Phil Torcivia's Blog, page 21

Ground Down - Should marriages last forever?

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Do you
find some people wear you down over time? The tiny quirks shrugged away early
in the relationship eventually become festering boils. We all seek
companionship, yet it seems we're not setup to tolerate the same people and
situations for long. Comfort wears thin.




I recall
my grandparents on my father's side and their weekly visits. The performance
changed little each time. Grandpop sat in a recliner staring into space, swirling
his Seagrams while Nana kibitzed and helped Mom in the kitchen. I was just a
kid but I vividly remember the look on Grandpop's face. It was as if he were sedated,
trapped in a room without an exit, and seriously contemplating how peaceful
death would be.




What do
I know? As I said, I was only a kid.




Every
few minutes he'd instinctively defend himself, say something, and endure
another lashing. If he ignored the wife, she said he never listened. If he
voiced his opinion, she called him derogatory names in Italian (stugots). I assume my pop was used to
the banter because it didn't affect him. My mother dried the next dish and brought her husband another Bud.




I
watched and wondered: Isn't marriage supposed
to be a happy union? Where's the love and affection? I'd rather be alone than
in misery. Maybe watching this scene damaged me—more than Linda Blair
pissing on the floor in The Exorcist.




When my
Nana passed, an interesting thing happened—Grandpop suddenly came back to life.
His slouching shoulders squared, his subdued voice boomed, and his glassy stare
cleared. The quick recovery, apparently, also involved another woman. The
relatives were disturbed. It seems by their standards he hadn't mourned
sufficiently. (Nobody can set your time limit for mourning. You're done when
you're done.) This new woman was regarded as evil. Nobody understood how he could go there so
soon.




I didn't
see it that way. Sure, he loved his wife and shared decades of memories with
her. Still, the air between them grew stale, as it often does between couples
who have been together forever (although most won't admit it). He didn't kill
his wife. She was oblivious to how the relationship was slowly killing him. Her
departure was serendipitous. What a contrast to the formulaic scenes in romance
films.




I blame
the social pressures around the permanence of marriage. It works against
nature. It must. Look at the statistics. Of the happily married minority, half
of them are lying and heading down the dark path that consumed my grandfather. Most
happy marriages have expiration dates, whether stamped on the certificate or
not.




Why be
sad about it? If your relationship continues blossoming in the fall, that's
awesome! If it doesn't, might as well get back in line and try again. You
should be improving along the way. Consider your past relationships as reps and
sets towards strengthening your emotional fitness.




Let's pledge
to leave before we become zombies. Whether it's a spouse, a job, or your
hometown—when things start breaking bad, don't be sad. Break away.

Nipple or Not?

A
retired veteran claims he encountered a rare nipple sighting yesterday afternoon
while casually strolling the city streets. Frederick Fudd, distant cousin of
the late Elmer Fudd, alerted authorities when he allegedly saw a tiny brown
wonder while crossing an intersection. Luckily, traffic cameras snapped a few
shots before the mysterious object disappeared beneath fabric. Scientists are
now scrambling to verify the sighting.



"What we need to determine is if the exposed area is indeed part of a woman's nipple
or a mole," Professor Cuppington explained. "Nipples are rare this time of
year, north of the equator. If what Fudd saw was indeed a nipple, it will be new
evidence supporting global warming. If it's a mole, I'm going to be fucking teed,
as will an estimated ten million men when they realize they masturbated to a
damn mole."



When Fudd posted the now famous pictures on his Facebook page, people began
viewing and sharing at record rates. Rallies cropped up in major cities,
appropriately named "Occupy Bald Teat." Fudd had no idea he'd be the spark that
caused numerous sick days, random gatherings, hand jive, and a shortage of
poster paper and Sharpies.



"Look, I don't know nothing about any mole. What I saw was definitely a nipple
on the end of some part-Asian girl's tit. It wasn't no wart neither. Son, do
you have any idea how many nipples a man my age has seen? Thousands, I tell ya.
Mole, shmole. Damn ingrates trying to make me look stupid."



Demonstrators marched outside of the nation's capital with signs supporting
Fudd, such as:

"Jobs or nipples—we'll take either or both, please."

