is the most frustrating part of being a man seeking a woman. I imagine it’s the same vice-versa. It helps a little to tell me what you don’t want. I can also respect it if you say you’re not sure what you want right now. I’ve also tried and erred enough times to have an idea of what you might want based on what worked or didn’t work with other women. But, I’m as frustrated as a dog chasing his tail.

It has been this way since my crush on my third grade teacher. I find a desirable target. I launch my attack. I swing, miss, and fall on my dick.

Here’s what I want: I want to give the woman I love what she wants, as long as it doesn’t hurt me or others. Simple, right? Nope. I can’t get her a relationship gift card. She needs more in the way of inanimate objects, such a sweet texts during the day letting her know I’m thinking of her. Yet, if she’s not in the mood for that, I’m being creepily insecure by overdoing it. She needs me to listen. Check. Ah, but, while doing so, she needs me to support her point-of-view, even if it isn’t shared.

Take the statement: “My ex is a repulsive asshole.”

If I agree, I implicate her by suggesting she has poor taste in men. If I disagree, I’m taking sides against her. What’s a guy to do? I usually shrug, or run away screaming.

Wouldn’t it be awesome to get the list of desires upfront, before the first kiss? Heck, even that first kiss is a touchy subject. When to do it? Where to plant it? How much tongue, if any? How long should it last?

I asked a woman out this past weekend, and she said she’d think about it. That sounds like a polite “no” to me. Granted, it was much gentler than, “You’re kidding, right?” Still, she left me an opening, I suppose. During our next encounter, I want her to tell me what she wants. I don’t need a dissertation—ten or so bullet points should suffice. It would be helpful if she includes food, gift, and movie genre preferences, parenthood and pet ownership aspirations, and some approximate level of time and effort I must expend before I’m allowed to begin peeling off her clothes.

Unlikely.

I expect her to say, “Sure, we can have dinner, and see how that goes.”

“Excellent. When and what type of food?”

“You’re the man. Make plans.”

“Fuck. Sorry. Any allergies?”

“…”

“Right. I’ll bring an EpiPen.”

If you’re one of these fine specimens who doesn’t know what she wants, may I suggest one teensy, weensy thing: Why don’t you FIGURE THAT SHIT OUT before accepting a date request? Then, find a way to express those desires to him. Fuck, use emojis if you need to. He won’t care what delivery mechanism you use. Just be specific, or be prepared to deal with another frustrated fellow.

Is Love a Choice?

lovechoiceSomewhat. You need to choose to love a thing in order to love it, right? Addicted folks will groan and say, “I would never choose this.” Isn’t it the effect they wouldn’t choose? I love Hendricks gin. I love the taste and how it makes me feel, to an extent. If I love it too much, I certainly do not love the morning after.

What about people? Must we choose to love people in order to truly love them? Yep. If you love someone you don’t want to love, you’ve made the choice to love them regardless of your desire. You don’t have to love your parents or siblings. You choose to. Sure, there’s religious guidance around this, but following that is another choice. Must you love your offspring? Guess you should, in order to enjoy raising them, and to give them the best shot at happiness. But, you still don’t have to. You’ll be instinctually nudged that way, but you’ll need to act the part.

Romantic love is abso-fucking-lutely a choice. I’m telling you right now, if you are in love with someone you know you should not love, then you’re making a poor relationship choice, and you should choose to get some counseling.

Don’t confuse love and desire. If you have a strong longing to be with someone, and you get that euphoric head rush when you’re with him, and a painful depression when he’s gone, you’re addicted, and that’s a desire. Desire is like salt to love. Desire enhances love when not overdone.

If I tell you I love Chelsea Handler, that’s not entirely correct. I’m using a figure of speech. I’ve only met her once, for about five seconds, at a book signing. She’s smart, funny, and fucking gorgeous. She also has a much wider selection of fine mating specimens to choose from—a man list where I would reside not far from the bottom. So, it would be impractical and downright frustrating for me to be romantically in love with Chelsea.

Ah, but, given the opportunity, hell, yes, I could love her!

Yet, I choose to love a woman who lives thousands of miles from me. That’s fucked up, right? (How most men would respond.) Or, is it romantic? (How most women would respond.) Why would I choose to do such a thing? Um, because it suits me right now. She’s there. We chat occasionally. I hint at my intentions. She blushes and downplays my love due to its impracticality. Plus, she hasn’t chosen to love me back—a minor inconvenience, which I will eventually overcome because one am one persistent motherfucker.

