Phil Torcivia's Blog, page 20

Cupid, you're an awful shot.

I should
have known better than to hire a zit-faced archer to do my dirty work. I
figured with all the video games out today, that winged dope would have
sufficient skills to land me love. Nope. Just like in ancient Rome, he infected himself with a loaded arrow before letting it fly and wound up falling in love
with an unintended target.




"You … are
a winged knucklehead."

"Hey, it
was an accident."

"I give
you one, simple task: Find a fit, childless woman in her forties and let an arrow
fly. How the hell did you end up falling in love with a busboy?"

"Ramon
is darling. You have no idea."

"Explain
yourself."

"Fine. I
sneaked into the wine bar and posed as a statue. Nobody noticed me for the
longest time."

"I guess
the gray skin and tiny penis were uninteresting."

"I'll
have you know that Ramon loves my tiny penis. In fact …"

"That's
quite enough. Now, what about my
target?"

"Oh,
yes, that. She finally came around to the well and began assembling her garnish—a
lime here, an olive there."

"Yes, go
on."

"She
really was quite lovely in the soft bar lighting and dexterous too."

"Right."

"So, I
yanked an arrow from my quiver and loaded my love bow."

"And?"

"I
sneezed."

"You what?"

"Some
old woman near me was wearing patchouli. You know how I can't stand patchouli,
boss. Grandma Venus used to wear it and since then it practically singes my
nostrils."

"You sneezed."

"Yes, I
sneezed and in order to be polite and cover my mouth, I had to let go of the
love torpedo, which embedded itself in my left foot."

"You
shot yourself with a love potion dipped arrow. How on earth did this result in
your recent homosexuality?"

"Well, I'll
tell you. I instantly dropped the bow and jumped around yelling 'ow' and 'fuck'
a lot. Suddenly, this sweet Mexican bar mopper came to my rescue, removed the
arrow, and sucked the love venom from my foot, thus intoxicating himself with the
potion and my juices."

"He
sucked your foot."

"It was
so sensual. I almost died. Now, we totally heart each other."

"Are
there any other Greek gods that I can summon who would enjoy beating little
homo archers into bloody puddles?"

"Don't
be mean. You must come with me to meet Ramon tonight. We're thinking of moving
to Vancouver, getting married, and starting a greeting card company."

"What
about my love?"

"Oh,
that. Um. Well, why don't you just go back on Match.com? I hear one out of five
people meet their significant other there."

"That
means four out of five don't."

"Hey, if
at first you don't succeed, lie, lie again."




So, I
renewed my Match.com subscription today hoping this dating
obstacle course truly is a numbers game. Mars help me.

How do men calculate gratuity?

I'm near the end of my annual trip to Phoenix playing in the Men's Senior Baseball League World Series. Now that I'm fifty, the Senior part is ringing truer. It's fun to run around spring training fields like children at play, as long as there are hot tubs and painkillers available.

Post-game festivities are often more fun than the games. Guess what the festivities include. Give up? I'll give you a hint: They also begin with B. Come on. Four hundred teams of men who refuse to grow up, take their scabby knees, sore elbows, and sunburned necks to bars with beer and boobs.

Every woman reading this saw that coming and some wrinkled their noses at the sad predictability of it. I say to you with stink-face: I like boobs. Why is it if I like your boobs, I'm a good lover, but if I like others, I'm pork-in-cleats?

Yesterday's post-game debrief was held at a bar that features brass poles. The servers and bartenders each cycle through shifts on the pole between delivering the medicine that loosens wallets. After two baseball games, old men are ripe and generally repulsive. Still, as one of my more savage teammates approached the poor lass on the pole with his crumbled ones, I couldn't help mind-reading.

Animal: Damn, this chick is cute and talented, hanging from that pole.
Girl: Oh, Jesus. Couldn't these guys shower after the game before coming in here?
Animal: I'm going to stand here at the base of the pole and make her work it for me. Maybe she'll let me touch her leg when I put the dollar in her garter.
Girl: Great he's carrying two one-dollar bills. I'll smile at him, turn around, shake my butt, and hope he drops the money and leaves.
Animal: She smiled at me. She wants me. I'm going to ask for her number. She'll meet me after work and let me take her deep.
Girl: Fine, here, put the dollar in my garter. Yes, thank you so much. Thanks to you I can afford a can of soda. You should keep it and buy some soap.
Animal: She really digs me. I love it here. I'm going to play hard-to-get now and head back to the fellas. I'll brag to them about how tight she is and how much she wants me.
Girl: I just need to keep telling myself, "College tuition, college tuition."