"Don't tax the tatas."

"Dang, it's nipply out."

"The end (of her boob) is near."

"Jane 36:DD."

"Hi Mom. Was I breastfed?"

"God save the funbags."

"Nobody wants to motorboat moles."

"Nothing would be finer than to also see vagin-er."

"Fudd is Godd!"



The movement has certainly gained media attention as Fudd is scheduled to
appear on Conan and in a local strip mall parking lot outside Subway. Although
Fudd claims to be a Christian conservative, some Republican Party members have
questioned his resolve, referring to his view as a "false nipple."




"How can
we be sure it's a nipple?" asked a reverend supporter of republican candidates.
"Sure, there are millions of milk-bearing boobie berries on God's green earth,
but He never meant to have them confused with skin maladies. There is only one
true nipple. In times like these, we need to ask, 'What would Jesus do?'"





When
reporters caught up to Fudd at his home and told him about the reverend's
comments, he responded, "I'll tell ya what Jesus would do: He's point and say, 'Look
at those tits!' just like I did." It was the last comment obtained from Fudd
before he slammed his camper door and mumbled something indiscernible.




Only
time will tell if that controversial brown dot was nipple or not.

"How do I get a boy to like me?" she asked.

A high
school student asked me how she could get a boy to like her. I engaged my
parental guidance filter, hired three witnesses, and made sure the cameras were
rolling. Just kidding, but I had to temper my answer.




I
initially felt sorry for the young lady. Even a kid doesn't want pity. I didn't
want to discourage her by disclosing the hundreds of fruitless crushes I have had.
I figured the best way to dance around this issue was to ask questions.




"How do
you know he doesn't like you already?"

"He
doesn't even know who I am."

"Is he a
movie star or something? If it's Bieber, this discussion is over."

"No, he's
gross. It's a boy in my high school."

"Is he
under eighteen?"

"I guess
so. He's in high school. Why does that matter?"

"It just
does. All right. Is he in one of your classes?"

"No. I
just see him around."

"Next
time you see him, smile at him."

"OK,
then what?"

"See if
he smiles back. If he does, walk up to him and say hi."

"I can't
do that."

"Make
sure he's alone so he's not distracted."

"Fine.
What do I say after hi?"

"Start
with small talk. Ask him what his favorite movie is. After he answers, tell him
you won two movie passes, and ask if he'd like to join you."

"What?
No! Boys are supposed to ask girls out."

"I know,
but you can put it out there."

"Ugh.
Can't I just leave a note in his locker?"

"Bad idea.
He'll read the note and assume it is from some cheerleader he has a crush on.
Then, he'll follow her around like a puppy. He'll probably find out where she
lives and drive past her house, hoping for a glimpse. Then, he'll arrange to
run into her various places. He'll finally get the courage to walk up to her
and he'll stutter like a fucking (sorry) ass. She won't even know who the fuck
(sorry again) he is and she'll think he's a nerdy, douche-y stalker weirdo. Her ape-sized college linebacker boyfriend will walk over and give her a kiss.
Then he'll give the stalker kid a wedgie, which will send the kid into a deep
depression, which he'll try to deal with by writing sad memoirs about how every woman he falls in love with
is unavailable. Who knows? Maybe the lonely lad will publish a few books or
write a movie script and drown his sorrows in bourbon."

"…"

"Um.
Yeah, leave a note in his locker. Great idea."




It's
easier to give advice to mature women.




"How do
I get this guy to like me?"

"Show
him your tits."

"You're
such a dickhead. Seriously."

"Your
ass?"

"Come
on."

"How
about writing a note in lipstick on a bar napkin?"

"Welcome
to nineteen-seventy."

"Buy him
a drink. Maker's Mark is a fine choice."

"Nice
try. Get your own."

"Damn
it. Just walk up to the guy, get his attention, knock on the center of his chest,
and ask, 'Excuse me, is this open for business?'"

Swing

Three
couples stood nearby as I worked on ridding another bar of its alcohol
infestation. Out of respect and indifference, I usually ignore married women. However,
I have noticed that when you ignore certain people they'll display odd behaviors
to grab attention. She wasn't holding any signs, but began performing humping-jacks.





