Phil Torcivia's Blog, page 9

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 3

"Did I s-s-stutter?"

"No, but I don't recall what a hockey bang is ... and you scratched me. I think my nipple is bleeding."

"Don't be a baby. You call yourself a fan, Silver? Get up."



Bea climbs off of me and I stand. My jeans are uncomfortably tight with the recent addition of blood to the area ... and my nipple smarts, but I don't want to rub it as that would be extra creepy. Bea turns away from me and reaches over her desk toward her speakerphone. This exposes her underwear, which feature the Montreal Canadiens logo. Hmm, this crazy chick really is a fan. I prefer orange and black panties, but this will do. Bea removes the receiver and presses a button.



*Beep*

"What's with the phone, Sugarbone?"

"You have two minutes," she informs me as she shoves me backward.

"Hey, play nice!"

"Pansy."

"Fucking psycho."

"What did you call me?" she grabs the sleeves of my T-shirt and yanks.

"So, that's the way you want to play. Fine."



I grab her around the waist and pull her close. She slaps me and grabs my shirt again. Great, now my ear is ringing.



"Ouch! We'll have no more of that, young lady."



I pull her dress over her head but it snags on her hair and earrings. Well, at least her arms are tied up. Still, she struggles to slap me flailing her arms like a gator. I chuckle.



"Yes, baby. That's it. Wait, are you laughing at me, Silver?"

"Maybe."

"Take off my panties and get inside me ... now!"



She writhes as I pull off her suck-y hockey team panties. Fuck Guy Lafleur. She's soaked. I quickly undo my jeans and dive into her lusciousness. I can feel her insides quiver as I bury myself. Suddenly, I hear a voice from her speakerphone.



"One minute remaining; one minute left in the first period."

I arch up. "What the fuck is that?"

"It's Eric. You'd better hurry, Silver."

"God damn it, woman! You can't give a guy time limits like that. It's too much pressure."



I look down at her and smirk again about her dress tying up her arms. She reaches up regardless and pinches my sore nipple.



"Ouch!"

"Deeper. Please. I need you--all of you."



I reach down and pull up her legs. Grabbing her behind the kneecaps, I push her knees toward her shoulders and grind to new depths. She moans.



"Thirty seconds; thirty seconds remaining."

"Wait a second. Can Eric hear us?"

"Shut up, Silver. Shoot. Hurry."

"He is gay, right?"

"Time is running out." She gently touches my nipple, warning me.

"Fine."



I slam away at her. She's so wet and lovely. Time stands still. I shoot ... a siren rings out and the office door flies open. Eric runs in and pulls us apart.



(more to come)

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 2

The interview begins.



"May I call you Beatrice?"

"No. You may call me Bea."

"All right. Bea, as you can see, this NDA has been signed by me."

"Would you like more chai tea?"

"Thank you, no, and touché, my sweetpea. I do have a question about the ground rules before we begin."

"Yes?"

"It's odd not being able to look you in the eyes. Where shall I look?"

"How about at my lips."



Bea licks her glistening red lips sensually. I melt.



"Holy shit."

"What did you say?" Bea asks as she leans forward.

"Um, sorry." I can't believe I just swore in front of the most influential woman in the county.

"I have this thing about swear words."

"I apologize. I won't let it happen again."

"Why? I didn't say it's a bad thing, did I?"

"Huh?" Sexy and strange.

"Look, Silver, although I don't use swear words, I'm not your typical lady. When a lover uses coarse language it makes me damp down there."

"That's fucking hot!" I try my luck.

"You're not a lover, Silver... not yet."

Yet?! "Oh. OK. I know you're a busy woman, so let's begin."



I wriggle uncomfortably in my chair, pull my reading glasses from my shirt collar, slide them to the base of my nose, and flip open my legal pad.



"Don't do that."

"Bea, I can't see the questions I've prepared without my glasses."

"Don't touch your nose."

"What?" I do it again.

"Stop. I'm warning you, Silver."

"Does it gross you out? Sorry."

"No, it turns me on."

"My nose?" Well, that's a first.

"No, the act of touching it."

"Do you want to touch my nose?" What a goddamned freak!

"What? No."

