What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Don't do this while doing it.


You’ve experienced embarrassment in the least convenient moments, haven't you? We all have. Shrug it off, champ. Chances are, your partner at the time has long forgotten about your snafu, although you can’t seem to shake the memory. At least your ex probably forgot your name so when the tale is told you’ll not be implicated directly.

“Oh my god, you just reminded me about that guy—Jeez, what was his name?—who used to squeak when he orgasmed.”
“No way.”
“It was a high pitched peep. I had to make sure he was behind me or I’d lose it.”
“Well, that’s better than farting.”
“What?”
“Oh yes. I had my man bust ass once while he was coming.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t the dog?”
“It was nasty.”
“Well, perhaps the vibration was enjoyable.”
“I told him to extract his manhood, wipe himself, and lose my number.”
“Ha!”

Name confusion causes embarrassment. That’s why my friends and I all employ the strategy of introducing ourselves when a lady is in tow with a buddy. It saves the mumbled attempt at covering the man’s ignorance, “This is my friend Mike. Mike, this is Lisamberthalou.”

How embarrassing is it to have the server return your tab and card with the innocuous line, “I’m sorry, sir. It seems we’re having a problem processing this card. Do you have another?” I try to use the plausible excuses including fraud alerts and worn magnetic strips. Still, my date knows I’ve probably tapped that fucker on other first dates. She anticipates my next move where I say I didn’t have a chance to get cash and wonder if she’d mind spotting me. A wise woman excuses herself, calls a taxi, and leaves me to wash dishes.

One of the most egregious errors I’ve ever made was leaving a knotted and loaded condom on a bedside table (on the side I rarely visit). No, my cats did not discover it, nor did my cleaning lady. I had friends visit and two of the wives asked for a home tour. That’s when we all discovered my little baby batter balloon. There was no escape. It’s unlikely I’ll be set up with any of their friends.

How about the “Ow-Fuck” toe cramp? Have you ever been visited by that little nuisance while you were on the receiving end of the most wonderful oral pleasure ever? It detracts from the fun, to say the least. You’re just about ready to explode your innards and suddenly your middle toe rises and turns left over your index toe, causing pain so intense that you’re tempted to hit yourself with a ball-peen hammer. It’s too late to chug water. Say goodbye to O-town, my friend.

You’re at an away game, preparing to take that first trip beneath the sheets. You wisely excuse yourself to the bedroom-adjacent bath and make sure all is well (lest a dryer sheet flies from your trousers). You decide to freshen by wiping some toothpaste using your finger-brush. Then, you sit to pee, as to not make noises or splash spots. (The fan doesn’t work.) Suddenly, diarrhea hits, but that’s not the problem. That tiny half-sheet remaining on the roll is your undoing. Might as well grab a hand towel and call it a night.

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