"Hey,
how are you?"

"All
right."

"Are you
from around here?"

"You're married."

"I know.
My husband is right over there."

"Right."

"So …"

"Carlsbad."

"Ah. You're
really cute."

"You're
married."

"You can
still be cute," she said while grabbing my arm.

"I guess
it depends on your angle."

"Wow,
you have great arms too."

"You're married."

"I know.
Look, he's cool. We've been married fourteen years. He trusts me. This is my
friend, Emma," she said, dragging her friend into the conversation—confusing me
further.

"Hello,
Emma. I'm Phil … and you're married too."

"Yes, I
am. My husband is over there talking to Megan's husband who, by the way, is my
gyno."

"Of
course, he is."




Both
women continued the unwelcome flirtation with my buddy and me. It was disturbing
not only because they were married, but because they were distracting us from
the unwed. They finally left us to refuel, and we debated their intentions.




"Dude, I'll
hook up with a married woman, but not while her husband is a few feet away
encouraging it."

"You
think they're swingers?"

"No
doubt."

"They
could be Christians."

"What?"

"Some
sort of cult thing, possibly. Perhaps they lure single men back to their dens,
drug them, and shove speculums up their rectums."

"No more
rum for you."

"All
right. They're swingers. Would you do it?"

"Hell
no. You?"

"That
little spinner, Megan, is right in my wheelhouse."

"Go for
it."

"Nope,
but I must play along."




Megan
returned, sneaking up behind me and grabbing my ass cheeks like peaches.




"Wow,
you have a great ass."

"By all
means, help yourself."

"It's
harmless. See? It gets me all worked up and then I go home and fuck the shit
out of my husband."

"Happy
to be of service. I assume it's OK for him to go a-groping too."

"Sure,
but he's talking football with his buddies."

"'Tis
the season."

"You can
grab my butt if you like," she offered as she turned away, bent over, and lifted
her skirt—exposing her tiny pink panties. She looked over her left shoulder,
smiled, and winked. Naturally, this caused me to imagine the next great
one-handed catch Vincent Jackson would make.

"I like
and I won't, but thank you."




My buddy
asked if he saw what he thought he saw. I reassured him and excused myself to
the restroom to cool off. After a few shakes I walked straight into
Megan, who grabbed me and planted a slippery kiss on my paranoid lips.




"Hey,
you."

"Megan,
what the …"

"Shh.
Let's go into a stall and do it. Want to?"

"Yes and
no."

"Don't
worry. It's cool."

"You
have an unconventional marriage."

"We just
do what we need to keep it spicy."

"Have
you tried the jalapeño nachos?"

"Chicken."

"… or
beef. Both are picoso."




My instincts
prodded me but I couldn't do it. What strange times we live in.

Enhance Me or Leave Me

No, I'm
not seeking duck lips or melon boobs. If you're currently single, don't you
find it interesting that as you age you limit entrance into your life to people
who enhance it? The more self-sufficient you become, the less tolerant you
become. I'm not speaking exclusively about sex. I doubt I'll live to see
masturbatory equipment make the other gender obsolete. It's more about spending
significant time with another person.




When we
were children, we had little choice. We can't select our siblings, neighbors,
and classmates so we cope. Once we leave school, we begin to have options but
the peer and familial pressures shove us down the aisle.




We go
through the big wedding, nesting, reproducing, and straying. Once we hit our
forties we begin to wonder what's left. Some of us take the brave
and expensive route of reentering the mating pool with what some people will
call damage and baggage. Pity. My experience taught me well. I'm not damaged. I'm
just fine.




Then, a
new strategy arises: We're no longer out to find soul mates; we're casually
seeking people who make us happier. We've learned that more than one person is
qualified for the position, so we don't race back down the aisle again. We
enjoy the rides and step off once things get complicated. Expiration is
approaching so there's no time to force together pieces that don't fit.




I'm sure
some people (married ones) see this as a dysfunction. It's promiscuity,
perhaps. Still, I don't desire casual sex; I desire pleasurable sex with
minimal aftertaste. I'm confident that one woman at a time can deliver those
goods, but I won't find her without hunting.




