Generous or Slutty?

generousI overheard a woman saying, “There’s not a single man in this bar I would sleep with.”

“OK, how many married ones?” I intruded.

“Very funny. Zero. How many women here would you have sex with?”

“I think you know the answer to that question is substantially more than zero.”

“What percentage?”

“Jesus. I don’t know. Sixty?”

“Really? Actually that’s much lower than I expected.”

“Well, I’m proud to fall short of your expectations.”

“It’s still pretty ridiculous. Are you desperate or a man-slut?”

“How about a third option: I’m generous.”

She wrinkled her nose and cast me aside like a napkin ring. I was disqualified as a mate along with the rest of the patrons before I had a chance to woo her with charm. That was shallow and judgmental on her part, wasn’t it?

Perhaps, I would have been wiser to identify her as the only woman I found desirable enough to consider pausing my morals, bedding a stranger, and thus opening myself to slut shaming. Nah. She would have seen through it.

I wonder what the typical percentage is by gender. I have male friends who are “generous” enough to get close to 100%. For us, it’s more of a factor of how long it has been since the last encounter. For ladies, there’s just too much at stake (emotions, STDs, and babies) to be open to porking half the bar.

Still, it would have done much for my depleted ego to be her chosen one. In fact, that would be the only answer she could give to make my day: “I only find one guy attractive enough to consider that, and I’m looking at him.” Anything more than one man means competition, and I’m far too old and tired to get into a sword fight.

I would bet most women would answer as she did with zero percent. Some would say, “One or two, but it would require three references, a clean STD report, and more drinks than I’m typically willing to have on a Sunday.”

Kind of sucks for single swine like I. Every time I step into a den of inebriation, I do so with the hopes that tonight might be the night I find a solution to the aches and pains caused by a torturous dating scene. Yet, the odds say I’m almost as likely to drown in my bathtub. (By the way, why is drowning in a bathtub the measuring stick for ways to die? How deep are people’s tubs? Fuck. Who even has the time to take baths? How do you wash your hair in a tub? You’d have to slide down and submerge yourself in ass water. Oh, that’s how people die. Or, are they using a transistor radio while tubbing? God damn stupid. Take a fucking shower.)

Sorry.

Bottom line is bars are full of slutty men and overly-discerning women. It’s amazing we ever dock privates.

Denied

deniedWomen can be heartless, I tell ya. A pair of finely aged specimens sat next to me and my Deep Eddy Vodka last night. One did a few swipes in the car on their way over. She informed us that one particular swipee was on his way to meet her.

“What do you know about this fella?” I asked.

“Nothing. He had a cute picture, so I told him to come meet me. Why waste time, you know?”

“I hear ya.”

“Until we meet face-to-face I have no idea if there’s chemistry.”

“What if there’s none?”

“Then I’ll get rid of him.”

“Jesus, you sound like my uncles back in the day.”

“Huh?”

“Italian thing. Never mind.”

So we sat and chatted as she lubed up the chassis (added enough alcohol to her system to help his chances). I understood her asking him by when her friend and I were potential witnesses. Even creepy men tend to behave in crowds. I would never have a prospect meet me while a buddy is nearby. That never ends well. Rather take my chances solo, and keep my balls unbusted.

So, homeboy shows up, and I can tell by her reaction it will be a pit stop for him. He wisely orders an iced tea, thus limiting his losses.

I thought he was handsome enough, but my standards are hardly comparable to most women’s. For me it’s like matching ties and shirts. This goes with that. Hence, I could picture the two of them as the next bar-side couple to gross me out with face-slobbering PDA.

Nope.

He left his two dollars, tucked his tail, and headed back into the jungle. The dew hadn’t sufficient time to condense on his glass before it was over.

“Christ, woman! What was that all about?”

“I could tell the minute I saw him it wasn’t going to happen.”

“You’re speaking like a superficial dude.”

“Look, I couldn’t see myself fucking him, so he had to go. He wasn’t as cute as his pictures. I was worried he might be a redhead, which is a ‘hell no’ for me.”

“Didn’t he have gray hair?”

“Yes, but it used to be red. I can tell.”

“Cold.”

This is precisely the reason why I cuddle my ale avoid ego bruising denials.

Words with Freaks

twA trend started that I totally missed: hooking up by playing Words with Friends (WWF). Here I thought Scrabble was a fine way to build one’s vocabulary. Turns out, a few well-placed letter squares can get you mating.

