Phil Torcivia's Blog, page 24

Glazing

Today's question comes from a sweet thing I'll call "Nora L." It will become apparent why I chose that name. Ladies, please raise your barriers so you don't have to contend with such selfish men.

"I dated him for over a year and he never went down on me.""Horrors!""I'm serious.""Not that you should have had to, but did you ever give him a hint?""Such as?""You know—placing both hands on top of his head and pushing him down between your thighs or waiting until he falls asleep and straddle-mounting his noggin. I refer to the latter move as the clam-face. Depending on your proclivity, it could be a form of CPR.""You're gross. No.""OK. Did you ever simply ask him?""I shouldn't have to.""True. Might I assume this selfish lad was receiving oral favors from you?""He was—practically daily."

"Damn. Have any sisters?""Seriously. What's up with that?""Unreciprocated love is so frustrating.""Yes, I know."

I'd love to corner her dude and solve the mystery by getting my information straight from the tongueless mouth. He'd probably be unreceptive.

"Dude, what's with the no licky licky?""Huh?""Why won't you go down on your woman?""I don't know, I guess I didn't think it was that important.""Duh. For some women, that's the only way they can get to O-town.""She has plenty of orgasms.""Perhaps, but she'd still appreciate a little reciprocation.""Re-what?""Returning her oral favors, slapnuts.""She's never complained to me.""True. Instead she complains to all of her friends and this random barstool warmer.""Oh God, that's embarrassing.""Right? You'd better learn how to migrate soon or half the county will have you pegged as a lick-free Louie.""Maybe I'm worried I'm not very good at it.""It's not brain surgery. Try drawing numbers with your tongue.""Like this?""Christ, man, NOT HERE!""Sorry.""Think 'wax on, wax off,' vary the speed and pressure, and listen for feedback. Avoid the typical up-and-down mistake called the paint-the-fence method.""What do I do with my hands?""Since you're a rookie, I suggest grasping her butt or hips. When you finally get out of the Minors, consider employing the right hand come-hither method.""Sounds complicated.""You're hopeless. Look, if you want her to continue bobbing on your knob, you're going to have to go chin-glazing. Oh, and by the way, make sure you deglaze before heading back north. The back of your wrist will do, her sheets and thighs won't.""Good to know.""Go get her, champ."

This could have been avoided if the woman felt secure enough to deliver expectations and directions. Most women will tell everyone except for the one person who can solve the problem. Often, it's with good intentions, as she doesn't want to hurt her man's feelings. Believe me; he'd rather have you tell him than your friends or, worst of all, me.

Work on bedroom communication and the rest of your relationship will become more secure and enjoyable.

Ditch Him

I play "Phil-in" often these days. My sarcasm is lost on many of my female acquaintances as they actually consider me to be somewhat of an expert on the male psyche. Silly girls.

"Come have a drink with me.""Isn't that what your BF is for?""He has his kids tonight.""I doubt he would approve of your rendezvous with a man holding substantial arrears of loving.""He doesn't need to know.""Sounds like trouble in paradise. Do tell—what's up with that, kitty cat?""Meet me and I'll tell you.""All right. You're penciled in and don't forget my liquid fees.""Scotch or vodka.""I'm feeling all vodkish and limish tonight."

Women who hang with me convince themselves I won't take advantage of any momentary weakness. I remind them not to push me.

When I arrive at my office, she's already mid-lemon drop. She's exceptionally primped considering her intentions to see Dr. Phil as a platonic advisor. I immediately entertain thoughts of nibbling her shoulders as I release her bra-stings. She brings me back to reality.

"I've slept with my boyfriend six times and we haven't had sex.""What?""You heard me.""Oral?""Nope.""A little hand release, perhaps.""None.""This is serious.""I have no idea what his problem is.""Well, far be it for you to ask him, so allow me to run a few possibilities past you.""Shoot.""Could he be gay?""No. He has a hard-on when we make out, especially in bed.""Have you tried to touch it?""Yes and he sometimes let me, through his pants, but when I try to go under he stops me.""He has huge, puss-filled genital warts. Case solved.""Ew! He does not."