For
example, say you left your husband today. (If it is easier, assume he left
you.) You're single and free. Cast away all of the financial nonsense and
parental guilt that will keep you tied to an unhealthy relationship. You're
single, financially secure, the nest is empty, and your hormones are still
flowing. What will you do?




I'll
tell you.




At
first, you'll timidly stick a toe in the mating pool. It's chilly. You'll
consider going back to what you know (sucks). You'll stick another toe in. It's
the post-marital Hokey-Pokey, if you will. You'll have good sex with bad men
and bad sex with good men. You'll be frustrated and consider going back again.
You won't. You'll gain confidence that you can find good sex with a good man.
You finally find it and hang on. Then it sours.




Suddenly,
you're approaching fifty and you realize you don't need your sentences
finished for you. You've arranged your nest the way you like it and it doesn't
need more birds. You've found your happiness and you're not about
to trade it for penetration. Mr. Next is going to have to enhance your life
significantly or he'll remain with his competition on the fringes.




When you've
reached this point—whether pets are involved or not—you've become the most
attractive person you'll ever be. Isn't that ironic?

One of Those Days

It's
midnight. You stare at the ceiling wondering where Steve Jobs went and why you're not sleeping. You try
to think of nothing, which means you're thinking of thinking, thus shooting
your sheep in the feet. You finally fall asleep and then your bed shakes. Fluffy
decided 1 a.m. is a great time for a lick bath. Kick the sheets to chase away
the nocturnal nit, sigh, and roll over. Oh no, now you have to pee. Maybe it
can wait. You're getting up at 6:30, so there should be bladder room. Nope.
You get up and pee.




Back to
bed. Find the warm spot. Arrange the pillows. What time is it anyway? Oh God,
don't look. You don't want to know. Sleep now. Please!




Argh! Where
is that awful sound coming from? Your alarm clock? It can't be 6:30. Oh, shit.
It is. Five more minutes. This DJ is too bubbly. He must have gotten a good
night's sleep. Prick. We don't care what happened on DWTS unless it involved aliens and blood spatter. 6:32.
Three minutes. They play the same goddamn songs every morning. "Today will be a
good day … today will be a good day." How about a sick day? Ugh. 6:35. Get up.




Why does
the hot water take so long to get here? Great, the shampoo is almost out. Shake it like
ketchup. Why don't they make the top flat so it can be set on end? Stupid
fucking engineers. If you try to wash your feet, you'll probably fall, crack
your skull, and eat your remaining meals through a straw. What would blended
prime rib taste like? Yuck. Ouch, now you got shampoo in your eye. Nice move.




No time
for a complete breakfast. Stop at Starbucks and grab a fritter and a joe to go.
What's that white spot on your slacks? Toothpaste? Christ. Lick and wipe. Holy
shit, you have two different socks on. That woman coming this way is cute.
Smile. Don't look down. Stay eye-level. She smiled back. Ah, it is going to be
a good day. Check out her ass. Nice, except her friend caught you doing it and
is telling her how much of a colorblind creepy swine you are. Well played.




Be a
nice person and hold the door. You dropped your phone. Good thing you have that
armor on it. Bend down, pick it up, and drop your sunglasses. They don't have
armor, but now they have a pupil-centered scratch. Get to your desk before
you're buried in an avalanche.




So much
junk mail. Why is the computer so slow? Ugh. HR is annoying. Add a snarky
remark-y and forward that silly meeting reminder to your pal. Uh oh. Check your sent
messages. You hit reply instead of forward. Fuck! Send the "just kidding"
message and begin formulating apologies.




That
looks like an interesting email from Gail. Could that be the Gail from happy
hour? Click and nope, it's an ad for the penis pump "guaranteed to add two
inches." Great. The IT guys will have a hoot with that one.



Be careful reaching for your … now you spilled
coffee all over your keyb#^~!#$_*&^! … *bzzzt* … *fft*

Sarcasm - It beats killing people.