Sadly, most men don't see tips given to attractive workers as shows of appreciation for jobs well done, as tips are intended. If the recipient is attractive, men see the tip as a subtle bribe. The tip shows the man's high social status, career success, provider potential, and generosity. If the recipient is unattractive, the tip is a robotic gesture. The recipient knows the intent behind the gratuity and most tippers realize this. Still, men suspend reality and imagine the crumpled one could work the wonders of a wizard's wand when it comes to wooing women.

How can she tell if he really likes her?

This is
a problem most women have, although few men do. Perhaps it's because women have
more to invest and lose … oh, and because they don't have hanging brains beneath their
privates.




"How can
I tell if he really likes me or just wants to sleep with me?"

"You're
hoping for both, aren't you?"

"I don't
want to have sex with him if he's not emotionally invested."

"All
right. That means you like him."

"I do. I
also don't want to frustrate him and scare him away by making him wait too long."

"Yep,
that happens. Like you would with a new hire, you need to set expectations."

"Right.
I'll tell him he can't touch me until he likes me."

"No, you
need to be more specific. Show him some light at the end of the love tunnel.
Tell him you're selective about your lovers, and it could take a dozen dates before you'd be willing to go there."

"Will a guy
wait that long?"

"If he
likes you he will … or, if his prospect pool has dried up."

"Great."




This is
quite a love tug, isn't it? If I'm attracted to a woman, by definition I want
to have sex with her. That desire usually arrives before I have her name memorized.
It's a good thing as long as I don't insist upon sex too soon, or have it and
leave. It takes days or weeks to build a strong like; it takes seconds to build
a strong desire.




I'm
fighting myself by suggesting women make their men wait when women desire long-term
relationships. Sometimes (right fucking now, in fact), a casual encounter is
what the doctored ordered to get Russell the Love Muscle back in shape. A long
sexual drought will cause a man to say and do whatever is required to close the
deal. Humbly, I've been stunned by what came out of my mouth (and wallet) when
I needed a slump-breaker.




Still, I
bet most women can see through all the pleasantries and tell if there's potential
for a walk down the aisle or a walk of shame.




"If you
know how you feel about him and have specific desires and goals regarding your
relationship, you should tell him. Be honest. Be prepared for him
to be scared off due to impatience. His departure will be a blessing."

"Fine.
Give me an example of what to say."

"OK.
Remove all distractions, sit across from him, and look into his eyes. It's
probably a good idea to hold his hands so he doesn't sprint away. I'm kidding,
sort of. Then say something to the tune of, 'I want you to know I really
like you and am excited about the possibility of building a significant
relationship between us. I'm highly attracted to you and eager for the day
we make love. If you feel the same way, we should enjoy the build up and not
take things too quickly. Don't worry. I won't make you wait forever—just long
enough to be confident that our hearts are equally invested. Fair enough?'"

"Wow.
Can you print that on a note card for me?"

"Stop
it, silly. Ad lib and he'll find your sincerity refreshing … or, you'll be back
tomorrow for my consolation services."

Older women are typically more skilled.

Don't
you love people watching? It's my favorite spectator sport. While the MLB was
having, arguably, its most exciting game in history, my fellow imbibers and I
discussed mating strategies.




The
prime subject was a fifty-ish woman with the usual (blond, bubble lips, boob-a-mungus).
Her strategy, however, was a curious one. While sipping her vodka, she opened
her suitcase-sized satchel and deployed her lure: a lollipop. Perhaps, when
scientists come up with a way to create 
Maker's Mark suckers, I'll indulge. Hers was some reddish flavor, which
matched her shiny lips. A female friend from the junior squad made the first
comment.




"Do
older women just love to give head or what?"

"Wow! Quite a sweeping generalization. Where did that come from?"

"Tell me
you haven't noticed Barbie-Plus-Twenty mouth-fucking her candy over there."

"Yes, I
may have, now that you mentioned it."

"Right.
So, answer my question."

"First,
let me respond by saying, 'I sure hope so.' Second, I think your question is
best rephrased as, 'Why do most older women love to give head?'"

"Fine.
Why?"