Sorry. Language. I know.

Choosing to love someone who doesn’t love me back isn’t that odd. I love baseball. Baseball certainly doesn’t love me, as I watch strike three go by. I love habanero sauce (aka Gastric Drano), and sauce has no feelings. My point is, I can love something because it brings me joy, whether it’s exclusively mine, occasionally mine, or has never been mine. That’s the other love—desire. That type of love drives me. It’s creates goals I long to reach. Once I’m there, it’s a choice whether to convert that desire to love, or to platonically enjoy the thing while it lasts.

Will she ever love me back? That’s her choice, now.

The Writer’s Dilemma

dilemmaWhen asked what I do, if I’m not in a wiseass mood, I’ll say I’m an author who writes humor about relationships. The typical response includes skepticism, laughter, and the shared desire to someday write a book. I recommend against it.

“But, wait a minute. You did.”

“I also threw a red beach towel in with my whites.”

“Huh?”

“Can’t relate? OK. Today, I received an email from a buddy with a video link of two naked women getting it on.”

“So?”

“I clicked that link.”

“And?”

“I was treated to a woman defecating in a man’s mouth.”

“Christ.”

“No, some other guy, but it was gross as fuck. Ruined my breakfast. My point is, when you meet someone who has done something you aspire to do, don’t assume it has worked out well for him. It may have turned out shitty.”

“That’s an odd way of making a point.”

“Indeed. I write, therefore I’m odd.”

Lots of people write. Every email and text you send is somewhat creative. If you enjoy sending those, and telling stories, maybe you’ll find publishing a book to be fulfilling. If you’ll only be fulfilled if said book makes you rich and famous, I say, “Stick to emojis.”

You see, writing is often frustrating. Once you create something, roaches crawl from the darkness, and begin to pick at you. Sure, you’ll have some accolades too, but people tend to enjoy complaining more than praising.

It can fuck your relationships too. Aside from the condescending “I read what you wrote” comments, I notice that some readers have a hard time understanding the concept of fiction. Fiction is not factual, which does not imply that none of it is true. It simply means, on a whole, the work is not being presented as if it were Fox News (odd comparison, I know, because most of the news they report I believe is highly sensationalized and fictionalized). Still, you get the point, right? Although I’m writing fiction, there’s some underlying truth to it all. How much truth? Well, that depends on your perspective and experiences.

I often get in trouble when I’m dating someone. I tell her she shouldn’t read me; she does anyway. I tell her it’s not about her; she doesn’t believe me. I write a romantic piece to offset my clumsy sarcasm; she thinks it’s about someone else, so I’m cheating on her.

Off I ride, solo into the sunset, thankful my horse can’t read.

Are You Hitting on Me?

likemeI doubt it. I mean, I’m flattered if you are. But, are you? I should know, huh? Damn. I would hit on you. Sure. Yep, you’re cute. In fact, I think I have been hitting on you—subconsciously. Can you tell? Hello? Where’d you go?

There’s quite an internal struggle that goes on during mating season, which is every day that ends in Y. Most people are too shy to verbally club a prospective mate over the head with, “Hey. You’re hot. Let’s go make out.” So, since it’s unspoken, we have the ego versus senses versus desires triangle of confusion to deal with.

Perhaps I can sort this out a bit. I’m going to skip over ones such as dilated pupils, because of my failing sight and the possibilities of my love target being stoned, which could also be a reason why she’s hitting on me, especially if I have a bowl of salty peanuts in front of me.

See what I mean?

All right. Body language is key. If she’s leaning in, crossing her legs toward me, patting or grabbing me, and blushing at my silliness, I’m taking those as indications of interest. Then again, she could just be the touchy-feely friendly type. Further investigation is required. I’ll lean in and touch her hand. If she slaps me then Purells her hand, I know I was mistaken. If she whispers naughtiness to me, I’m ordering champagne to go and a pack of Morning After pills.

Here’s another example of my confusion. Perhaps you can help me. I’ll look for your book, probably entitled, How NOT to be an Oblivious Man-tard.