Facebook has turned into one large mosaic of inspirational, humorous, and political pictures and quotes. I feel like I'm at freaking Spencer's. This is why I prefer porn.

Checking You Out

The club featured a parade of beauties last night. I was there with the usual
suspects, cheering and throwing confetti. I decided to try something new: a
direct approach method. Well, it was a bit angular because I gained entrance by
staring at a prospect's feet. Paranoia breeds curiosity.




"Why are
you staring at my feet?"

"Oh, I
was checking if you have a bitch toe."

"A what?"

"Bitch
toe. If your index toe is longer than your thumb toe, you might be a meanie."

"That's
silly."

"Well,
you don't have one so you're off the hook. I bet you're nice."

"I am,
but don't you think it's odd to walk around staring at people's feet?"

"Fine. I'm
going to stare at knees now."

"Women
prefer it when you look into their eyes."

"I see.
Wow, what big eyes you have."

"Look, Wolfman Jackass,
saying someone's eyes are big is not a compliment."

"You
would prefer?"

"How
about lovely, addictive, or sexy?"

"OK, you
have lovely eyes."

"Unoriginal."

"Fine.
Your eyes are like glistening pebbles in a clear stream of loveliness."

"Better.
I'm going to help my friend carry our drinks back from the bar. Be right back."

"I am
going to check you out when you turn around. Just sayin'."

"You can't
warn a person about that. Now I'm all paranoid."

"Don't
be paranoid. I like what I see so I want to see more."

"Thank
you, but it's borderline creepy when you say it."

"Hey,
what can I say? I'm an open book—yellowing with dog ears and a few pages
missing, ideal for potty reading."




She
backed away to prevent my staring at her butt.




I never
understand why women feel uncomfortable when men check them out. Women spend so
much time on hair, skin, and clothing; you'd think they'd be disappointed if
every man looked past or around them. I adore women and I am highly attracted
to them. I try not to be too creepy, but when I find myself staring at my beer
bottle, I feel creepier.




Here's
what I have found: Women feel uncomfortable when certain men check them out. The certain men I am referring to are
ones who are not mating options. The other exception is the gay friend. If the
target is attracted to the voyeur, she's flattered. If not, she's overcome by heebie-jeebies.




"You
know, it's unsafe to walk backwards in a crowded bar."

"You
were going to check out my butt."

"I'm
still going to. In fact, I already have and I give it high marks."

"Can't
you just be a normal guy and ask me if I come here often?"

"Nope.
Lift your hair; let me see your neck."

"Now you're
a vampire?"

"I'm not
going to bite you, I mean, unless you're into that sort of thing."

"Fine, I'll
play along. So, what do you do?"

"Nibble
necks and write books."

"Really?
What kind?"

"Creamy,
hairless ones that tickle when I kiss them."

"What
kind of books, you nut?"

"Oh,
just silly books about dating struggles."

"That
explains it."

"Can I sniff
your wrist now?"

Fingers

We're
all a little weird, right? It's all good—weird is interesting. My bizarre brothers
and I share dating stories and it reassures me. Hank is freakier than I am, so
he loves the way I cringe as he tells me of his latest encounter.




"We're
going to refer to this one as Little Oral Annie."

"I like
where this is heading already. Let me grab a fresh libation. Continue."

"Well,
she's tiny—hence the 'Little' part."

"Ooh, I
may need to put in for a transfer. You know how I dig spinners."

"No so
fast, Vito."

"All
right. Where'd she get that oh-so-exciting second part of her name?"

"We have
a nice dinner and head back to my sin bin to roll around a bit."

"Yes."

"I pour
a few glasses of soon-to-be-wasted wine, light some candles, flip on the Adult
Contemporary channel, and begin mauling her on the sofa."

"Yes,
yes."

"We're
getting into it pretty heavy. She's ideal because she's tiny, making it easy
for me to position her. I undo her buttons like a countdown. My hands are doing
under-fabric exploration."

"Yes,
yes, yes."

"She's
into the French kissing thing a bit much for my taste, but I can hang. Then she's
running her fingers through my hair, grabbing the back of my neck, and caressing
my face. She's touching my lips with her fingers and I begin to wonder how
clean they are. Then she forces one of her
fingers into my mouth."