"I'm sorry. Have I missed something obvious?"

"You don't understand my world. It's nothing you've ever been exposed to. I have certain needs and fetishes, and I can't expect you to comprehend them."

"Nose fetishes?"

"That's one. I'll try to explain it to you, but you're not writing about this. Agreed?"

"Agreed." I slowly scratch the tip of my nose.

"Oh, my god! Please stop."

"Either tell me or I'll do it again."

"Your nose reminds me of my big beefy clitoris and when you touch it, it's like you're touching me."

"There's no fucking way your clit is as big as my Italian schnoz." I exclaim as I pinch the tip.



Bea slaps her hands down on her desk, stands up, and glares at me.



"You just used the F-word again."

"Bet your kinky fucking ass I did."



She flies over the table knocking me and the chair over. She's on top of my in full mount (as they say in MMA). I'm instantly erect as she balls my shirt up in each fist.



"You're going to hockey bang me right here, right now, Silver, or I'm going to yell rape and have my assistant beat you to a bloody puddle."

"Hockey bang?"



(to be continued)

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 1

My name is Mormon Silver, and women leave their marks on me. They distract me and drive me crazy; that causes chin frosting as well as my tendency to improperly separate colors from whites. I need to understand the effect they have, so I tweet a local billionairess, Beatrice Plastique.



@BPlastique, I'm enchanted by you and I'd love to interview you for my blog. #whynot



I never expected a reply. Then ...



@MormonSilver, I'm tied up at the moment, but I'll fit you in soon. #whysure



I bite my bottom lip and feel a twitch in my board shorts. She's only twenty-seven whereas I'm in the late autumn of my life at fifty. Would I have an actual shot at the legend?



Her assistant called me and set up a late morning appointment. He asked me to arrive early since I would need to review and sign an NDA before meeting with the blond goddess. I hardly slept as I dreamed of sunset strolls on a Tahitian beach with Ms. Plastique on my arm. It could happen. Stay positive, Mormon.



The morning of that fateful day I scrubbed and trimmed a little extra, just in case. I ran through three spritzes of my secret weapon, Acqua di Gio, and then carefully selected black boxer briefs (one never knows), indigo jeans, a Hugo Boss black T-shirt, and my signature silver argyle socks. I trimmed my nails and applied Crest Whitestrips. Would she be kissing me?



When I arrive at her office in Rancho Santa Fe, her assistant greets me. He's chiseled with a full head of high hair and olive skin. He scans me head to shoe and sniffs. What a pretentious pufta.



"I love your jeans. Are they Nudie?"

"Oh, thank you. Yes, in fact they are."

"Spin for me, darling."

"Um ... OK."

"Wonderful. My name is Eric. I'm one of Ms. Plastique's personal assistants."

Fine, I misjudged him.

"Nice meeting you, Eric."



Eric hands me a sheet of paper entitled "Interview Non-Disclosure Agreement," and guides me to the waiting area.



"Please review this, initial each line, and sign at the bottom. Can I fetch you a chai tea latte?"



Wow, somebody did his homework; that's my third-favorite beverage right behind bourbon and a woman's love nectar.



"That would be awesome. Thank you."



The NDA is brief but it contains curious clauses.




Interviewer will not look at interviewee's eyes, breasts, or feet unless directed by interviewee.
Interviewer will allow interviewee to touch him as she pleases without disclosing it in his blog. Yes!
Interviewer will answer honestly questions concerning his sexual stamina and history. Wait a minute, who's interviewing whom?
Interviewee reserves the right to bathe interviewer and demand he wear the cologne and robe of her choice. Well, I am a dirty boy.
Interviewee enjoys gentle hair pulling, neck nibbling, light spanking, nipple clamps, indirect clitoral pressure, and hockey playoffs. He shoots; he scores! Go Flyers!



I sign and nod to Eric. He picks up the phone, presumably checking with my princess, hangs up, and then smiles at me while pointing at her office door.



"Ms. Plastique will see you now. Please go right in."



I hand Eric the signed NDA.



"Actually, I need you to give that to Ms. Plastique."

"All right."