This is
one of those questions where my brutal honesty gets me into hot water—alone. After
consulting my cougar manual, I provided the following reasons why one would
have exceptional oral desires and skills:

She wants to give her man exceptional
pleasure. (Well, duh.)
She realizes (Oh boy, how do
I keep this one PG-13?) her engine oil is down a pint, as it would be on any
classic machine, and she is providing additional lubrication to allow the piston
to move freely without causing friction damage—affectionately referred to as "pink-socking."
(Calling you a pig would be an insult to
pigs.)
She has had lots more practice,
young Asshopper. (What?)
Her exceptional skills will
distract from the bloody wreck below the neck. (That's mean-spirited.)
She finally admits that her
quickest route to O-town requires the man to go down. Therefore, she is giving him
a not-so-subtle hint that reciprocation will be required if he ever wants to
receive another sheet-clenching, back-arching, ab-cramping, mental-sparks-a-flying
BJ. (I'm assuming you've had one?)





Whatever
her reason was, spinning a lollipop between her plumped lips looked odd. I'm
not sure I would have enjoyed it any more if she were Rihanna. Similarly, it
doesn't give me vicarious turgidity when I see a woman eating a banana, Popsicle,
or hot dog. Any stimulation that begins, ends with the inevitable bite. My penis
is not food. I'd like to think of Willy more like a straw than a Rocket Pop.

Do people overanalyze you?

Do you
hate being evaluated and diagnosed for flaws you can't perceive? If someone has
a problem with something about you, it's her problem, not yours. If he insists
you should eat, wear, or do something, he ought to mind his own beeswax.




I
receive constant analyses, especially from females who happen to be occupado. They usually do this by
talking about me in front of me. Rude! At least when I write my sarcastic
generalizations I'm not naming people directly. I protect the guilty by
changing the names. These self-proclaimed relationship experts pound away at my
psyche without the common decency to do so behind my back.




"Phil's
problem is he has a closed heart."

"I'm right here! What the fuck does that mean?"

"I'm not
talking to you. Would you agree, Sheila?"

"Hm.
Perhaps. Somebody probably broke his heart into itsy bitsy pieces."

"That's untrue! Hey!"

"No
doubt. Now he's all guarded and alone. He won't let anyone in because he's
scared. Poor thing."

"I'm so not fucking scared."

"I
agree. I wonder what she did to him. She probably cheated on him."

"What?"

"Ah,
yes, complete ego destruction. So, now he doesn't trust anyone—hence, the recluse
and his cats."

"You leave them out of this."

"Or
maybe it stems from some childhood tragedy."

"Yeah,
he probably left a valentine in a girl's desk and she laughed about it and tore
it up in front of the entire class."

"Wait … what?"

"He's
probably turned away dozens of women who would be ideal partners. How sad is
that?"

"So sad.
He's probably like the rest of the forty-plus men around here who never grow up
and waste their time chase young girls around."

"I love ALL women, not just the
lovely, young, firm, tight, unspoiled ones."

"When
will he learn?"

"Maybe
never. I can picture him hunched over in the corner of the diner with his
morning paper and no companion."

"Fuck, I do that now."

"Women
shouldn't waste their time with him anyway. I mean, he's fit and cute, but not
worth the effort."

"He does
appear to have slimmed down and toned up, though."

"Yeah.
Hey, Phil, do us a favor and stand up for a second."

"Why?"

"We'd
like to check your butt out. Lift your shirt too."

"I'm not ashamed, damn it. Fine."

"Not
bad. Almost time for a trim, I'd say. Grab his ass, Laura, and see if he has
been keeping up with his lunges."

"Sure,
let me see. Hm. Not bad. Did you just flex your butt, Phil? Admit it."

"Oh … my … god! I am not a piece
of meat."

"Yes you
are."




Why do I
defend myself? I should ignore the barbs and concentrate on The World Series.
What do I care if women think my heart is closed? Damn it. What's my
alternative? Should I bounce around the bar with bouquets of flowers asking
ladies to invade my heart and my life? Yuck. Sure, I'm flawed, but at least I
can live with myself.

[image error]

Why is gray hair sexy only on men?

A little
darling commented about my chin fuzz saying she liked my "salt and pepper"
look. Why? Does the white in my beard suggest that I am a wise elder or, perhaps,
God-like? (All the pictures I see of God show Him pre-Grecian.) There's a term
floating around for sexy, older men: Silver Fox. Hm. I don't know. When I see one of
these men I think, There goes Blue Pill
Bill. Then, I realize Bill probably has the same impression of me.




