The audio book version of “Nice Guy Island” has been produced by David A. Nickerson and is about to be released.
Listen to a Sample (Chapter on How to Make Her Scream):
The audio book version of “Nice Guy Island” has been produced by David A. Nickerson and is about to be released.
Listen to a Sample (Chapter on How to Make Her Scream):
The audio book version of “How to Date Men” has been produced by Kevin Gisi and is about to be released.
Listen to a Sample (Chapter on How to Date Short Men):
Think of Trump as the man who just proposed to you, his woman (US citizens). He convinced you to accept his marriage proposal by:
Naturally, you asked to check these claims by doing a background check and speaking to his ex-girlfriends. Although he has checked yours, he won’t allow you to check his background, and insists all his ex-girlfriends lie.
As your wedding day approaches, you hear from numerous people that he’s cheating on you with a coworker. Anytime you ask your fiancé about it, he gets angry, screams at you, says they are lies, and demands you identify who told you this. He suggests you ask his best friends. You ask them. They defend him. Then, you receive “anonymous” emails naming her and detailing his affairs. You ask your fiancé about her. He says how wonderful she is, but denies sleeping with her. He suggests that you could be great friends with her.
You try to shrug it off. Then, you find numerous charges on his card at a florist, Tiffany, and Victoria’s Secret. You’ve received nothing from there. You ask you fiancé about the charges. He says they’re fake. Must be fraud. You look out your window during this argument and could swear you see his coworker sitting in her car in front of your house. You point her out. He says you’re paranoid. She drives off.
You check his phone and find numerous salacious text messages from numerous women. He insists his phone was hacked. You demand he delete these ex-girlfriends’ contacts from his phone. He agrees only to give that phone to his best friend, and use a new one.
Many of your friends and family members suggest you look more closely before marrying him. You’re worried it would increase his anger. You look in the mirror and begin to see the flaws he constantly points out. You fear he may be right.
You trust him.
You marry him.
He continues promising, yet delivering nothing he promised. He’s distant. He takes numerous business trips without you. More anonymous tips claim he is sleeping with his coworker. You ask for his phone. He refuses. You ask to check his emails. He refuses. You find he has opened his own credit card account. You ask to see it. He refuses. He continues telling you how flawed and paranoid you are. He insists you stop listening to liars.
What will you do?
I found this cool app for my Amazon Fire that allows me to stream all sorts of goodies and baddies. I admit to enjoying a bit of pornographic material, and the app gives me a window into a new world of erotica. Just when you think you’ve seen it all, along comes a new way to get off: Video Chat Masturbation.
Yes, I realize (you fellow perv) that video sex chatting is nothing new. The new part of this is the addition of a wonderful device called the Lovense Blue Tooth Remote Control Vibrator—another device rendering my gender obsolete. In case you’re paranoid about searching it, allow me to describe it. It’s a silicone thing that has an internal part and a tail, which is an antenna. The internal part is designed to sit against her g-spot while the pink tail antenna sits outside awaiting instruction.
The device gets paired up to your phone. Then, you (or a very lucky fellow near you) can control the vibration pattern and intensity with the app. You sit on the sofa with a bowl of frozen yogurt, complaining that I watch too much MSNBC. I tap my app and buzz you through the roof. Fun! The cats enjoy spilled yogurt; I enjoy Rachel Maddow.
Where this becomes more interesting is when the device is used in coordination with a Chaturbate. Exceptionally driven and entrepreneurial ladies can sign up, log in, point the camera, lube up, insert Lovense, and begin making money. Viewers buy tokens, which they use to tip the viewee. When tipping, those tokens each cause sounds that make the Lovense vibrate for one second—more tokens, more vibration, more fun for the whole family.
I’m sure there are conservative types (who shouldn’t have made it this far into my book) finding this whole thing disturbing. Tough titty! There’s absolutely no harm in slapping a g-spot remotely. And, there’s no harm in a girl making a few extra dollars to help cover the ridiculous expense of maintaining good looks. So, stop judging.
There are men, women, couples, and transgenders from numerous countries, so no matter your preference, you’ll probably find something that tickles you.
(It may sound like I’m promoting this site, but I’m not. It’s just fascinating to me. We need more sex and less violence. Better it is to beat off than beat up.)
If I can click my mouse and deliver an orgasm to a Ukrainian lovely, what’s the harm? I’m sure Trump will attempt to tax tokens flowing out of the country, but until that day, tip away!
Think of the future as this technology improves. Heck, self-driving cars are here. Didn’t think I’d see that in my lifetime. These remote vibrators are going to become stealthier and more customizable. Imagine a bar full of women with the latest, greatest orgasm delivery system, sized perfectly to hit the g-spot and clit with the ideal intensity, concealed neatly under jeans, all attached to the bar’s Wi-Fi. Instead of using Wi-Fi to check ESPN highlights, men can connect to dozens of vaginas. Heck, we can get the bartenders and servers involved.
“Here’s a couple two-tree dollars for that bourbon, and—*ding* *ding* *ding*—three diddles for your lady fiddle. Cheers!”
