What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Friday, April 15, 2011

I Am Not a Slut


      It would have been much wiser for me to publish under a pen name—perhaps Peter Dragon. Now, after I dip my toes in the dating pool, the object of my desire types my name into Google and assumes I’m keeping an autobiography online. My sexual conquests are grossly exaggerated in print. Honest. They have to be or you’d be yawning. Seriously. I haven’t penetrated anyone since March 2.
      If you look closely, you realize I write about not getting laid more than I write about getting laid. It’s easier and funnier to fail. I’m that kid in Little League who steps up to the plate, while parents begin checking their phones and outfielders start their way to the dugout. Sometimes I make a connection, but it usually goes foul. *sigh*
      I know, I know, I know—“Settle down and find yourself a nice woman. The sex will come.” Easier said than wed.
      “Hi, Sweetness. I hope you are having a wonderful day.”
      “Oh, hi. I’ve been checking out your musings online …”
      Uh-oh. “And?”
      “… and it sounds like you’re a player. Are you?”
      “No, silly, that’s just fiction.”
      “Really?”
      “Of course it is. My sex life is as interesting as Chloe and Lamar’s perfume. In other words, it stinks of artificially inflated egos.”
      “How can I be sure?”
      “Here, look at my penis. No scars, no friction burns, no condom marks … this is one pristine peter.”
      “OK, you can put that away now.”
      “No. Now, you tell Willy you’re sorry.”
      “People are beginning to stare.”
      “I don’t care. Willy has gotten over his shyness. Yesterday I successfully deployed him next to another dude at a urinal trough.”
      “Funny, he looks kind of shy.”
      “He’s just turtling because it’s chilly. Now, say you’re sorry for calling him a slut. He’s sensitive, especially the tip.”
      “I bet.”
      It’s quite a balance, actually. If I come off as a player, women will make me wait forever to prove I’m not. If I come off as someone approaching involuntary revirgination (Yay, a new word!), then I seem desperate. What’s a boy with his pet Willy to do?
      No matter how much sex I am receiving, I could use more. That’s universal, right? It’s natural for me to be out seeking mating opportunities. Just like fishing, it’s also natural for me to exaggerate my catches. I bait with fine wine and humor, but usually carry my pole and tackle box from Lake Singlehood all by my lonesome—gone hungry again.
      So, don’t believe everything you read (including this). When you go out tonight and spot that guy sitting at the bar with an empty seat on either side of him and a golden puddle of courage in the rocks glass in front of him, it could be me. My imagination can fill those seats with loose women although, in reality, they’re more likely to be filled with similarly starving anglers. We’ll boast about tales of the big ones we reeled in back in the day. As men, we’re skilled at suspending belief for entertainment’s sake.

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