It's an
interesting distinction between men and women in regards to their hair. When a
woman encounters a Silver Fox, she finds him sexy not because of his hair color, but in spite of it. Gray hair doesn't
imply the man is unfit, physically or emotionally. It implies wisdom and maturity.




Put gray
hair on a woman and she's not going to be sexy, no matter who she is. Funny
though—it's not many shades away from the platinum blonde color that distracts
men and pushes women up the ten-point scale.




Hair
coloring is something completely acceptable and expected for women. Maybe that's
part of the turnoff: If she allows her hair to gray naturally, she's not
concerned about being attractive, so why should I be attracted? If men color
their hair, people see it as silly and vain (except for hair stylists and
hair product salespeople.)




"Have
you ever considered coloring your goatee?"

"Yes. In
fact, I actually bought the stuff once."

"Did you
try it?"

"Nope. I
couldn't bring myself to do it and deal with all the barbs. People would start
paying me compliments, which would cause me to lie: 'Oh, you look great.
Something's different.' 'Did you lose weight?' 'Is that a new shirt?'"

"Why
wouldn't you just tell the truth and say you colored your hair?"

"Because
that would be seen as a display of low self-confidence and put me in an
indefensible position."

"Not at
all."

"Oh,
bullshit. You'd be kind and supportive, but you'd begin wondering if I'm
wearing Spanx and eyeliner."

"Ha, ha.
Are you?"

"No, but
I am carrying a bratwurst in my pocket. Wanna see it?"




I hear
scientists have developed a pill that will turn our hair back to its original
color. OK, if everybody does it, fine. I'm sure the pill will have some
undesirable side effects. Maybe it will give men the desire to skateboard, play
acoustic guitar, and hang out around Apple stores. Great. I'll have a pill that
helps me have sex with women I'm not attracted to, a pill that allows me to eat
food that's not good for me, and a pill to override my reminder to avoid doing
things I'm too old to consider.

The Man Can't Control Himself

Stay
away from men in high demand. That's the best advice I could give you, whether you're
a starlet or a high school senior. It applies forever. This doesn't imply that
you have low ambition. It's common sense. You're not taking home a piece of art
or a sports car. The higher the demand is for your man, the more competition
you have and the harder it will be to keep him loyal.







But, don't
just take my word for it. Look around.




No
threats will keep a mega-opportunity-having dude from messing up either.
Financial threats, limited access to loved ones, eternal damnation, reputation
destruction, and physical pain aren't enough. Why? Because men have fallen behind
women on the evolution track.




Women usually
think shit through logically and know not to jeopardize long-term satisfaction
for short-term gratification. Conversely, as soon as two words make it from his
ear to his cortex ("blow" and "job," if you must ask), the future fades and the man
reaches for the cookie jar. Bad boy!




I said
this before to Sandra and I'll say it again to Demi: You need to find a low
profile dude who wouldn't risk losing something so
unobtainable for momentary bliss.




Think
about it. When I walked into the bar tonight, two people were happy to see me,
and neither one would ever consider sleeping with me—yes, the bartenders. The rest of
the patrons may have noticed me and, heck, a woman looking to breed may have
even raised an eyebrow at my fashionable jeans. Yet, no vaginas were tossed my
way.




Now, if
Ashton walked into the same establishment, practically every available
coochie-toter in the place would suddenly be an option and, thus, a temptation.
It takes too much to override that sensation. The male ego rises above common
sense and creates an insensitive prick. The dude knows that if he were to plop two of these women into a hot tub,
very little good could come of it. He knows
the likelihood that one or both of those vixens will sprint to the nearest
tabloid and cash in at his expense. He knows
the hour-long boffapaloosa could never be worth the torment he'll receive from
the media, his wife, and family. He knows
the potential financial devastation and total career destruction could be
cataclysmic.




It won't
matter.




Here's
the oddest thing to me: The parts on the strange woman are going to feel
remarkably similar to those on the woman he has waiting for him at home. The
excitement coming from the naughtiness might make it slightly better—because,
naturally, some of the passion faded at home—but not substantially. Less than
ten seconds after he ejaculates, he'll begin to regret what he did and wonder how
he could be so stupid. Then he'll go into justification, panic, and damage control modes. He'll
swear that if he's lucky enough to get away with it he'll never do it again.
(Really?)