In any shitty situation, remember that shittiness can be overcome and forgotten with a strong finish. This year may have started with financial and marital woes, but ended with a promotion and exciting new lover. The good stuff was made better by all the bad stuff leading up to it.
Without becoming too self-helpy, let me offer us both some encouraging words for the new year ahead.
Develop a strong case of amnesia around all things shitty. Remember only the good. Finish strong, my dear. Hold up your big blue “W.” You are a lovable WINNER.
Very few women read books designed to help men find mates. That’s a shame. I’m sure they’d find them sometimes insightful and often funnier than anything I can come up with. I’m always looking for other perspectives, so I devour these books and audio books like popcorn. What have I learned? Nothing. I’m still single.
One suggestion I did take to heart was to place myself in situations where there is an abundance of target women without a saturation of fellow predators. I’m not moving to Manhattan. Another suggestion was yoga classes.
I’m not spiritual at all. My imaginary friends disappointed me, so I evicted them. The spiritual base of yoga was always a main reason for my avoidance. Another is my lack of grace. I fear my imbalance would cause me to tumble into a cascade of domino-ing damsels.
Groupon has a special on yoga classes within a mile of my house. It’s right next to a favorite vodka dispenser of mine. Maybe I should get a head start on all the New Year’s resolutions. “Sign up, Philsy. What could it hurt?”
So, I did.
When I showed up fifteen minutes early for the beginner class, the instructor instantly knew how uncomfortable I was. Guess I had that please-don’t-cripple-me look. She pointed me toward the mat, blocks, and pad. I took them to the far corner, de-shoed and de-socked myself, and watched the march of the yoga pants (in my head, to the tune of “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy”).
The lovely Brazilian instructor began the class. The woman next to me warned that I might want to grab a towel as things can get sweaty. I thanked her and said I’d avoid lawn-sprinklering.
The music started. It sounded like Gregorian chants—not the Metallica I had hoped for. Then there was an odd tone and bell bongs. The yogi was rubbing this large rocks glass with an extra large cotton swab. Naturally, all I could think of was the better uses for such, including home for a salt-rimmed margarita.
I managed to twist and turn my corpse-in-training into many of the poses. Others required her to “adjust” me. A few times the sound of my joints popping shocked her. Other times I assured her my body simply could not do the things she asked of it.
As I looked around the room, hoping nobody was pointing and laughing, I reminded myself why I had shown up: women. There were lots of women, and one other man. The thing the books failed to mention is something I realized quickly: women are not there to meet men, and any advance made by such would be result in stink face and likely stink foot in ass.
Fine. I’ll stretch.
At the end, she had us lie there and relax while she placed cool lemon water towels on our foreheads. When she got to me, she de-slouched my shoulders, and plopped the towel on my brow. I relaxed and dreamed of infused martinis: “Dance of the Sugar Rimmed Goose.”
Met a fine pair of self-described middle-aged women last night. That term “middle-aged” bugs me. I don’t mind being young or old, because those are based on my relative age to the describer. But, when someone calls me “middle-aged,” they are implying they know how long I will live. Doubt I’ll make it to 110, so maybe I’m two-thirds-aged.
Anywho, these two lovelies also described themselves lost in the sense that they are at an awkward dating age. They’re approached either by young boys or old men. Men their age want young women, so they look right past the beauty before them.
That’s kind of sad.
The ladies went on to explain that young boys want middle-aged women because the boys assume they come with experience—know their way around a ding dong, so to speak. Also, boys expect these women to be in touch with their needs and desires, and have no problem communicating them without all those confusing emojis.
Old men (they placed at 60-65) want the middle-aged women because they need women who can take care of them—know their way around the kitchen, so to speak. Also, these are usually not the rich old men, since those slobs still chase around young skirts willing to curtsy at the sight of fast cars and job titles. The old men who want the middle-aged women are aware of their hastened slide toward ashes and dust.
Alone is no way to die, but we all die alone … unless Trump gets us nuked.
As I age, I see young girls as pretty to look at, nice to hold, and mentally exhausting to maintain. I can appreciate a Ferrari without owning one. Plus, I like sleeping. Young girls are in the bathroom finishing up getting ready for a night on the town. I’m in there scratching my ass while taking the first of three slumber pisses.
“Have fun, sweetie. Be a darling and take off your heels before staggering upstairs when you get home. Daddy needs his ugly sleep.”
The more I speak to the forgotten women, the more I reassure myself that this is an island I need to visit. Sure, there’s an attitude. These ladies do know what they want and don’t want. They have no problem insisting I open doors and send zero dick pics. It’s not that they neglect their looks; they obsess less about them. They replace vodka Red Bull with a snifter of fine tequila.
They mentioned a third type of man who does notice them: married. This man is bored with his ponderous sex life, and is looking for a testosterone boost without all the nasty side effects. Fortunately, these women are tuned to such and able to avoid the silliness. They empathize with the wife’s neglected love button and cast the married men from their shores toward Slutty Barbieland.