Just like a group of ladies at a wine bar will eventually be playing “Show and Cell Tell” with pics of high fashion, a group of men at a dive bar will play “Pass the Phone Porn.” My opinion is valued, so I don’t shy away. My usual response is, “Nice. Where did you meet her?” Yep, WWF is where these animals are found.

It started back in the day when one of my first observation was on a flip phone passed from a coworker. It was an intimate scene featuring a nude woman and variety of raw vegetables. Little Miss Salad Bar, as I henceforth affectionately referred to her, tossed him the picture while chatting during WWF. How generous of him to share. I immediately went in search of the next Vagina Soup Queen, to no avail.

Tiny, grainy images have evolved into 1080p pics and video. Oh, boy! Many of these include the face of the feature star. That fascinates me. Is it apathy or unawareness of how eager we swine are to share our spoils? Rest assured that if you send a sexy selfie including the back-end of an Oral-B, that shit will be seen by a dozen piglets.

I refuse to examine the photos sent in response by my brothers. One penis in my life is plenty. Wouldn’t know what women would find sexy in response, anyway. Certainly, no positive Yelp reviews would come from Joe’s Market pictures of the proprietor fucking the cabbage.

So, how does finding a word with an S in the middle devolve into unabashed kinkery? Would a simple choice of “ASS” over “ASH” start the cascade? That’s a horrible choice. I’m no expert, but an H must be worth more than a fucking S. Heck, there’s probably a Scrabble cheater site out there with naughty word suggestions. (If not, I’m registering that domain now.) Still, how does one tiny word send things tumbling toward Tina texting me titillating twat shots? Here’s how I’d envision it.

“Ooh, you’re feisty, young man. OK. Here’s my word. L-I-C-K.”

“Dayum, girlie. That’s a good one. Got a double letter on that K. Fuckin’ A. All right. C-O-C-K.”

“Oh em gee, you’re too funny. I’m love that word so much that I’m going to attach to it. P-E-A.”

“Peacock? Nice! Well, then I can play dirty too. I’m adding my F to your LICK. And, by the way, I hope you’re flicking your bean as you type.”

“Ha ha ha. Well, I miss that P, and I just can’t leave it alone. I’ll add my U-S-S-Y. BTW, wanna see my tits?”

“Y-E-S. Yes, I do. Yes, please.”

“T-I-T-S. Four points.”

“Fuck.”

I Drink Alone

candleAnother year goes buy in a blink. I enjoy a huge bowl of egg drop soup—made for four, eaten four times by one. I retire home to my resting place—the recliner. I’m sore—more than before. Baseball and workouts cause a certain kind of soreness—this one is from old age. My arm hurts. My skin sags. My hair is misplaced. Yet, I’m content.

As soon as I get the leg rest out and the TV fired up, my two fuzzy children climb onto my chest, walk circles, and flop. They must sense this special day as I turn 55—8 or so in cat years, which means the two lumps have finally caught up to me. We’re tired.

I thumb the remote, sip tea, and wait for the wave of depression. Alone at 45, 50, and now 55. Some would find that unbearably sad, but I’m not one of the “some.” I’m fine. Perhaps escaping the stress of taking care of more than one human has done me good.

If my friends could see me now (the ones without cats), they’d ride me like a rusty beach cruiser. “Dirty old cat man. You’ll die alone.” Yes, I will. I’ll also die without regrets, obligations, or a penny to my name. I plan on using me up, but I do thank you for doing your part to keep the species alive.

My dearest friends dispense sedation. Last night it was bourbon, rocks with a cherry.

“Why a cherry?” my favorite nurse asks.

“Because I like to crush it into the drink.”

“I can muddle it for you.”

“I prefer to do it myself. It’s symbolic, perhaps.”

“Christ. I’m not touching that.”

“Yeah, best you don’t.”

“So, what are you doing for birthday dinner?”

“Steak—pink and salty.”

“With whom?”

“No one. I can still manage to feed myself.”

“Oh. Well, I hope you have a wonderful birthday.”

“Thank you, my lovely. Cheers. You’ve done your part.”

I pull the stem, crush and tear the cherry, and push the pieces under my Bulleit bourbon and cubes. I sip and sigh. Life is good. Bourbon is good. God, she’s lovely. Tonight she’ll be mine, in mind only. Won’t hurt her a bit. She’ll never know.

Another sip as I scan my fellow patients. Most are paired up. Others are swiping their phones. The TVs show silly boys—modern day gladiators—playing for millions, making misplaced political statements against the machine that bought their Bentleys. Now, that’s sad.