I tap once on the door and walk in, trying to avoid staring at the places she specified. I catch the scent of Chanel and then see her sitting behind a glass desk staring at her Mac. God, her hair is golden, her skin is glowing, and her square-rimmed glasses are so sexy. I must have her.



"Have a seat, Mr. Silver. I'll be right with you."

"Please call me Mormon," I insist as I extend the NDA and a hand to shake. She ignores my gesture and smirks.

"Sit down, Mormon ..."

I obey.

"... and take off your shoes."

I obey.

She peeks under her desk.

"Silver socks. Interesting."

"Thank you."



(to be continued)

Cat calls don't even work on cats.

It seems I need to lecture my brothers once again about how not to treat a lady.



I took my casual lunchtime stroll through downtown San Diego. There's usually a variety of characters milling about and today was no exception. The first man who stood out was an impeccably dressed fellow. He wore a gray suit with a purple fedora and purple crocodile skin shoes. I'll not describe his skin tone because it's irrelevant; dickheads come in all colors. Across the street from him was a fine young lady, dressed as one would expect on a warm spring day. I noticed. He noticed. I kept my inside voice inside. He let his out.



"Yo, shawty. How'd you like to come strip at my club?"



Naturally, she ignored his comment and sped up her pace.



I thought, In the entire history of mankind, has that ever worked? Has a man ever yelled anything toward a woman across the street that resulted in (and I'll widen the target here) a friendly discussion?



Nope. It doesn't happen. In fact, if she were to respond in a positive manner it would be absolutely brilliant.



"Hey there, handsome. What's that you say? You like what you see?"

"Yes, ma'am, I do."

"And what's this about a club you mentioned?"

"I am a proprietor at a gentleman's club."

"Well, blow lilac scented breezes across my baby peach. It must be my lucky day."

"It is."

"I just happen to be in the hunt for a new occupation and as luck would have it, a job falls right into my glitter-laced lap. Where, do tell, shall I apply?"

"Um, well ..."

"Say, why don't you take me to lunch and let me blow you, just to get that out of the way. Then we can talk business."



Men, I implore you: Don't volley comments across streets toward women because your service will not be returned. It doesn't matter how sincere you are or how flattering the comment is. She doesn't want to hear it shouted at her. Before you get any other cockamamie ideas, don't hold a boombox over your head playing 80s love songs either.



Here is what you may do, politely:


Smile at her.
Tip your cap.



These are borderline creepy, but acceptable as long as she's not a minor:


Ask is she's familiar with the area and if she can direct you to her favorite restaurant.
Remark to her how her loveliness just made your day.



If her reaction is positive, you may proceed with further questioning, but once she objects, beat it.



Here, I'll try a cat call on my cat, Symon.



"Yo, Symon. Get you furry little ass up here."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to."

"Insufficient reason. Back to sleep."

"Hey! Get up here now, you handsome ball of orangeness."

"Do you have food?"

"No."

*yawn*

"I am your master. Obey me."

"You should have gotten a dog, Master. Nighty night now."



See?

Tips for filing your dating returns.

I usually begin my tax return preparation as far in advance as I do Christmas shopping. A visible deadline adds enough pressure for me to excel. As I filled in all those zeros and minus signs, I wondered what my return would look like if I tallied all of my dating adventures. See if yours is similar.



A. Business Name - The Nice Guy's Frustrating Hunt for a Human Bed Warmer (an infertile one with boobs, preferably)



B. Address - Upstairs in bed with a laptop, reading glasses, and fur balls left behind by two annoying felines.



C. Method of Accounting - Other, introversion causes wallet to open regularly.



D. Fiscal Year - 2011


Extension Requested - Sometimes, but those women are greedy.



Part I - Income


Hair Pulls - worthless.
Toothbrushes - worthless.
Various Facial Creams - well, a few more creases in my face and maybe.
Fancy Soaps and Shampoos - you don't want to know how I'll use them.
Loofahs - for scraping bug guts from Jeep.
Kitchen Utensils and Containers - relegated to cat food duty.
Wine - recycled: will bring to next woman's house.
Clothing Advice - worthless and ignored.
Romantic Comedy DVDs - beer coasters.
Earrings - cat toys.