"Has he flapped your pappy?""My what?""You know—plucked your pink violin?""Huh?""Jesus Christ, woman … HAS HE FINGERED YOU?""Only through my pants and underwear.""Maybe he has some sort of performance anxiety.""You think?""I'm not saying this has ever happened to me, but I've heard that some men have hair-triggers and if they don't get the chance to launch a pregame batch into a tube sock, it could spell embarrassment later.""Please tell me men don't beat off into tub socks.""…""You have deeply scarred me. I will never see a sock the same way again.""Well, fishnets are nicer, but they're messy.""God.""Just tell him you're coming over later tonight and he will either have penetrated you or returned your hair pulls and toothbrush.""I like this guy. I don't want to lose him over something like this.""This is not a little thing, my sweet. An orgasmless relationship is always a dead-end.""What if he has herpes or something?""A distinct possibility. I'm sliding half my chips over 'performance anxiety' and the other half over 'he's getting it from someone else.'""Oh shit, I haven't thought about that.""Maybe it would be best to end it now and consider sleeping with your therapist.""Nice try.""Damn it."

I may be guilty of exiting relationships prematurely, but most of my female friends waste too much time trying to make something work, regardless of the warning signs. Odds say it won't get any better, darling, so cash in, and move along.

Grease

People don't want to waste time defending themselves, even when the critics are probably correct. We also don't want to listen to people brag about themselves, relatives, or achievements. Lastly, we don't need to be constantly reminded about how awful the economy and weather are.

When people log into their social media accounts, they want to hear about how wonderful they are, with a close second being hearing about how awful a rival or celebrity is. It doesn't matter if the post is truthful. We feel recognized, loved, and appreciated when we read compliments and we feel superior when the mighty fall.

If I posted the following on your Facebook wall, even in jest, you're probably not going to like it:

"Your breath smells like a Phoenix port-o-pot, you have puffy ankles, and the shirt you're wearing is better suited for a table in a Mexican diner."

Whereas, if I posted the following, it would be immediately liked and make you consider chest bumping yourself in the closest mirror:

"You are magnificent and I am fortunate to have you as a friend. Your skin is flawless, your eyes are luminous, and your intelligence is exceptional."

Does this imply when complimenting someone, Phil is being phony? Sometimes. I don't want to be surrounded by weepy peeps. Debbie Downers are no fun. When nearby anglers cast compliment lures, I'll bite.

"I feel so blah today.""Aw, chin up there, shnookums. You're fabulous.""Really? You think so?"

"I know so.""Well, thank you. God, these shoes are killing me.""Those shoes are killing me! I mean, come on. Look at your butt right now. Those shoes have made a masterpiece of your posterior and allow me to be the first to say I'd be hard-pressed to find a finer hiner.""Aw. You're such a good friend.""I'm honored to be considered a friend. Whereas most of my acquaintances are cock-holding cretins, you inspire me to be a better me. I'm considering paying down the national debt by selling my Yankee candle collection.""You're so silly."

I bet if I created an iPhone app that texts random compliments throughout the day, it would sell like feather extensions. Women are thumb-tapping their phones all day anyway. Why shouldn't they be interrupted by something other than the curb? In the middle of steering with her knees, sipping a latte, and texting Molly about what a horrible kisser last night's Match date was, *bling*, a new message will pop up from the virtual nice guy.

"Hey, Janice. Your earlobes taste of honeydew and I want to nibble them."

That would start the juices flowing, no? There would be time-of-day settings within the app, so once dinnertime comes …

"Janice, I so want to throw you on the table, smear fudge pudding on your breasts and take you to O-town right now!"

Once it's bedtime, one final text from Virtual Phil before she snaps in the overnight charger:

"Sweet Janice, lie on your stomach, place a pillow under your hips, and clasp your hands together behind your back. I'm going to bind your wrists with a silk scarf and then devour you."

Would you like to rate my app now? Yes? No? Later? Stop dreaming, Silly Philly.

Listen to Your Crotch

It's not quite the Roxette version, but it applies. Don't use only your ears when he's calling for you. If you grant him access, you're also accepting the fact that oxytocin will be released, making releasing him back into the wild difficult (unless he's a horrible lover).

I don't have a vagina. I haven't even been able to borrow one lately. It's not great. Willy's not happy. Then again, I just saved 50% on dinner. Anywho, I found one online willing to have a conversation and enlighten me to the challenges of ownership.