The scene features a magnificent specimen serving up my daily social lube (beer). She’s petite, kind, and gentle. She’s always smiling and friendly. Her eyes absolutely melt me. So, after my beer balls drop, I get the courage to ask if she’s single.

“Yes. Fresh out of a long relationship.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s all good. We had a friendly part.”

“Oh, good. Anyway, I have someone special I’d love to set you up with.”

“Really? Who?”

“Me.”

She giggled (not a fucking clue if that was flattery, embarrassment, or politeness). We high-fived, and I moved on to beer three. I shrugged it off. Then, as I was leaving, she stopped me and gave me a huge hug. This was not an ordinary, “friends” hug. Oh, no it was not. This was an intimate, “high school boner inducing” hug. My heart nearly broke my ribs a la Alien. Then again, maybe she is just a good hugger and I’m an old perv. God damn it!

Fuck it. I’m going to carry around tiny pieces of paper with, “I like you. Do you like me? Check one: Yes or No.” Best to remove all doubt … that I’m clueless.

Man Relapse

relapseThis affliction works both ways, but, since I usually wind up counseling the damsel in distress, I’ll analyze why women return to men who have mistreated them. I rarely have women return to me, so my methods of mistreatment must be exceptional. Not proud. Just sayin’.

The top reasons why women return to horrible mates:

  • Embarrassment associated with admitting relationship failure.
  • Other parties are involved, such as children and pets, so it’s done for their sake.
  • Sex was horribly good.
  • Dating since him has been tedious, fruitless, and quite scary at times.
  • Low self-esteem or some other psychological issues, probably due to having a horrible daddy, which is the worst kind of man because you can’t leave that jerk behind.

While these are understandable reasons, they aren’t good ones. Any man who mistreats you needs to be excused from your presence … forever. Perhaps I need to define mistreatment, so you don’t kick you prince to the curb for something inane like putting the toilet paper roll on backwards. I shouldn’t need to define it. You have this wonderful built-in pinch detector. If he does something and it hurts, there’s an indication of mistreatment. All you need to do is determine if it was intentional. If it was, he hurt you on purpose, he goes out with the trash. If it was accidental, you need to let him know it hurts, so if he does it again, it’s time for a man recycle.

These are mistreatments:

  • Physical abuse.
  • Verbal abuse, including yelling at you or demeaning you.
  • Neglect.
  • Disloyalty (when loyalty was mutually agreed upon).

I just heard a collective, “No shit, Phil.” So, you’re telling me you know this, and you’d never return to a man who treated you this way. Really? Never? Then, are my eyes and ears deceiving me? Oh, I’m sorry. You’re saying, “He’s changed.”

No, he hasn’t.

Any man who displays those abusive traits may, indeed, make a concentrated effort to change. He might find Jesus or a therapist. He might change his diet and exercise habits. He might throw attention and gifts your way. Great. How long will that last? How long before he returns to his core behavior? Days or weeks? He cheated on you? How long before his next affair? What about you changed to keep him loyal? Forgiveness? Nope. Your forgiveness taught him he can do it again, and win you back.

You wouldn’t go back to grade school, would you? Why? Because you learned. Treat him like likewise, and leave him behind like times tables, state capitals, and cursive.

The Narcissistic Generation

time-narc2Social media has created an entire generation of look-at-me people. What happened to doing things without considering how to post it and many likes it might get? This attention whore dysfunction has bled into disconnected activities. Pfizer needs to come up with a cure before I tear through my favorite bar’s gin supply while self-medicating.

Here’s an example. Last night, in a public bar (as opposed to a fucking ballroom, where this might have been acceptable), a pre-wedding party took over the lounge area, featuring two of the groomsmen playing guitar. If those two groomsmen were Jason Mraz and Eric Clapton, it might have been acceptable. They weren’t. It wasn’t.

Still, these mediocre strummers crooned and waited for applause, which their relatives and partners provided, not because they necessarily enjoyed the performance, but to be supportive. Think about it, people: What are you supporting? Are these guys on their way to landing a lucrative music deal? Nope. So, you’re encouraging their hobby, which is annoying the other 100 people who came to the bar to drink beer and watch football.

If people want to pull these stunts, they should follow their social media behaviors by providing Like and Dislike capabilities. How about two jars? One empty “Like” jar for people to deposit free drink vouchers in appreciation for the fine rendition of “Ring of Fire.” One full “Dislike” jar (filled by Jason and Eric Wannabe), with free drink vouchers that people like me can use to sedate ourselves so we can tolerate being serenaded by duo-douchery.