With any luck, 56 will be similar. I expect and can handle more physical aches. Mental anguish is far worse. A candle smokes once again, as I wish for serenity.

Careful Marking Your Territory

markingWent to my usual booze puddle last night. Found two vacant bar stools, couple on the right, and single man on the left. I politely asked if either seat were being saved. Homeboy on my left exploded, “Yes, yes, I am saving this.” The couple pleasantly said no, and I sat.

My take on homeboy’s situation was that he was waiting for a woman whom he was still in the stage of impressing. I was a possible encroachment. He switched seats and sat next to me, lest his prey be within biting distance of me, the evil silver lion. I expected to be entertained by more than my blue cheese burger that night. Expectations met.

His prey showed—a fine Mexican specimen carrying a bag of gifts. Seemed she was also at the “impress the mate” stage. He grabbed her face and kissed it. This made a noise. It didn’t scare me; it annoyed me. She handed him the goodie bag. He pulled various Mexican candies and desserts that she brought from this morning’s trip across the border. He acted gracious. I saw through it.

He made sure he had his back to me while engaging her. No fucks were given by me. I just dunked my crispy fries and watched the Padres take another spanking while listening to his horrible phrases designed to have buttons undone. Every few minutes, he’d lean in and slobber on her face. I wished I had ear buds.

Now, my bartender friends are well aware of my asshole magnetry. Drama, dickheads, and dating dingleberries tend to surround me. The bartenders smirked. I continued trying to distract myself with my cheesy meat cake.

Finally, Faceleech Man had sufficiently glazed her face and suggested they leave. I was eternally grateful that the show was over, and there would be little interruption (*SLURP*, *SMACK*, *GOBBLE*) to the bad eighties music being piped in. I’ll take Kajagoogoo over PDA any day.

As they left, I realized he had left her bag of gifts behind. My nice guy reflexes kicked in. I leapt to my feet, grabbed the bag, and ran out the front to catch them. As I approached, I knew this would have been a great time to mind my own business. Still, I stopped them.

“Excuse me.”

They both turned and saw me. She smiled awkwardly. He was unhappy to see me.

“I think you left this,” I offered.

“No, that’s not ours,” he snapped.

At this point a wave of joy came over me. He had just achieved a level of self-cock-blockery that I had never reached nor witnessed.

“Actually, I think she brought you this, right?”

I opened the bag to show the contents. The mood changed. Her smile turned upside-down. He panicked, turned pink, and took the bag. I basted in my glory.

When I returned the bartenders complimented me on being such a good Samaritan. I assured them my deed went unappreciated, and someone besides me would end this night unlaid.

Chaser

hootieDamn birds been shitting all over my courtyard. I put up spikes over my door and windows. They gave be the claw, moved five feet over, and shit there. Bastards. Finally, I did what most smart people do—I used this thing called “The Interweb” and asked Amazon WTF my options are.

Brilliantly, they suggested the use of a stunt owl. Hmm, are birds that stupid? I’d probably catch the little pricks either fucking it or shitting on it. Still, any shit machine scared away would make it worthwhile, so I bought it.

Cute little fucker. I shall name him “Hootie.”

$18.97 is what he cost. Not bad. He’s pretty imposing, standing on his fake wood stump at around 18 inches. He has big eyes and a swivel head, not unlike me at the bar watching lovely servers bound by.

After a week of Hootie sitting there in my mulch, I do notice a significant decrease in shit puddles. Also, since I like to keep my windows open, I am hearing less chirping. I love Hootie. Yes, I do. My cats? Not so much. Symon jumped on the windowsill and demanded an explanation.

“Yo, Pop. What’s with the bug-eyed lump of plastic?”

“It’s an owl.”

“It’s not an owl. It’s not moving. Hence, that is either a dead owl you nailed to a stump or it’s the worst lawn ornament since the jockey.”

“It’s designed to scare birds away, since you suck at it, Symon.”

“I do not suck at it. I can’t very well scare anything from behind this screen, now can I? What do you expect me to do, insult them? Hey birdie, you’re an incontinent lump of useless feathers, more suited to be in my belly. Ooh, scary.”

“Shut it. Good thing you are cute, because you are certainly an asshole cat.”

“An asshole who doesn’t waste twenty bucks on a horrible replica. Look at him. Hootie? A bit on the nose, Pop. He just sits there. His head rotates three hundred sixty degrees. Owls do one-eighties, dickhead. This dumb Exorcist movie extra wannabe ain’t scarin’ nobody.”