So, I found out which woman was single, and I asked her out. She said, “sure,” and gave up the digits. What a fine, age-appropriate souvenir for me! Let’s hope we enjoy numerous rides between her land and the place I call home: Nice Guy Island.
The term “young lady” changes meaning as I age. I’ve revised my calculation to this: If she could be my daughter, she’s young and, to her, I’m old. There’s no judgment associated. Let’s call it classification, shall we? She’s not a different species, because I could still mate with her. So, if she were to refer to me as a dinosaur, that would be a false classification. Humans can’t fuck dinosaurs. Never could. Not even West Virginians.
Where am I going with this?
Just want to set the proper mental scene for you before I tell the sad story of an abandoned dinosaur, I mean puppy—me. You see, I met a young lady with unoccupied seat next to her next to me in my office (bar). I took advice from all the relationship help audio books I have been consuming, and initiated idle chit chat. She responded, although somewhat guarded. I slid closer, attempting to convince her of my innocent lovability.
She was new to the area. I was old to the area. I offered to escort her on a tour of fine sights and establishments in the form of dive bars with cheap beer sold in dirty glasses. I took a chance there. She was wearing sneakers, so I inferred a local IPA would do. My wallet sighed relief.
I usually begin feeling out prospects with the following:
“How are you finding the dating scene here on the left coast?”
“It usually goes like this. I meet a new guy. We hit it off well. We hang, we drink, we dance. Then, he disappears. No number exchange. No reason. Poof!”
“Ah. That is strange. Look, I won’t do that to you. Promise.”
What this dinosaur/puppy should have considered, however, is the likelihood that she would use this opportunity to get back at boys who ghosted her. She took me from my cage, tickled my chin, and played fetch (beer). Then, just when I was pee-puddle excited to have a snuggle buddy, she placed me back in my dog pound cage and drove away.
Didn’t even get a chance to lick her.
Before you start a Go Fund Me campaign to keep me from the doggie ovens, rest assured that my calloused heart is fine here alone. I’ll not whimper, whine, and claw at my cage. I’ll simply wait patiently for the next adopter with emotional vacancy to consider me.
It’s weird to greet women I meet with my hand extended. Thanks to our Pervert in Chief elect, women often react to that by covering their cats, not extending their hands. I won’t bother trying to kiss the back of a hand. My nose doesn’t need more deviation. So, it seems, the thing to do is make myself a cuddly bear by extending arms and offering a hug.
It is important, my male readers, that we go about the hug properly. Much like when going south on a lady, we are rarely going to get verbal clues. The safest approach for us is to wrap only the right arm around her, targeting her right shoulder blade with the right hand. Our chin should rest near her left shoulder, at least four inches from her neck and ear. If you are sporting fuzzy chin as I, be mindful of Velcro-ing her mane. The only contact should be your right shoulder with her left and the aforementioned chin and right hand things. Torsos and legs should not meet. Feet should not be stepped upon. (I’ve fucking done this. Hated myself for weeks after. Call me “Frankenphil.”)
Please don’t make any weird grunting noises or groans while hugging her—so fucking creepy. In fact, hold your breath. She doesn’t want her shoulder smelling like your happy hour draft beer. You can add two or three pats on her shoulder blade. That’s a nice touch. Don’t do it with a clenched fist, and remember she’s a delicate flour, not a running back in the end zone.
“How long should a hug last?” I’d say two seconds. No need to use your iPhone timer, silly. Just do the mental one one-thousand, two one-thousand, then back away.
Now, the most important part: interpreting how she approaches the hug. I’m assuming you’ve gotten past, “Aw, hell no you don’t.” The embrace has ensued. If she whimpers like your puppy at the vet, that’s not good. Release the embrace immediately, apologize, and leave. If she submits to your borderline physical abuse, here are things she might do to offer you a clue:
Again, the most important thing to remember when going in for the hug is that you’re being slightly aggressive and creepy, but you’re also being a risk-taker. Chicks dig that.
Angry white boys spoke up and put the angry orange boy in the White House. Nobody likes dealing with angry people, but some of us are required to deal with them in the form of politicians, customers, reviewers, bosses, lovers, and family members. You can’t avoid most of those, but you certainly can remove angry lovers from your life.
The problem is many people don’t realize they have an angry lover. They think it’s normal to deal with fits and rage. Only when you’re dealing with an infant, is it normal. Otherwise, you need to shut that shit down before the mental abuse escalates into physical abuse.
If you’re unsure you’re dealing with an angry boy, allow me to give some examples.
When watching sports, and his team loses:
While driving behind a slow car in the passing lane:
When unhappy with the food he ordered:
When he catches you masturbating:
When you offer navigation suggestions:
When a pretty girl walks by:
When he makes a mistake:
I could go on, but I assume you are getting the picture because you are exceptionally insightful. Oh, and I love those jeans. Are they new? My god, your ass is heavenly. Let’s drink wine and watch The Nutcracker. Want to? Ah, you’re the best. What did I do to deserve you? Lucky me. Hey, how about a foot rub? Dang, I love you so much, dear reader. Smooches. (Insert three or four emojis here.)