Part II - Expenses


Online Dating - why do I never learn and keep fucking doing this?
Drinks - alcohol abuse, if you ask me.
Dinners - amazing anything gets inhaled while so many words are exhaled.
Movie Tickets - so brutal that I need to sneak a flask into the theater.
Vasectomy - the best $800 ever spent.
Acqua di Gio Cologne - two spritzes on chest, one on nay-nay.
Gym Membership - due to caloric intake increases from wine, dessert, and lattes.
Gas - that's all right, I'd rather drive unless she has a tank and a helmet for me.
Writing Time Lost - from answering numerous inane Facebook and text messages.
Sanity - major loss as I futilely attempt to figure out what she wants.
Sleep - she breathes funny and moans, which would be fine if it included my name instead of her ex's.
Hotel Room Upgrades - my room requires a bed, shower, and toilet; hers requires comfort.
Cold Toes - I usually sleep with socks on, but she made fun of me.
Laundry - sheets and towels laced with love goo.
T-shirts, Boxers, Hoodies, etc. - borrowed means donated.



Part III - Net Income


Really? Are you serious? What income? If I could find a way to make money from dating, I'd run for president.

Love potions to make your mouth water.

What's cooking, Sugarcake? Have you ever experimented by combining various ingredients into a magic potion to satisfy your hunger?



My friends and I began doing this in grade school. We raided the spice rack and bottom refrigerator shelves and began mixing our little spells to cause icy roads and a "snow day" off from classes. Once we got into high school we tried different vitamin combinations to stop the acne parade and help us grow enough muscle to avoid wedgies on the bus. Then, in college, we mixed the cheapest alcohol and flavorings (yes, Tang and grain alcohol) to get us higher faster.



Now, we're done experimenting. We all need relationship treats, so I've scanned the archives of famous witches and found magical concoctions sure to do the trick.



More-Than-One-Minute Man


Take one ordinary fellow. Combine with sexy video for three minutes then, once he is preheated, place him in the shower. Add some gentle shampoo as to not irritate the pee hole. Leave him be for ten minutes then remove him. Dry him off and allow him to "stand" for thirty minutes while reclining on the sofa with Sportscenter. Add some lingerie to yourself and a cold beer to him. Enjoy!

Blind Date Cut Short


Take one not-so-attactive man who your best-y insisted was cute. Place him across from you (Jesus, not next to you) at a wine bar table. Add subtle insults about his style, hairline, and tiny hands. Point to the wall behind him to cause distraction as you unlock your phone on your lap. Speed text your mother to call you immediately. While waiting for the call, tell him how gross you find oral sex to be, how much you hate football, and how you stabbed your ex for smiling at a server once ... once. When the phone rings, show him that it's your mother, tell him you "have to get this," take the call outside, return with a feigned look of distress, tell him you must go, and leave.

Young Stud Steamer


Take one man under twenty-five. Ignore the high hair, dirty nails, and his mother's Volvo with the surfboard strapped to the roof. Add shots, shots, shots, shots-shots, shots, shots, shots (with optional fist pumping and chasers, depending on how much of a pussy he is). Add your credit card; nobody said this would be cheap. Remove his annoying friends by setting them up with your daughter's annoying friends. Ask him to walk you out to your car. Check him for firmness then unwrap and consume him as soon as possible in any dark area. When he asks for your number, laugh and drive away.

 Business Trip Dip


Find a conference in San Diego, Las Vegas, or Phoenix and tell your spouse you hate to do it but you must attend. (No conference to be found? Make one up.) Two nights should suffice. Night one is for scouting; night two is for naughtiness. Mix in other spouses involved in bland marriages who also seek spice without involving attorneys. Add lots of alcohol and smoke 'em if you have 'em. Like a lost puppy, follow cute person to room. Knock some sense into each other. Return home rejuvenated with an entertaining story to share with your friends.



I hope you enjoy your little treats, Sweetness.

Sometimes it's not good to have options.

As we tipped back a few sudsy beverages and watched the Padres blow another game last night, my pal Hank lamented about his single life being complicated. I thought only relationships were complicated. Heck, I'm single and that's simple and straightforward. When I sleep alone I prefer to be by myself. What could be complicated about single life?



