Phil Torcivia's Blog, page 10

Question #1: Would he do it?

Like me, many men were stuck watching the women's NCAA basketball championship last night as it hovered over the bar. Men don't watch women playing sports the same way men watch men. To us it's more of a twisted beauty pageant. I appreciate a woman's athletic ability, but she's still a woman.



Now, don't be alarmed. When you present this hypothesis to your man, he deny it, as he was taught. Still, as I watched all six-foot-eight, size-seventeen-shoe-wearing Brittney Griner make her opponents look like pests, my internal conversation was predictable.



"Would you do it? Would you have sex with her?"

"Yep."

"Really?"

"Sure, why not?"

"She's so tall."

"I can find something sexy about every woman I see."

"She's not very feminine, you know."

"I disagree. I see high cheekbones, a lovely smile, and her skin tone is deliciously light chocolate."

"It just seems like it would be awkward."

"All the more reason to try. Sixty-Nine would probably be out, though."

"Have you heard her deep voice?"

"Yes, so what? She can't control that. Again, it's unique and could be fun. I'm usually the cuddler; it might be fun to be cuddled."



Wipe that look of disgust from your face, woman! It's completely natural for a man to consider every woman he meets as a potential mating partner. There's no harm if the thought never manifests as deed. It's not like I'm going to tweet her.



"Dear @BrittneyGriner, congrats on whipping the skirts off those Notre dames. How would you like to meet me in the desert for some celebratory margarita disposal? #whynot"



Well, maybe.



Anyway, you women do the same dang thing. I present Exhibit A from the movie Animal House where the coeds are discussing Frank, who posed as Fawn Liebowitz's boyfriend to get Shelly to hook up with him.



"I think Frank was kind of cute."

"Ewwwwwww!"

"I really felt sorry for him."

"Eeee-ewwww!"



See? Shelly would (and did) hook up with Frank, even though he was engaged to her friend who was killed in a kiln explosion. Shelly's friends considered him gross. So be it.



"That's freaking fiction, you dolt."

"Oh, and me hooking up with Griner isn't?"

"Men are so disgusting."

"Wait a minute there, Missy. Are you trying to tell me you never considered, even for a fraction of a second, whether you would have sex with me?"

"Um, not really."

"Liar! The only difference is women typically add something to the proposal to make it more interesting."

"Such as?"

"Circumstances, location, alcohol, and whether any of your friends will find out."

"Nope."

"You're saying you never thought, Would I have sex with Phil if I were in a serious sexual slump, we had a chance meeting at a writers' conference in Vegas, and we polished off a pint of Patron?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Until now. Tee, hee."

"Make that a fifth."

Why are we drawing on coffee?

A disturbing trend is the proliferation of pictures containing artistic designs made from coffee foam, or crema, as coffee snobs would say. This is silly. There's no good reason to create art from something I plan on consuming. I never want to utter the words, "It's too pretty to eat."



Imagine if bartenders began making designs in beer foam? WTF (why taint foam)? This would easily double the time from order to first sudsy-lipped sip, and that's unacceptable. What would my barkeep draw anyway? Perhaps she'd make a football team logo from pepper or carefully replace the beer foam with steamed milk foam. Ick!



Smiley faces are the easiest to create and few people have any superstitious beliefs around biting a smiley face. When I get a burger I flip the top bun and draw three dots and a curve from ketchup and, when I'm feeling extra Picasso-ey, I add a blond mustache in the form of mustard. This doesn't deter me from inhaling the artery clogger so it's acceptable.



When I order a dessert and the chef decides to drizzle anything across the plate, I'm unimpressed. It would be more practical to give me a side dipping cup of the sweet goo. When I was in Mexico for my 50th, the chef actually spelled out "Happy Birthday" on my dessert plate in chocolate syrup. I bet he was very proud. Alas, I am a childish ass--a fact the chef was not made aware of. Hence, I used my espresso spoon to mold the second word from "Birthday" into "Boobday" and one-upped that fucker.



Overnight guests are often treated to subliminal suggestion at the hands of Chef Philippe. My signature breakfast dish contains two sunny-side eggs across from two lumps of hash browns with a curiously curved, single link of sausage between the potato lumps. This dish includes English muffins each with a generous round dab of Nutella and one perfectly centered brown M&M. The sub-par gratuity I'm typically left gives me the impression my genius is wasted ... or dark nipples are rare.



So, baristas, please icksnay with the artay. Deliver my stimulant quickly without flair before it cools.

An important skill to develop while you're single.