“We’ll see. Oh, and go lick yourself.”

Then, it dawned on me that women use stunt birds like this to scare away shitty men. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve played Hootie for numerous women. Fuck! They invite me out to sit next to them and scare away douche-boys. I sit there swiveling my head, I don’t get laid, and I don’t even get $18.97 for my services.

In fact, a gorgeous specimen I’ve seen out a few times strolled into my watering hole last night with her owl. She looked awesome as always. He wore a horrible paisley blue button down. She looked at me, smiled, then held his hand. I cried Tito’s tears and stayed away. Worked like a charm. I need to find a way to tell the replica from the real thing. Up to this point, I’m clueless. Guess it’s bird kharma.

Don’t Give Up, Hope

hopehanHan’s lovely wife, Hope Solo (fuck if I know that’s true), got in trouble recently because of her honesty. Seems organizations, unlike people, would rather have their employees lie about their feelings. That’s horse shit. I have no boss, so I can say that without being reprimanded.

Whatever you do, Hope, don’t you dare apologize!

Worsening this is the fact that the “boss” demands an apology. This is doubly doo doo because that apology would be a lie as well. If Hope apologized, she would do it for financial reasons, not because her feelings changed or she agreed that she had done something wrong.

What ever happened to “honesty is the best policy?” My books all have “Nice” in the titles, not because I always say such nice things. No. It’s because I’m being sarcastic. I’m not nice—not in print, not in person. I’m a genuine prick who is learning to unfilter my reactions by being honest with myself and others.

If you don’t like me, that’s unsettling, but not as much so as if you tell me you do like me, regardless of your true feelings. For whatever reason—being nice, concern for my ego, prying ears—you are lying, and I can usually tell. It’s Passive Aggression 101, and that is what should be fucking punished, not honesty.

Sore losers should be sore because they lost. Losing sucks. Losing was not the intention. Losers who are happy, content, and gracious become really good at (guess what?) losing. People who hate losing, get pissed about it, and lash out, tend to work harder to avoid it, thereby becoming winners.

Same shit in the dating world. If I ask a woman out, and she declines, these are the usual reasons:

  • I’m dating someone.
  • I like you as a friend.
  • I’m not ready to be in a relationship.

Dung, Dung, Dung!

The real reasons why she won’t date me include:

  • I’m not attracted to you.
  • You’re too _____ for me. (Feel free to insert any of these: old, short, atheist, fat, promiscuous, desperate, high, cat-loving, or drunk.)
  • I have not yet exhausted all of what I consider to be options superior to you.

Now, if she gives me the corporate answer, what good that does do either one of us? None. It leaves the door open for me, which causes me to become more determined (because women prefer men with determination and confidence). I’ll keep hitting on her repeatedly (quite possibly including picking up tabs that should have been left down). I’ll become “that creepy fucking dude who won’t leave me alone.” I’m pathetic; she’s annoyed; nobody gets laid.

Hope, please, I’m begging you and other fine young specimens to let the corpocratic assholes take your job, but don’t ever let them have your dignity. Fuck ’em in their ears.

A Cat Named Scrotoplasty

scrotoEver hear a word and think it’s an excellent choice for your next pet’s name? Well, one of my buds came clean at a dirty dive bar yesterday about an upcoming procedure. Once he mentioned the word (scrotoplasty), all I could think of (to distract me from the painful imagery concocted within my gin-soaked skull) was what a great name it would make for a kitten.

“Here, Scroto. Want some catnip, fella?”

Those of you—I’m hoping for most of you—who don’t know what scrotoplasty is, please allow me to assist. It’s augmentation for the nut sack.

(Pause. Unfuck your mind. Refill your coffee. See you in a bit.)

It involves a tightening of the skin, which tends to see additional sag as we age. I attest, Philly’s balls do sag whence not so chilly. I don’t mind at all. This is why I wear Under Armour boxer briefs. They keep them boys neatly tucked, no matter the climate.

Now, if my bing-bongs became so danglous as to begin slapping off my knees as I jogged on the treadmill, yes, I would consider a nip and tuck. Otherwise, oh, fuck no!

I’ve never heard any woman complain about saggy nuts. Does this happen? I can imagine that pendulous nads could cause some annoyance in missionary position while slapping against your anus. Some might find that pleasurable. Well, if one got stuck that would be an ouchie.

I think it’s part of my pal’s midlife crisis, especially considering he recently had the tip of his penis pierced.