"Hello, Miss … um … how should I refer to you?""You can call me Princess.""Fine. Princess, what's it like, dealing with penises and all.""Well, it depends what they are attached to.""Ah, so size doesn't matter.""I didn't say that. Let's say size doesn't matter if the penis is attached to a wonderful man. Otherwise, yes, size certainly helps.""Anything else? Shape? Color?""You're not listening. Sex isn't purely physical for me.""How about the balls?""Look, your hanging ovaries aren't of particular interest. Show me that you know how to be a gentleman. Do you know how to treat a lady properly?""More foreplay?""Yes, but that's not what I'm referring to. Do you open and hold doors?""Check.""Pay attention to me while you avoid checking out other princesses?""Check.""Communicate with me?""Check. Here I am—ears wide open.""Consistently treat me right and you'll have more sex than you can imagine.""I have quite an imagination.""It's no match. I have yet to meet a dick I can't outrun.""Lovely. How many orgasms do you have in a typical week?""As many as I want.""Come on.""I'd say ten or so. They're easy to come by. I had three last night.""Jesus. After one, I'm ready for a nap. Two and my internal organs ache. Three and it's time to charge the paddles.""Sounds like you need more exercise.""I exercise plenty. Take note of all the reading glasses around my house. Speaking of exercise, what types of visual aids do you employ to hasten the process?""Mental imagery.""Oh, like two eighteen-year-old catholic school girl virgins locked in sixty-nine?""Gross. No, like one kind man with great arms, deep blue eyes, and defined abs lying next to me on a blanket at a secluded beach in Mexico. We watch the setting sun, while sipping champagne and professing our love to one another.""All right. Expedia, here I come."

Although I am a veteran, I still have much to learn. The biggest challenge has been maintaining the patience to tolerate her changing moods, priorities, and preferences while adjusting my actions accordingly, so I can spend more time with her. If she's not in the mood, I must resist my urge to assume the blame and force my way back. Unlike penises, vaginas sometimes need alone time for introspection and healing. When access is re-granted, I must show adequate appreciation and proper care, taking responsibility for any oxytocin leaks I cause.

Manly?

The pussification of the American male is nothing short of disturbing. Where's Don Corleone when we need him to slap some sense into these whimpering messes? It's the number one complaint women have: Why can't men be manlier?

Most straight men already assume they are among the manliest beasts of the jungle. Not true. Dude, if your hands are softer than your woman's are, you might be a pantywaist. At the base of each finger should reside a callus or blister. Your forehead, knees, or elbows should have sports-related scars. If you moisturize (my brown buddies excluded), you probably sit to pee.

The entire cast of Bachelor Pad shaves their chests. (This includes Vienna, who I am convinced in none other than a slow-eyed demon, risen from Hades to torment and annoy.) Hey, Old Navy doll boys, you're supposed to have fucking fur. Razors don't belong around your nipples. I can't imagine the horror a woman has when she goes to caress her toy and finds stubble. I'm not saying there shouldn't be some hedge trimming. I'll also give a pass to men who apply conditioner to places other than their brain-closet. Go ahead and shave your balls, but stop with the chest waxing, will you?

Skinny jeans for men must be outlawed. Anyone wearing ankle-tight pants and Keds is in danger of sprouting a uterus. I saw a handsome young fellow enter my office (bar) last night wearing a deep V-neck and jeans so tight that I could see his labia. I wanted to take a picture and show him.

"Hey, Tinkerbell, have a look-see.""What?""This is you and note all of the people around staring at your ankles.""I guess they appreciate my taste in clothing.""Your taste is numb, dumb dumb. And, what's with the duck's ass on your head?""My stylist gave me the latest Twilight do.""It's not a do, it's a don't. Duck's asses belong on ducks. Also, before you do it, bangs belong on schnauzers.""But …""Shut it! Let me ask you something: Have you ever touched a boobie?""Yes, I have.""Nice, isn't it?""It doesn't suck.""You'd like to touch more boobies, wouldn't you?""Of course.""Then, lose the fucking martini and man up, will you?"

The bars around here are encouraging this behavior by showing golfing, surfing, and skating videos instead of actual sports. Here's what belongs on a bar's TV: men competing against men while inflicting injury, pain, or at least discomfort to the opponent. Riding a fucking kiddie bike down a ramp, doing three flips, and finishing with a bruised-sternum landing isn't manly, it's asinine.

I wonder what these emasculated men do around the house. I bet they can't change a flat, snake a clogged drain, or plant a shrubbery. They probably sleep until late morning in their fluffy sheets while cuddling their fuzzy bears. For breakfast, they foam up a latte and eat a scone. Then they flit away to their graphics designer job and listen to Maroon 5 while staring at their dual monitors.