"Hoh,
no! Please tell me you didn't suck it."

"What
was I supposed to do?"

"Spit it
out!"

"Shut up."

"Spit ... it ... out!"

"I couldn't do that. I closed my lips around her finger and licked the tip."

"Check,
please."

"It
doesn't make me gay, dude."

"Don't
stare at me with those longing eyes. I'll not let you suck my finger, you … you
… you digit licker."

"OK,
phobe-y, this next part is really going to get to you. She started moving her
finger in and out of my mouth."

"Give me
your man card, right now! It has been re-fucking-voked."

"It was
all in the heat of the moment. She totally got off on it."

"Right.
Stay tuned, because next week she's bringing her gay friend Keith on your date
and you get to try your oral proclivity on him."

"Shit.
You think she's setting me up for a freaky threesome?"

"Yup.
There was only one way to avoid it."

"Do
tell."

"Bite
her finger and cough up a little phlegm."

"What?"

"I'm not
telling you to break the skin, but you need to send a message that you do not
get off on anything going in and out of your mouth unless she has baby-carrot-sized
nipples."




Whatever
happened to closed-mouth kissing and heavy petting? Fingers do not belong in
other people's mouths. No exception. I'm not even granting one for tasting cake batter off a
lover's index finger. Use a fucking spoon!




"Honey,
fetch thee my Purell."

Indiana Joans

I read
so much dating advice you'd think I'd be syndicated by now. Today, a column
told women to be adventurous, which would make them like catnip to men. This
was obviously not written by a cat owner nor a man, for that matter. I, on the
other hand, have two cats, one bag of catnip, and zero bed warmers. Hence, I am
qualified. I'll dump a bit on the floor and document the reaction. Then, you
can decide if you want your man all high on your sexual catnip.




Syd
(black, skinny, sees ghosts) let loose a tiny mew and crawled over the nip. Now,
he's rolling onto his back and squirming around in it. He's taking a breather.
Let me interview him.




"How's
it going, Syd?"

"Groovy."

"You
look like a cheap slice of pizza overly coated in oregano."

"All
right."

"How are
you feeling? Horny, at all?"

"Do we
have any Cheetos?"

"No.
Does this make you want to be with a kitten, perhaps?"

"Ew, don't
be gross. She has to be a cat—at least two-and-a-half."

"Ah ha,
so you are feeling horny."

"Wait,
let me get this crap out of my eyes. OK. Now, what? Horny? No, not really. I
mean, I'm not about to turn down a good licking, but right now I could eat a
fucking carp."

"Great."




I'm taking
that as one vote nay. Perhaps my other cat, Symon (orange, chubby, lazy), will
give me a better interview. I've dumped a line on the floor and here he comes. Lovely.
He's eating it.




"Dickhead,
you're not supposed to eat it."

"Shut
up."

"You're
supposed to smell it and rub around in it."

"Hey, do
I tell you what to do with your M&Ms?"

"There's
no nutritional value in catnip, you idiot."

"I like
the way it tastes. Why don't you roll around in it?"

"Fine.
How is it making you feel?"

"Well, a
few pieces are stuck … say, do we have any toothpicks? I have this pesky food
pocket."

"Stop
eating the catnip! Now, does it make you want to make out?"

"With
Syd? Jesus, man."

"No, not
with your brother, with a girlie cat."

"What
are my other choices and do any of them include salty flakes of tuna?"

"Fine.
It makes you hungry."

"Pop,
honestly, breathing makes me hungry."




So much
for that. Ladies, go right ahead and be adventurous if you want your man to roll
around on the floor and do wind sprints to the refrigerator and snack drawer.




What does
the writer mean by "adventurous" anyway? I don't see how smearing on some eye-black, climbing out the window, crawling under the porch, and ca-cawing like a
crow is going to make any man horny. Perhaps sexually adventurous is what's
intended. I once had a date lift her skirt and flop over the arm of my La-Z-Boy.
She gave me a devilish wink. I fetched some ping-pong balls and a catcher's mitt—not
what she intended. What do I know?