(Pause again. Ow. Mother fucking ow. Jesus.)

Yes, he showed us pictures. It’s a hoop ring though his pee hole, popping out the bottom of his under-head.

(And, yes, my asshole just puckered too, friend-o.)

I asked if he considered a far less painful, more popular, and highly douchey means.

“Couldn’t you just go buy a Corvette?”

“Never. Dude, chicks are into it.”

“Wait a minute. Are you saying you leave that ring in when you go deep?”

“Yup.”

(I had to get up, visit the john, and bang my head against the cold tile above the urinal to recover from that one.)

He told us he also has both nipples pierced. I told him I wish he’d create a chain loop from his nuts through his nipples to his ears and back. Then, I’d like him to sit in a puddle during a thunderstorm.

Harsh, I know.

Am I the odd one? No tattoos, piercings, or hair coloring? Well, I do have a Jag. Hope it’s not a gateway crisis drug.

Vagina Repellent – 2016 Edition

repellentI’m driving down a busy street in my electric Chevy Volt (yes, an admitted nominee for repellant). While stopped at a light, a man pulls up next to me in the bike lane. He’s wearing pajama pants tucked into white, mid-calf tube socks, an embroidered back pack, and a silly biker helmet. This was the trifecta, ensuring he will not be spreading his genes anytime soon.

As much as I’d love to be a pussy magnet, I admit to doing things that don’t serve my desires. A noteworthy encroachment is use of my mobile phone while in the sauna—third favorite place to be behind Positano, Italy and bed. The problem isn’t necessarily the phone use. We all stare at the fuckers all day long. It’s that I’m playing Candy Crush, and I’m at level 809, which means I have wasted around two years of my life popping candy bubbles.

I’ve been called out on it. My reason is that it distracts me from the intense heat and scent of ball sweat. Now, if I were taking selfies in the sauna, that would be a more effective repellant.

Women still hate farting, burping, and spitting. I can’t see those falling of the list anytime soon. Well, spitting might, based on porn I’ve seen recently. Porn is reality, no?

Bar mating games are amusing to me. I usually order an 805 beer and stare at the TV. Around me, boys peacock for attention. One yesterday (sure, he was half my age, but still should know better at age 27) wore a wife beater exposing his tatted pencil-thin arms. Offensive, but not as much as his reverse bob hair-don’t. “Only cute on a cat, son.”

Ladies are quite observant, fellas. If they see you prance around the pub hitting on every unoccupied princess, you had better not approach them. You’ve been labelled as piglet, and no lady wants to be your third-teenth choice, even if you have abs.

Now that football season is here again, another sure way to kick mating options to the curb is to scream at the TV, or discuss your Fantasy Football prowess where they can hear it. In fact, wearing your favorite player’s jersey has also become passé. However, providing your jersey to your sleepover girl-toy is a great idea. Problem is you need to keep a stock of your rival’s jerseys. I once doggie-styled Troy Aikman. The clouds parted.

Being mean to bartenders and servers is still a surefire way to brick up that baby oven. In fact, don’t complain about anything. It reminds ladies of that whiny little nephew who cries because he wants Oreos for dinner.

Fuck. I want Oreos for dinner, too. Little shit has the right idea. God damn it! Now I’m starved. Jesus. Double Stuff dunked in milk. I could stack them into a quad-stuffed delight. Fuck. Vagina can wait. Be right back.

Facebook posts can be quite repellious. (Yay, new word. Take note, Wiki.) Cute ones that attract vag include gourmet food, wine, parents, children, and pets. Horrible ones that distract vag and get you blocked (from cock too) include political rants, shirtless selfies (unless you’re Phelps, perhaps), and more than ten posts in a day.

Take note, my brothers. Or, keep doing your thing, and leave more lady parts behind for others.

Girlfriend Causes Writer’s Block

lapcatI’ve done some statistical analysis of my writing habits as they relate to my relationship status and found that having a girlfriend pretty much fucks my flow. This is my flaw, not hers.

You see, I’m not easily offended. In fact, the one thing that offends me most is easily offended people. You’d find most comedians feel the same way. It’s exasperating. If the offended party happens to be a sex provider, it increases the angst. A few misplaced words or misinterpreted phrases can result in access denied.

So, when dating, I’ll pound out a sentence, pause, re-read, soften, re-read, soften more, re-read, get disgusted by the Dr. Seuss I’ve become, backspace the entire line, and return to inanity.