Unless you ladies act now and refuse to grant access to such weenies, you'll soon be stuck changing your own oil and dating your vibrators.

Peel Me

I went to the usual Monday drinkerie, said hello to the usual rum-toting nurse, and received a kind word with my skinny pirate: "Somebody here thinks you're handsome." Well, that sort of unsolicited flattery is highly irregular and greatly appreciated. Then I realized that the amount of appreciation I had would be directly proportional to the attraction of the source.



"Who?"

"Somebody who works here."

"Is it you?" he asked confidently.

"I do think you're handsome but no, it wasn't I."

"Does this person have a penis?"

"No, silly."

"Phew. OK. Does this person outweigh me?"

"I doubt it."

"Is she blind?"

"How would she serve tables if she were blind?"

"Carefully?"

"She's cute, silly."

"Which one?"



Once I found out who it was I swelled with pride. Then my dark side rose and began planting the seeds of doubt.



I'm probably twenty years older than she is. So what? If she doesn't care why should I? She certainly is cute. I guess I should do a little research and make sure she has career aspirations, high credit scores, and good housekeeping habits. Right. Her lovely posterior renders the rest insignificant.



God, it would suck to be a woman. I can detect mate's worthiness from twenty paces. A woman must do all sorts of background checks before proceeding. She can't look at his hand and surmise Cockasaurus Rex will do. No. She must get to know the inside. Her digging only confuses the male and causes him to lie. He must not allow the tainted darkness to spoil his candy coating.



I tell myself it matters if the source of flattery is kind and smart, but it doesn't--not really. Well, sure, long-term it will matter, depending on how amazing the sex is. Right now, she thinks I'm handsome ("cute" is reserved for men under 40) and that's enough. As she peels away my layers, I hope it doesn't make her cry.

Scopes and Quotes

As I search for readers, I realize most of the ones I have found are women who also enjoy horoscopes and love quotes. Interesting. Perhaps I should shift my style from twisted reality to fluff. I can lather on thick coats of compliments and inspiration with the best of them. Still, when I practice this at a bar I usually hear, "Aw, that's nice. Now, please remove your hand from my butt cheek."

Who doesn't enjoy compliments?Leo is beautiful.
Aquarius is deeply concerned about the world we live in.
Scorpio is dedicated.
Gemini is playful.
Pisces is understanding.
Libra is romantic.
Taurus rewards friends lavishly.
Sagittarius is outgoing.
Capricorn will do anything to make you happy.
Virgo is writing this and rapidly dehydrating as he pukes all over his keyboard.


I wonder why men don't get into astrology to the same degree. It must be due to a combination of pussification-fobia and being jaded. When someone delivers compliments, I know they're typically expecting reciprocation. Depending on how lonely my penis is, I may indulge or resist.

"You have nice teeth.""Thank you.""Nice triceps too.""Really? Thanks. I work out.""I love those jeans.""Me too.""…""So …""Tell me something you like about me.""OK. You have wonderful taste in men—present company included.""All right.""Your turn.""I just gave you three compliments and that's all you can come up with?""Ah, well, there's another one: you're generous."

The love and sharing of inspirational quotes is another interesting pleasure for women. Men will have none of it. Men enjoy movie quotes. Inspirational quotes make our testes shrivel, unless they come from a movie about sports or with violence. Women hear Tom Cruise say, "You complete me" and gush; men hear it and say, "God, what a pint-sized pee-tard."

How often do you hear women quote Scarface? Never. I have never heard a woman utter, "Say hello to my little friend." I, on the other hand, deploy that ditty every time I stand at a urinal and then watch the man next to me scramble to zip up and run away.

Imagine you're taking Mom out to dinner and she orders dessert. You remind her of her high cholesterol and she responds, "… they may take our bread pudding, but they'll never take our freedom!" Not likely, is it? In fact, if you don't have useless nipples and an Adam's apple you probably have no idea from which movie that quote is derived. Braveheart! Jesus, woman!

I'm simply too jaded to gain inspiration from quotes, and that's sad. My inspiration comes in the form of credit card statements, to which I respond, "Fuck 'em! Fuck 'em in the ear! What are you talking about? Fuck 'em in the other ear!" Don't tell me you don't know that one? Seriously? You know "Funky tasting spunk," but you don't know Morrie's rant about Jimmy Conway in Goodfellas? Ugh.

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