"The problem is I have options."

"That sounds like a good thing, Hank."

"Not always. You see, people in relationships have limited options: remain faithful or stray."

"Right."

"I, on the other hand, have no girlfriend yet I have multiple partners who play different roles."

"Do tell."

"Well, I have Cindy who will have sex with me at the drop of a text, but will pressure me into taking her on dates."

"A reasonable request, no?"

"No. I don't like her that way and I can't justify the expenditure when freebies abound."

"Interesting. Next?"

"Option two is Pam who will have sex with me and leave without demands."

"Well, she sounds like a better option ... for you."

"Right, except she's married."

"Ah, that does complicate matters."

"Then I have option three who is Jessica, a delicious young specimen I have yet to bed."

"Why not?"

"She's a cocktail server at one of my favorite establishments."

"That Jessica? This establishment? Dude, she's twenty years younger."

"Hence the complication. Well, that plus the fact that she probably doesn't want to have sex with me."

"Then why is she considered an option?"

"Because she parties hard and if I can manage to stuff enough tequila into her, she might issue me a day pass."

"Doubtful, but you give her that old college freshman try."

"Option four is an ex-girlfriend, Gina, who misses me."

"I assume she's an ex for a good reason."

"The quality of the reason is indirectly proportional to the length of  my dry spell."

"Wouldn't going there be a step backward, Professor?"

"Dude, haven't you ever had make-up sex? It's right up there with hitting a walk-off grand slam."

"Yes, I have, actually. In this case, though, you're not actually making up, are you?"

"Oh, hell no. But, she doesn't need to know that, right?"

"And here I am with two options--righty or lefty--while a swine like you needs a fucking abacus."

"Don't hate the player."



Hank can keep his complications. I don't mind watching his game since it's entertaining. I just have no desire to play. I'm an old clown who has retired from juggling vaginas.

Welcome to the Cirque du Pool Noodles

Load the kidlets into your SUV and come on down to this lovely resort. Oh, don't mind me. I'm just a childless curmudgeon who decided a peaceful respite might might get me closer to Cape Sanity. Silly man. You probably won't even notice me sitting near the pool bar with my Kindle and SPF 1000. Why would you?



Ah, here you are, finally. Welcome!



I watch your clan as you approach with a human swarm of strollers, bags, children, cheese snacks, and flotation devices. You blend in perfectly with the rest of the entertainment:


Infants with chubby legs and wide-rimmed hats who can't wait to be dunked into the pool so they can relieve themselves therein ... kind of like their grandparents.
Two-year-olds coated in white glop who run around the pool like drunks in an obstacle course while you tell them (twelve times this hour) to "stop running or else."
The four-year-old boy crying as you drag him around by one arm
because he wants to leave and will cry when you try to leave because he wants to stay.


Six-year-old girls with blue lips and crooked goggles who cling to the side of the pool and ask you to watch.
The six-year-old son your husband decides to toss around the pool like a javelin. Don't worry, it's not technically abuse,
regardless of the horror you see in your offspring's face as he flails
through the air into a belly flop and lung full of chlorine. What's the harm in a few emotional and physical scars? They build character.


Eight-year-old boys who you have armed with pool noodles--especially the clever, new ones that they can fill with water and shoot at people who don't want to get wet. Neat-o!
Ten-year-old girls who are bored.
Teenagers who pick their zits and check their phones incessantly.



Don't infer from my sunglasses, earbuds, and the line of beers under my chair that I don't enjoy your little circus. It reminds me why I had my man-ovaries disconnected. You're a natural ring leader; I'm not cut out for the job. I'd be sedating the circus midgets and locking them in the room so I could burn in peace.



I see you've inspired a woman who proudly parades her baby bump around the pool with a bikini tucked beneath the flesh-colored medicine ball with an out-y. Her children would certainly not act like yours. They'll behave.



Well, that was a fun weekend. Let's do it again real soon. If you ever need a babysitter, you know who not to call.

Top things that get your juices flowing.

It's odd how far apart the genders are when it comes to what gets us in the mood. Occasionally those roads intersect (like on Tequila Drive), but most of the time what gets one going gets the other scratching a scalp.