Consider your time alone as Spring Training for your next relationship. This is the perfect time to work on yourself. Develop some skills, which will make you a more desirable target and better mate.



For example, I know some bored patrons who sit bar-side and amuse themselves by attempting to tie a maraschino cherry stem into a knot without using their fingers. A talented tongue is appreciated, yet I feel this activity is pointless. The thought of a woman's tongue bouncing around my molars is disturbing and, no, I don't want my penis tied in a knot.



However, I have developed a similar skill, which came in handy before my recent snippage. There were occasions when my little friend, Willy, left the party without his raincoat. This is a foolish and dangerous thing to do, depending on the season. Once I realized what Willy had done, it was time for me to retrieve the sheath while ensuring nothing fell from the pockets during extraction--a delicate and precarious chore. Yet, as some ladies are expert stem knotters, I am an expert condom knotter. In a matter of seconds I am able to (without using my thumb, I might add) dig, twist, loop, pull, and remove my potential child-support payments.



Wah-lah!



Now, you may be thinking, how on earth did Uncle Phil develop said skill. I'll tell you. When I was single, I didn't waste time playing paddle-ball. Instead, I scooted on down to CVS and picked up a pack of balloons, Ivory liquid, and six cans of jellied cranberry sauce. The exercise includes the following steps:


squirt Ivory into the balloon (one ounce should suffice), 
remove the cranberry lid, 
stuff the balloon into the sauce can loaded-end first, 
push the balloon toward the bottom of the can using needle nose pliers, 
put a towel down on your bed,
place the can on its side between two pillows on the towel,
hold your left hand behind your back,
without cutting yourself, dig in with three fingers using a swirling motion until your middle one finds the object,
true, the can will move around making it more difficult, but this is a significant obstacle as it's unlikely the actual vagina will sleep through the process,
with your middle finger, hold the balloon shut approximately one inch from the opening,
use your other two fingers to loop the balloon and recall a childhood shoe-tying poem* while you seal the end,
remove it slowly, keeping your face clear of the extraction in case there's recoil,
dance around the bedroom like you recovered a fumble,
spike the balloon into the toilet bowl,
flush.



Now, wasn't that a more effective use of your time than tossing playing cards into a derby?



*Here's one you can use:

Build a tee pee

Come inside

Close it tight so we can hide

Over the mountain

And around we go

Here's my arrow

And here's my bow!

How to request without being so demanding.

As I reenter the public service arena by occasionally DJing in local bars, I'm reminded of times when I had more patience and hair. Silly requests would roll off my back. Here are some of my favorites from back in the day:


Can you play something good, please?
Do you have that song that goes "Buh bun bah ... dun dun?"
It's my friend's birthday. Play a song and dedicate it to her.
Do you mind if I look through your records?
Play that "Do It In Da Butt" song.
Are you the person playing the music here?
Can you turn it up/down?
Play something we can dance to.
Aren't you going to play any slow songs?
If I give you a cassette, can you play a song from it?



One time, I had an obnoxious guido whistle to get my attention when I was obviously mid-mix.



"I'm sorry. Do I look like a dog to you?"

"Huh?"

"How can I help you?"

"Oh. Yeah, say, you gots any Snoop up in da hizzy, yo?"

"Fine."

"Thanks, Dog."



Playing music is supposed to be therapeutic, and often it is. When people (women) get up and start dancing, bobbing their heads, or holding their phones up to Shazam a song, it's rewarding. I love it when someone comes up and says, "Holy shit, I love this song and haven't heard forever." Some of the songs that usually get that reaction include:


"The Time Warp" by Rocky Horror Picture Show Cast
"Some Kind of Wonderful" by Grand Funk Railroad
"Ballroom Blitz" by Sweet
"Love is the Drug" by Roxy Music
"Strawberry Letter 23" by The Brothers Johnson
"Desperate But Not Serious" by Adam Ant
"The Breaks" by Curtis Blow
"Don't You Want Me" by Human League
"True Faith" by New Order



Go ahead, iTunes those fuckers and jump around. Good stuff, right?



Yet, we in the service industry must endure pokes and jabs from drunken critics who seem to forget we're not standing in the living room serving an audience of one. I don't want to discourage requests. By all means, you get what you ask for or endure what you're given. Just be kind and persuasive with your request and see your wishes fulfilled. Try this:



"Hello, Mr. Handsome DJ. First, I would like to compliment you on your music selection and mixing skills. Had I anything less than a twenty, I'd start a generous tip jar for you. Now, if you feel it would fit into the current mood, might I humbly request you play any song from The B-52s? If you feel so inclined I'll gladly send one of these lovely servers your way with a complimentary beverage of your choice. Toodles."