Guess my generation didn’t spend as much time being judged and getting undeserved attention. Sure, I write to get reactions. Positive reactions are wonderful, but I’m not staring at my Instagram post for an hour waiting for likes, and thereby judging my worth to society.

But, these phone-thumbing twats are so attention spoiled, every act is considered based on whether it can be posted, and how many “Likes” it should gather.

I liked it better when we were human beings, not human postings. I loved it when people did spontaneous things because they enjoyed doing them, not because it might get them a dozen more followers.

Can’t we go back to that? Please? Can Pinfacefuckgram get hacked and fade away so we can get back to reading the funnies? Are we stuck with this social media cult? Is this the new religion?

Look, I’m somewhat guilty as well. I had a new mattress delivered yesterday and, before I could surf on memory foam, my fat bastard cat, Symon, climbed up, sprawled out, yawned, and said, “Thanks for my new bed, Pops. Fetch thee a comforter, pronto.” (I took the liberty of translating his kitty talk.) So, I took a picture of his lazy ass and posted it. Did I do this hoping it would go viral, and land me on Ellen? Um, fuck, no. I did it because I thought it was cute, and I wanted to be able to remember this point in time, where my sex life was so non-existent that my cat had more fun with a Tempurpedic than I could.

Now, please like and share this. Use the hashtag #yerass.

The Fine Art of the Booty Call

bootyLike I said at the beginning of the book, this is purely fiction. Not true stuff. Never happened. Nope. Making it all up here. Not talking about you, Miss. I’d never. Just being silly, silly me.

Now, the most enjoyable sex I’ve had is booty-call sex. How about you? Oh, only love making with a committed lover? Uh huh. Well, I’m strange, then. I have deep-seeded issues. An intervention is in order, because sex for pleasure, without all the other stuff (bills, kids, etc.) is best for me.

Not that this is an arrangement I currently have. That would be suhweet! Nope. But, I imagine with my brain boner that such would be quite fine. If, fifteen minutes before I power down the TV and hit the hay, a delicious specimen would text me, requesting some penetration, it would be a most awesome nightcap … I mean, as long as she’s coming here. I hate driving late night. Probably drunk, so it’s dangerous. Look, I have a huge bed and a fully-stocked bedside table—lube, vibrating glove, and tissues.

So, the way I see it, she shows up (without pets, kids, or luggage) ten minutes later, wearing only a long jacket. Unsure which movie scarred my childhood with that image, but it stuck. She enters, hands me a six-pack of Firestone Walker 805 beer, plants a soft kiss on my lips (easy on the tongue, there, Precious), grabs my Willie, and requests I take her to my master—bedroom, that is.

I have my Amazon Echo play some smooth jazz, while setting my LIFX lights to indigo. We disrobe, and deliver each other 10-15 minutes of oral foreplay. Then, we dance through two or three positions, including my personal favorite: Reverse Cowgirl.

That should last another fifteen or thirty minutes, depending on have many gins I had, and whether she has agreed to allow my vibrating toys to join in. I make sure she comes first (or, fakes it first … zero fucks given which it is). Then, I ask where she wants my deposit. I’ll comply with just about any target excluding the face.

I’ve “heard” quite a few women request the semen facial. WTF? (Why The Face?) Look, if I consciously pull out and play lawn sprinkler with my genetic goo, how can I ever look her in the (oft glazed) face afterward? Ladies, it’s not good for your skin. That’s a myth our male ancestors started. And, if it were good for your skin, wouldn’t it also be good for your skin other places? How about a good belly- or butt-coating?

One buddy of mine says, if the chick has recently-did hair, he aims there. That’s fucked up, yo. Matted hair is unsightly and unkind. Heck, I discard my used paintbrushes. Why would I take the time to turpentine her scalp? Ick!

So, anyway, post-ejaculation, all there is cleanup and fetching the undies (if any) from the base of the sheets, followed by a peck on the cheek and a pat on the fanny, as she leaves. It’s too late at night for her to be seen, so this is not a walk of shame, unless something is running down her leg. That’s pretty awful. Sorry.

Afterward we both sleep (miles apart) quite well, neither one of us feeling used in any way other than as intended. Good night, indeed.