What’s a boy to do? The little friend in my pants insists I keep his playmates around—any not the hairy ones attached to me. In order to do that, I have to find ones who don’t read or won’t be offended. That’s as easy as finding a man who doesn’t have “being blown” at the top of his life-hack pyramid.

Friends don’t help the situation. The typical comments I get when they find a female attachment on me include:

  • “I don’t need to know her name, since she’ll be gone inside a month.”
  • “What’s this one’s flaw? No chin? Teeth too big? Dog lover?”
  • “Wow. How much did she cost?”

It’s so much easier to stay single and search for nothing more than one-night-stands. While in that state, I can turn the tables on those curmudgeons. All I need to do is wait for the inevitable misdeed followed by the wish to live vicariously through solo me. I sip, smile, and suggest the infirmed has cow buyer’s remorse.

Yes, of course it gets lonely. That’s why we have pets, right? I had fat turd Symon cat curled up on my lap last night while I watched a movie. He purred and left a layer of orange fur on my black tee. Was that preferable to spooning with a ginger human?

Depends.

Symon can’t read. He wants food and a comfy bed. While he seems to shit more than the average human, he gives no shits about my relationship condition. If my female “toy” would scratch behind his ear and feed him tuna, he’d suggest I keep it. Otherwise, especially if it is a noisy toy, it needs to be recycled.

I’ve tried to plod on with my prose while maintaining a lover. She claimed uninterested in my words, and left them be unread. She lied. I could tell. My blog is like an unlocked mobile phone, left next to the remote. It has caused many a sexual river to dry.

Fuck it. I’m single and meant to be as I am. I’ll probably die lonely, left to be eaten by my pets. My relatives will sort through my past and cast away what little remains, but these words will live on to remind my exes that I did them a favor by “ghosting.”

On to Ms. Next. Hey there, lovely. How you doin’?

Solitaire is Best Played Alone

solitaireEver try playing Solitaire or Sudoku, or completing a crossword puzzle with someone over your shoulder? Not so much fun, is it? The uninvited player always has suggestions. Those suggestions, while possibly useful, are usually taken as, “Why are you trying to make me look stupid? I can figure this out on my own.”

Being recluse, I usually play alone, and often prefer it that way. It applies to my relationships, too. Sure, there comes a time when Two-Handed Pinochle is more appealing than two-handed semen extraction, but the stress involved with dealing in another hand and waiting for the playmate to make a move is tedious and unbearable.

Maybe, that should be a criterion for dating profiles, “How much time to you spend playing one-person games versus multi-player games?” People like me, who greatly enjoy a good level or two of Candy Crunch whilst riding upon the porcelain throne, would be avoided by people looking for a Bridge partner.

I realize this is somewhat unnatural. We are social beasts, right? We are supposed to desire the company of lovers, friends, family, coworkers, and even thousands of strangers at certain events. So, are we introverts odd because we’d rather play next to you than with you? Perhaps. Oddness isn’t a flaw; it’s what helps humans mutate into something better.

How long does the lonesome love’s typical romantic relationship last? One night? A few dates? Three months? Years? In my case, I can get it close to three months before I’m pulling out the drain stop. My bar-mates theorize and therapize. They call me “scarred and scared.” I defend my stance, although I’d rather sip my G-and-T with me.

“At the three-month point, I’m assessing whether this relationship is extending my life and worth keeping.”

“That makes no sense. How would a relationship extend your life?”

“If it enhances it. Happy people live longer; stressed people get clogged arteries. I’m not taking a dirt nap over some lover’s misgivings about the frequency of my text messages.”

“You’re just fucking scared. Once you start developing feelings—like you should—you freak out and run away. Would you rather have a lover on your lap tonight or a cat?”

“I need more information before I can answer that. A lover who needs me can be inferior to a cat that kneads me. The cat needs food, a clean box, and an occasional chin scratching. The lover needs much more, which she’s unwilling to ask for, but will continue distracting me until she gets it.”

“You’re going to die the jaded old man who was eaten by his cats.”

Look, you’re reading this alone, aren’t you? You need a partner to tell you when to turn the page? Nope. You want him asking what the word “misgiving” means? Nope. Then, you should be able to relate to the seven columns of cards I’m about the deal.

Facebook Love is PDA

facebook-pda… and, it’s gross. Being in a relatively permanent state of singledom, my cynicism gets the best of me, again. That’s why I hate happy couple pictures.

“Look at us. Look how happy we are with each other. We are a perfect match. Soul mates. Look at these smiles. You only wish you could find a love like this. Two is better than one. We’ll die together in bliss.”