Why do good boys like bad girls?

See that? It works both ways. I'm not suggesting we good boys prefer our girls unclean, gassy, or riding choppers. We will tolerate a bit of scruff below the belt as well as repeated use of the F-word, though we prefer it to be creative. No, we're not suggesting you carve your beave beard into an arrow. I was referring to cussing like a football coach.



When I was taking my first stabs at vagina, I preferred the pristine type--rarely visited--attached to Ms. Demure. It was like new construction: there aren't many scars until I move in and leave my mark. This lady was the ideal specimen to expose to family, friends, and coworkers. She'd sit politely and converse innocently as to not adversely affect my standing. Still, when naughtiness is sought, horns don't fit this angel.



Roll forward. I have no time to train a delicious young specimen the fine art of knob gobbling. I prefer to be taught a new method of the pleasurable distribution of my genetic stew. Hence, much as the bad boy is expected to deliver a good deep dicking, the bad girl is expected to be receptive, nay, insistent upon receiving such and will not hesitate to tell me so using gasp-inducing words.



Good girls will sprinkle flowery perfume, wear lacy undies, and giggle when touched.

Bad girls smell of last night's bourbon and weed, forget to wear undies, and grind into the hand that teases.



Good girls will chat bar-side about American Idol while sipping zin and nibbling side salads.

Bad girls will double-fist warm tequila and cold beer, dump hot sauce on everything, and punch you when they laugh.



Good girls want to go to wine tasting events, plays, and art galleries.

Bad girls want to stay home, put on Comedy Central, order Chinese food, and get busy even while mid-eggroll.



Good girls are anxious for you to meet their friends and families.

Bad girls are bored with theirs and would rather go to a firing range than subject you to the monotony of childhood stories.



Good girls ask you to drive slowly with the windows up as to not mess their hair.

Bad girls call you a pussy, push down your right leg, roll down the windows, and flash the slowpokes you pass.



Good girls read the silliness I write, then cringe and ask what left me so jaded.

Bad girls get the joke, say "fuckin' A," and dare me to write about something they inspire by exposing their darkest desires to me.

I walked into a bar and metaphor.

Figure A: Metaphorus Rex

By two in the morning she (see Figure A) was a nine. *Ba-dum-dump*



Isn't it fun to twist our language? My three favorites are analogies, similes, and metaphors. You may have forgotten the difference, so allow me to demonstrate.



If you're female and someone says having sex with you is like throwing a hotdog down a hallway, that's a simile. The implication is that the hallway is large, when compared to the hotdog. Most women would take offense to this, because the man saying the quote is unlikely to be criticizing his own unsatisfying cocktail weenie (metaphor).



Other ways to convey the point using linguistic tricks to describe awful sex include, from the man's point of view:


Going down on her is like bobbing for dead goldfish. - Analogy
She holds the Grand Canyon between her thighs. - Metaphor
Her breasts are like eggs over easy. - Simile



And, from the woman's:


Having sex with him is fun as flossing but it doesn't take as long. - Analogy
His penis is his third thumb. - Metaphor
The face he makes when he orgasms is like a retarded pug taking a dump. - Simile



Perhaps some non-sexual examples will help drive my dull point (metaphor):


Her ass runneth over her jeans. - Metaphor
He's a hairy, giant infant with narcolepsy. - Metaphor
Her Facebook updates are like chemistry class. - Simile
His bathing suit is like a baby carrot hammock. - Simile
Getting her to put down her phone is like taking an infant's blankie. - Analogy
Kissing him is like getting hit in the face by a balloon filled with syrup. - Analogy



I now return you to your regular scheduled life hoping your day is like a Nutella brownie--wonderful.

How to be sarcastic without taking a beating.

The best remarks are those that cause slight confusion. The receiver shouldn't be able to distinguish if the remarks are heartfelt or ass-delivered. When you become an expert at sarcasm you can deliver barbs easily disguised when too stinging. Your "no" could mean maybe or yes, even. It depends.



Am I confusing you? Gee, I'm sorry. No, I don't think you're clueless at all. In fact, I find you exceptional.





Step one in sarcasm training is quite simple, yet crucial. Upon awakening, take your bowl of porridge to the family room and turn on the morning news. Pretend the anchors are speaking directly to you. You must answer every statement they make with two words.



"Today, Mitt Romney defended his position on taxing the rich."

Did he?

"There's congestion on the ten this morning."

Is there?

"Gas prices reached an all-time high."

Did they?

"You should visit our Facebook page and like us."