Take, for instance, porn. Now, the women who speak to me of this may indeed be lying, but what I usually hear is disgust around how unrealistic most scenes are. Men rarely meet a porn they don't like, as long as a brother's nasty bunghole is obscured. We certainly have preferences. There's always a certain position in the clip that we consider to be our money-shot. (For those unaware, the money-shot is that brief moment of ecstasy before we need a towel and a nap.) The money-shot for me is the seated position with woman on top facing away from the camera. As the imaginary director, I prefer the scene to be clear of ugly tattoos, hemorrhoids, and ball scars.



Women sometimes find porn useful as long as it contains romance and intrigue instead of a woman giving a horrible operatic performance while an ape tries to pound her hips through the bed frame. Men care not of plot.



Gifts can put a person in the mood. This can include flowers, chocolates, jewelry, clothing, or a bullet vibrator. Heck, I once was treated to good loving for performing a simple household chore (emptying the dishwasher). A man never really knows when his deed will create a spark or spray of asbestos. Worse, there's no consistency. I emptied that fucker four subsequent times without being granted similar treats.



For men, gifts aren't necessary to get us in the mood. I appreciate a nice bottle, Padres tickets, and a soft T-shirt, but those items are insignificant to my little friend, Willy. However, seeing you emerge from the bedroom in one of my shirts barely covering your biscuit certainly does the trick for both Willy and me. If you happen to be carrying two wine glasses, a fine bottle of red, and have glittery cleavage, I doubt we'll make it past the first five ounces.



Since I write books, I wonder if a reader ever slyly undoes her top Joe's Jeans button, slides her free hand southerly, and brings herself physically in the direction my words point. I'd be flattered. Heck, I'm blushing as I write about it. I'd have to admit I'm suddenly in the mood. Be right back ...

Manners you must teach him.

Mothers usually assume the responsibility for teaching their sons proper manners. This is an important part of child rearing, which is sadly wasted as the boy-child grows into a man-child. I fear there's a gap in the training that causes the problem. Manners are more like rollerblading than biking in that lapses cause pain.



Take, for example, the basic manner of politely saying please and thank you.



CHILD: "I want a cookie."

MOTHER: "Is that how you ask?"

CHILD: "Can I have a cookie?"

MOTHER: "I'm sure you can, but the proper question is are you allowed to have a cookie, isn't it?"

CHILD: "Fine. May I have a cookie?"

MOTHER: "What's the magic word?"

CHILD: "Abraca-fucking-dabra?"

MOTHER: "What?! Who did you hear that word from?"

CHILD: "Who or whom?"

MOTHER: "Go to your room, you little wisenheimer."



Note how that same conversation has skewed twenty years hence.



HUSBAND: "I want to have sex."

WIFE: "Is that how you ask?"

HUSBAND: "Can we have sex tonight?"

WIFE: "I'm sure we can, but I'm not sure I've been put in the proper mood."

HUSBAND: "Fine. May I pour you some pinot and give you a foot massage?"

WIFE: "What's the magic word?"

HUSBAND: "Nordstroms?"

WIFE: "Yes, but there's another word, isn't there?"

HUSBAND: "Aw, fuck it. I'll just go beat off. Thanks for nothing."



I struggled with table manners as an adolescent. I held my fork improperly, had my elbows on the table, played with my food, and kicked my little brother in the ankles when he tried to drink milk. Still, it seems I have improved.



PHIL: "These tacos are da bomb. Pass the Tapatio, Sugarbee-o."

FUTURE EX: "The what?"

PHIL: "Hot sawse."

FUTURE EX: "Your Philly accent comes out when you say sauce. Say it again, this time with the magic word and I'll gladly hand it to you."

PHIL: "Can I please have the bottle of orange, peppery goo?"

FUTURE EX: "You're no fun. Can or may?"

PHIL: "I can take you back to my place tonight, but I may not, as you are starting to annoy me."

FUTURE EX: "You're a writer. You should appreciate proper grammar and manners."

PHIL: "You're a woman. You should be making me dinner, doing the dishes, and then quietly juicing my penis."

FUTURE EX: "Asshole."

PHIL: "Please?"