Go slumming,
my dear. Find yourself a man who's way out of your league—to the downside. Make
sure he knows you're way of it his league—to the upside. Then you have a
fighting chance of keeping your puppy in your yard. Otherwise, don't be
surprised when you hear his lies.

What to do if you don't like a best friend's boyfriend?

If I'm dating your BFF and you don't like me, I have some
advice for you: Go dry hump a cactus. Ah, just kidding. It would be unrealistic
for me to expect everyone to approve of my sarcasm. It's also too much work to
win the approval of people who I didn't choose as part of my decision to date
my woman.




So, what should
you do if you do not approve of the man your friend is dating? Here are some
suggestions:

Make sure that your disapproval doesn't stem
from jealousy.
Get all the facts. Certain physical attributes
and skills can override some of the most glaring personality flaws.
Be supportive of your friend's decision.
If you're convinced that he's a toad, do some
investigative work, and gather evidence before presenting your case. A good
place to start is by looking for his profile on popular dating sites. He's
probably lying about his age by five years, minimum, so start there.
Find excuses to avoid double dates where you
would make your disdain for him painfully obvious.
Keep it to yourself. You're not dating him so
get over it.





Please don't:

Sleep with him to discover what she sees in him.
Threaten him with bodily harm if he doesn't
excuse himself from the relationship.
Break them up by telling him that she has
herpes, hepatitis, and incurable halitosis.
Schedule an intervention with her, especially on
live TV.
Get her drunk and introduce her to a parade of
male alternatives.
Invite her ex-boyfriend to an event the new
boyfriend is attending.





Shouldn't we be watering and weeding our own lawns, ladies? If
your BFF is happy with her man—regardless of how douche-y he is—be happy for
her and support her decision. Lord knows she'll probably be back sipping
chardonnay in the circle of singles soon enough. Be supportive and wait until he's
gone before deploying the BFF's favorite phrase: "You deserve so much better,
sweetie."




I rarely find BFFs who approve of me. How sad is that? BFFs
look at me with a certain expression, which has become all too familiar.
It's hard to describe in print though. If I made the face, you'd recognize it.




You can replicate the look. Go stand in front of a mirror
and imagine at the foot of your bed is the most amazing pair of shoes you've
ever seen. They'll go with everything. When you tried them on, they made your
butt pop, and wearing them was like walking on a velvety cloud of (synthetic)
mink fur. Got it? They were too expensive, but you couldn't let them go. You
splurged and bought them. You can't wait to don them this weekend and be the
envy of your tribe. Aren't they marvelous? OK, now imagine finding an uncle ejaculating
upon them. Quick, note your expression. Yep, that's the one.

[image error]

[image error]

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I don't want anything F'd out of me.

I'm sorry. I'd rather not have anything F'd out of me, aside from
the obvious. Is that odd? Why do people use such terms?




"I'm going to F his brains out."

"I'll F the S out of her."




It sounds somewhat gross to me. Naturally, I'm taking things
too literally as I often do. My mind ventures into a scene where she's bouncing
away on top of me as the mattress squeals and I try to hold in my Orange
Chicken. Finally, she has overwhelmed me, I lose control, and crap the sheets
while a tiny bit of brain shoots from my ear onto the nightstand.




"There. I told you. I just F'd the S out of you and banged your brains out."

"You're proud of this?"

"Yes."

"Look, there are so many other S-words I wouldn't mind F'd
from me. There's sperm, semen, sweat, snot, and even spit. Of all the S-words,
why that one?"

"It's just a figure of speech. You don't want me to say I'll
F the sperm out of you, do you?"

"Not if you're ovulating."

"You know what I mean."

"It all sounds odd and unfair. Conversely, I can't F
anything out of you, can I?"

"I guess not. Well, a baby, but that's a delayed reaction."

"Horrors."

"I guess some women ejaculate, so it is possible."

"Great. Next time I'll warm you up by saying I'm going to F
the milky white pussy snot out of you."

"Lovely."




Quiet lovemaking is what I long for: no words—just moans,
grunts, and sighs. I'll give a pass to directions. We could all use those. Future
bedmates, take all the liberties you want with "To the left, right, harder, softer,
faster, slower, and kindly get the F off my hair." Please don't F anything out
of me. Please don't refer to me as Papi or Daddy and don't refer to yourself as
a bad girl, slut, 'ho, or a dirty anything. Keep it clean!