Should I?

"I'll be right back with the five-day forecast."

Will ya?



Avoid using the classic phrase, "You don't say," as that one went out a few decades ago along with those pants you're wearing ... but they look really good on you.



Advanced sarcasticians have mastered the silent remark. For example, the next time you're handed a thin paper cup with steaming coffee, the barista will probably say, "Would you like a sleeve for your cup?" Now, this low-career-ambition having mother fucker knows quite well that the cup paper is just slightly thicker than public restroom toilet seat covering, and you will definitely burn the shit out of your mitts if you say no. Don't say no. Don't say yes. Stare the eyebrow-pierced, tattooed dodo in her vapid eyes, clench your lips into a tiny grin, tilt your head five degrees to the left, and blink twice. She'll get the message and hand you a sleeve.



Practice your sarcasm on first dates that you're confident will be last dates--things I'm all too familiar with. What's that? Oh, you've found your soul mate? Have you? You haven't had many horrible first dates because you never stooped to the depths of online dating? Our loss. OK, I can tell you have a vivid imagination by your hair coloring, so use it.



"It says on your profile that you're an author."

"Does it?"

"Have you written anything I might have read?"

"Well, that depends. Do you read anything other than masturbatory chick lit?"

"I don't read chick lit."

"Don't ya?"

"No."

"Do you at least masturbate? You should."

"Eh-hem. Where would I come across one of your books?"

"In the back seat of my Jeep. Perhaps I could come across your ass while you thumb through one."

"What?"

"Oh, I kid. Actually, I've never had sex in my Jeep."

"Haven't you?"

"Hey, that sounded sarcastic."

"Did it?"

An evening with The Incestuals.

No matter the size of the hole-in-the-wall, if you peek into it you'll probably find me, blue mountains, and, on rare occasion, a potential bed warmer. Last night I ventured into a pit I rarely visit, which featured a three-piece band of men around sixty playing music from the sixties. It was all good. They brought their own fan club--family members, I assume--which screeched it's support with every (rarely in-key) note struck.



Something else was a bit off.



The family table contained everything from Grandma and Grandpop to cousins and kin. Most families have this odd assortment of people who look relatively (bad pun) similar. Each one is a little freaky-deaky, but we don't notice our own family fiascoes because we're too close to them. I noticed.



There's always that tweenager who faces the music before the music:



"Well, honey, gee whiz, I sure wish you wouldn't wear that half-shirt out in public."

"Why?"

"It's ... well ... inappropriate."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, sweetie, I can see your bellybutton and that's probably a look better suited for the beach."

"Oh, Dad."

"You're not going to change, are you?"

"Nope."

"Lord, please give me the strength to endure the punishment You deliver me for my indiscretions during my twenties."

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing. Will you at least wear a jacket?"

"Um, no-o. It's like seventy degrees out."

"Lovely."



At one point during the evening the band broke into "Summer Wind" by Ole Blue-Eyes. Nana and Pop-Pop were shooed out to the makeshift dance floor.



"What's that?"

"They want us to dance, Harold."

"You shit your pants?"

"No, THEY WANT US TO DANCE."

"Oh, thank heavens. You go dance. Can't I just sit here and order some tapioca?"

"No, Harold. Let's go."



As they bobbled around the floor to thunderous applause, all I heard was a TV commercial voice over: "When that moment arises, will you be ready?" I'm such a dick.



Then things became really weird. Cousin Dewey (early twenties, shaggy hair, rolled-up jeans, suspenders) sat next to Aunt Felicia who sat next to Uncle Buck. Ole Buck was three whiskeys deep in a trance. Felicia kept reaching back and rubbing Dewey's thigh while he caressed her lower back. I pointed it out to my companion.



"What do you think the story is behind this?"

"Well, they're probably just a real close, affectionate family."

"He's an inch from her butt and he's got a lump in his lap."

"Oh, Jesus! I really could have gone without seeing that. What do you think is going on?"

"I happen to be an observationalist--an expert in the field of twistology. Dewey here lost his virginity to Aunt Felicia five years ago after the annual family Thanksgiving beerfest. Buck doesn't ask and doesn't care as long as he can watch NASCAR in peace."

"You truly are demented."

"Thank you."

Cougars and Foxes: A universe in balance.

Ah, how perfectly we have evolved here in the dating jungle! Sexy women, forty plus, who glow from reigniting the orgasm fire after many years of sexual neglect at the hands (and fingers and tongues) of their recent exes. Silver foxes, fifty plus, who scoop up neglected kittens and nurse them back to emotional health after many years of feeling more like mothers with their exes than lovers.