Nope.

You see, single peeps like me all know that each huggy, kissy, feet-at-the-beach pic that’s posted is one step closer to becoming a time-consuming task in the inevitable post-breakup cleanup of all social media profiles. That’s why we post pics of food, pets, and funny shit—they’re immortal. (My Chicken Piccata is a fond memory that will never hurt me, barring a batch of bad capers.) This way, when the next bedmate comes along and decides to Facebook-stalk us, we have no explaining to do.

“Odd, you don’t have pics with girlfriends on your timeline. Not many long-term relationships?”

“My selfie stick has narrow focus.”

“Huh?”

“Babycakes, it’s not that I’m not in relationships, and it’s not like I don’t have pictures of exes. In fact, I have a folder of juicy, quite-useful ones. I simply choose not to share them.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps, because I’m not a ‘Like’ whore?”

I think the main reason people post all those lovey pictures is insecurity. They need to remind themselves how great not being single is, and others to avoid treading on their love. Kind of like online peeing on their property. I think the time spent gathering, cropping, filtering, and posting those pics with clever captions would be better spent on a sofa next to a shrink.

Unconvinced? I’m just an angry fella? All right. What would happen if I posted a picture of me with a paper fan made of $100 bills, with the caption: “Hey, look what I have?” I’d get some likes and positive congratulatory comments. Those are lies, of course. The actual reaction would be some combination of:

  • So what?
  • Who did you steal it from?
  • I should steal it from you.
  • What an arrogant asswad!
  • Let’s see if you have it next week.

I’m telling you, the same applies to posting pics with a lover-du-jour. The tilty-headed, “Aw, that’s nice” reactions are insincere, socially-programmed, forced responses to keep the public convinced that the commenter is truly a kind, supportive person, not an annoyed about-to-puke human who was just looking for a funny distraction from a mundane existence, when he stumbled upon the happy couple.

Sorry, that does sound angry. I’ll go search kitten pics.

I am the Drug

daliDo you ever wonder what your role is in others’ lives? Does it matter? Sure. If nothing other than surviving this silliness as long as possible, what could be more important than enhancing someone’s life?

I feel used, and I welcome it.

If she texts me late tonight, I’ll respond. I’ve done it before.

“Are you up?”

“Uh huh.”

“Want company?”

“Sure.”

I’m fine stacking pillows of security next to me most nights. Still, she offers something less cold. Imagine I do as well. What role am I playing? He pissed her off, and I’m her revenge? Do my emotionless deeds fill some void?

What’s the harm? If she takes that short ride here, taps on my door, and tosses her vagina my way, is it some way moral for me to refuse? Nothing inside me offers any guilt. It’s because I’ll be kind, tell her what she needs to hear, play my role (without many side effects), then allow her to fade away, without tossing guilt her way in return.

Best to embrace it.

Maybe, it’s just an itch she can’t reach. I can.

What would happen if she stays the night, then wakes to tell me she wants more? Unsure. Unexpected. I’m unprepared for that. Guess I’ll say what she needs to hear. I’m the drug. I have a duty.

It’s not sad. Stop frowning. Love is undefined—undefinable. Sometimes pleasure is the goal. Sometimes the drug has a simple role: Make me happy, give me something to recall and smile about, even if it is salted with a pinch of guilt.

Numb.

She’d laugh if I suggested the boyfriend role. It would be like expecting a legendary high from an Advil. That’s not my role. Take me, feel pleasure, know it will be fleeting, shrug it off, and walk away smiling. No need to wonder what this has done to me. I know my role. My heart gets no part in this. The wall is high.

I’ll provide relief from pain he most likely doesn’t realize he caused. One slip, and into another’s arms she falls—briefly, so it doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. I don’t care. I get something from it. It could be practice. It could be some genetic urge to save another soul.

You’re welcome to go and take me again when you need me.

Could that be the joy for me? Could it be in the knowledge that I’m well aware that I’m being used, and I can step in and out of the role somewhat fulfilled, yet emotionally unscathed?

Perhaps.

Sex Injury

sexinjuryMy buddy had to bow out of playing in a baseball game this weekend due to a foot injury. It happens. Perhaps he dropped a heavy object or twisted it while chasing a criminal? No. He hurt it fucking.

Now, I’m old and brittle. Sure, I injure myself more often. There are more aches, pains, and increased stiffness nowadays. But, can’t say I’ve ever been benched by a boinking bruise, let alone admitted it to a bunch of baseball buddies.

Come to think of it, I did topple off the funky frame-lit bed at the Vegas SLS Hotel in May. I smacked my skull on the sofa frame. It hurt, but I was under Tito’s vodka sedation, and a boner somehow numbs me. There was a lump in the morning. Still, I can’t imagine weeping to the coach about it.

“Coach, I need to ride the pine today.”

“What? You’re on the hill!”

“Nah. Can’t do it. Sorry.”

“What happened?”

“Hurt my brain. Was fucking little miss thang over there, got in a little over my head, tried some ill-advised maneuvers, and cracked my melon.”

“You dumb ass.”

“I know. Sorry, Skipper. Maybe I can keep score.”

“Here, son. I have just the thing for you.”

“What’s that?”

“A can of MAN-THE-FUCK-UP! Now get out there and throw strikes.”

These sex injuries must be limited to men. I can’t imagine a woman bruising a labia or anything. Maybe a toe cramp. My buddy’s injury was caused by getting his foot stuck between the mattress and headboard.

“What were your feet doing up there?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t know. I’ve never slept with you.”

“We were in a certain position.”

“Do you need a fucking helmet and boots? Literally?”

“Man, I was in a groove, literally. I wasn’t about to call time out. I had to finish and assess the injury during clean-up.”

“Good man. You are pardoned.”

I wonder if his wife mentioned his foot-pas to her girlies? Nah. Women are decent and respect privacy, right? She kept it to herself. Naturally, that won’t stop me. Decency isn’t something I relate to. I’ll be sure to lecture her.

“Hey, Rousey. Take it easy on ole cracker bones, will ya? Stick to missionary.”

Trackers

trackersRemember when Fitbit first came out? How cool! A watch that will count your steps and reward you with a vibration announcing your achievement of 10,000 steps. Then, capabilities expanded to include sleep and weight tracking. All of this conveniently uploaded through WiFi to a website to track progress.

I’m a gadget head. I had to have one and brag about it. After a few weeks, I noticed that it had become more of an annoying leash than a fitness motivator. If it were enhanced to track better things, perhaps it wouldn’t be tracking dust in my dresser next to my MP3 player.

I wish it would track:

  • Alcohol Level (LitBit) – It would be even cooler if it vibrated wildly when approaching time-to-puke levels, then recommended mixing in an ice water.
  • Love Bean Proximity (ClitBit) – Another great time to vibrate wildly when against her goodness.
  • Dump (ShitBit) – It should scan the bowl carnage, and give a readout of mass and consistency. It should identify the phantom shit, and optionally snap a pic and text it to your similarly immature friend.
  • Idiocy (GitBit in UK, DimwitBit in USA) – This would detect when you’re about to do something horribly silly and warn you and those around you with an appropriate sound—a fart, perhaps.
  • Lies (BullshitBit) – This should buzz people who post their true feelings and political opinions on Facebook.

There’s so much sexual inequality that could be addressed with proper tracking. Most men would complain about blowjob to cunnilingus ratios. So, in fact, would women. A LickBit that counts tongue strokes and proper use of fingers during sessions would go a long way toward leveling the playing field. Sure, the sixty-nine position is most effective for guaranteeing equal give and take, but there are times when that’s not practical—like while driving.

The tracker could also track time since last orgasm and perform ejaculation analysis. Had my boys studied back in the nineties when trying to get wifey preggers. My sperm had above-average motility. Cooler would it be, if I could create a few butt-cheek puddles, which could then be scanned by my (you guessed it) JitBit.

“Excellent work, Phil. Your ejaculate was four milliliters—slightly above the national average of three-point-seven. Your sperm seem somewhat exhausted. This could be due to your approaching fifty-fifth birthday, or simply because you don’t use your pecker enough, so they were resting. As far as abnormalities go, there were a few. I found ten two-headed sperm, a few grains of Stevia, and a monkey. Ha, ha, ha! Oh, I’m a kidder. There was no monkey. Fuck, I amuse me. I should go on tour with my teenage son, ZitBit. Ha, ha, ha! Hey, not a bad baby-batter load there, brother. You can discard the evidence now as it is beginning to run down her leg, which she’ll complain about very soon. No, don’t use her … undies … Jesus, man. How could you? You give love a bad name. Good day.”

I love this idea. Pitching it to Tesla tomorrow. It’s a game-changer, no-brainer, wealth-gainer. Keep an eye out for my GoFuckMe campaign.