It's all good.



If you're one of these recently re-energized cougars, embrace your roll and present no apologies. When you net one of those cubs, you should enjoy:


A harder body, penis included.
Repeat performances--hourly as opposed to weekly.
PDA
Sex in strange, but wonderful places including cars, kitchens, and tents.
The secret envy of your friends while they lie and criticize.
One fewer mass of humanity in the form of a large hairball on the sofa, which is as difficult to remove as lint from Velcro.
A kitchen aid who will not only help you cook and wash dishes, he'll take you from behind while doing so.
Someone with a mind vacant enough that he can be trained.
Something nice to look at while vacationing as opposed to a furry, sunburned belly under a smelly cigar and silly bucket hat.
Sex at times of the month of little concern to him.
Someone in briefs who doesn't resemble grilled sausage.
Home-field advantage as he's probably not going to want you to hang with his three roommates, who will all get drunk, pick on him, and try to have sex with you.



If you're a creeper, out to reminisce about days of firmer skin and natural lubrication, employ all methods necessary to net a kitten. Sure, it will require an investment, but face it, we pay either way--it's simply a matter of how far in advance of services rendered. Silver foxes can use the illusion of wealth, humor, and their fatherly maturity to trap her. Once the kitten is in the den, you should enjoy:


Nipples that still point northeasterly.
The subtle scent of lilacs as opposed to buttery chardonnay and cigarettes.
Oral pleasure graciously provided as it has yet to become a displeasure.
Waking up in the morning sun next to a princess instead of Nosferatu.
A woman who comes to your place with one tiny bag instead of a pile of Samsonite.
Someone prepared and ready to leave for the event, who won't make you late and scream at you for rushing her.
Meeting other kittens--her friends--who will see you as a wise elder and often seek your guidance as opposed to the cougar's friends who will bombard you with snarkasm.
A student who is eager to try new positions, locations, and (if you're lucky) inputs.
A sexual history that won't make you cringe.
Jealous buddies as you show the topless photos she sent you, which you promised not to show anyone.
Someone untainted by child rearing.
Someone who will not only consider, but will enjoy and appreciate being treated to inexpensive delights at lower-class establishments as opposed to wrinkling her nose and complaining about the wine list and lack of gluten-free options.



See? Nature has a mighty fine way of leveling the field, doesn't it?

Love is a piece of cake.

The key to happiness: Don't be needy or needed.



Have you ever noticed that the most attractive people are independent? The people who need you the least are the ones you want to spend the most time with. Why is that? It's because they owe and offer no services to you and require nothing from you. They're free entertainment. There's no obligation either way so you're free to come and go as you please.



I have a guest on my weekly webcast this coming Monday who is a dating and relationship expert. I have never met her, but heard her described as oozing sexuality. Well, that certainly has my interest piqued. I'll bring a hanky. Still, I bet she's single as most matchmakers and relationship experts are.



Since I recently exited yet another relationship, I anticipate a well-deserved scolding about how I don't open up and dedicate enough of my time (what time?) to nurturing my relationships. Allow me to preminisce (my new word):



"How many serious relationships have you been in since your divorce?"

"A couple."

"How long did they last."

"A couple months."

"That's not a serious relationship."

"Ya think?"

"Fine. When's the last time you were in love?"

"May eighth of last year at around one in the afternoon."

"Wow, she must have been special for you to recall it in such detail."

"Yes. She was warm dark chocolate cake with peanut butter icing. I'm becoming aroused as we speak."

"See, that's your problem: You don't take relationships seriously. How can you expect to find love?"

"I can't. I expect to find happiness with or without a copilot."

"Don't you seek companionship?"

"Sure."

"... with something other than a dessert?"

"Can't I have both?"

"What about sex?"

"With a pastry?"

"No, jackass, with a woman."

"All right."

"I mean, don't you want to have lots of affection and sex."

"Define 'lots.'"

"You know, five or six times a week."

"You frisky little vixen, you."

"It may be a medical problem. You could be running low on testosterone."

"Or, I could be preserving it and my sanity."



Yes, as I age I'm not quite as sexually-centered as I used to be, but I have my moments. It has little to do with my hormone levels and more to do with maturity and being honest with myself. Sometimes with some women I desire frequent bonding; with others, occasional linking is fine. Either way, I don't need to have a girlfriend, roommate, or wife to be happy. I don't need lots of sex. Sure, I want it, but not when it comes attached to drama. In that case, a few yanks and a towel keep me from acting needy, and I've found the less needy I am, the more attractive I become. Strange.