What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Yesss


Do you find yourself asked about your preference when you’re feeling indifferent? Sometimes having too many choices causes stress. We don’t need more stress, do we? We’re already stressed about whether to eat dinner or pay our mortgages. It’s unnecessary to make us choose from ten different salad dressings.

I’ve found a solution: Answer every “or” question with “yesss.” (You must extend the s-part, like a hissing snake, to have the proper effect. Oh, and smile when you do it.)

“For your salad, would you like Thousand Island, French, Blue Cheese, Ranch, or Raspberry Vinaigrette?”
“Yesss.”
“Huh?”
“Yesss.”
“Which dressing?”
“Yesss.”

See how easily I transferred the stress right back to the chick in the silly black apron? She's not controlling my blood pressure.

“Say, what type of man do you like?”
“I’m attracted to taller men. Dark skin is nice as is a full head of hair. The toned and athletic look works too. He has to have a good job, be responsible with his finances, and act like a gentleman at all times.”
“Nice.”
“So, what type of woman are you attracted to?”
“Yesss.”
“No, I mean like blonde or brunette?”
“Yesss.”
“Tall or petite?”
“Yesss.”
“Do you prefer the younger ones or women closer to your age?”
“Yesss.”

I don’t want to choose. I love them all ... unless I don’t.

“Are you ready for another round?”
“Indeed.”
“What were you drinking?”
“Vodka and vodka.”
“Funny. Which vodka?”
“Yesss.”
“I mean, do you prefer Kettle One? Chopin? Absolut?”
“Yesss.”
“Fine. Do you like it up or on the rocks?”
“Yesss.”

Stress transfer successful. Ladies, you rarely have no preference, yet you cause problems by claiming you have no preference when actually you do.

“Do you care where we sit?”
“Oh, not at all. Pick a spot, honey.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep. Anywhere’s fine.”
“OK, how about here?” he asked, while sliding into the booth he knew he’d soon be sliding out of.
“Hm. Well, it’s a little drafty here.”
“All right. How about over there?”
“That’s fine. I really don’t care.”
He tilts his head as he holds her chair, waiting for the inevitable.
“Actually, honey, would you mind if we sat on the other side of the restaurant? This side gets too much traffic because it’s close to the kitchen.”
“If you had a preference you could have saved us aggravation by sharing it.”
“It’s not really a preference. We can sit here if it’s that important to you.”
“No, it’s not important where we sit as much as when.”
“Well, don’t get an attitude now. I told you I don’t care where we sit.”
“Ugh.”

My new strategy will keep these forehead lines from deepening. I’ll answer in the affirmative and tolerate whatever comes my way.

“Do you want to go upstairs and fool around a little or should we have more wine?”
“Yesss.”
“Do you like it better when I’m on top or when you’re behind me?”
“Yesss.”
“Do you prefer the lace underwear or should I go with the thong?”
“Yesss.”
“Should we go hiking or walk the dogs?”
“Nooo.”

Can't Drink That


It has been a bumpy road to the Majors. Our livers have gone through much, haven’t they? Oh, come on. You must recall such indulgences as Fire Water, Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill, and chartreuse (*gag*). When I think of all the things I’ve put my body through it amazes me that I can remember my name, last four digits, and where I left my damn keys.

The next time you walk into a bar, take note of the bottles on the top shelves and the dust they’ve accumulated. In the middle, you’ll find my buddy, Galliano. He’s taller than the rest and neglected more than most. Mix him with cola and you get something close to root beer that will, indeed, make you suicidal if you overdose. He gets points for a pretty bottle. He gets lonely because of the icky yellow liquid within.

An early favorite of mine was sloe gin. Jesus, that’s some gross shit right there. Yes, I’ve had a sloe gin fizz or fifty (and no, not while doing a limbo). I haven’t seen it around lately. It had a saturation of red that would instantly destroy any garment it came in contact with. I probably have a pink, pissed-off liver.

One day, a kind bartender turned me on to something much less vile: the Singapore Sling. This hangover seed was a funky combination of cherry-flavored brandy, gin, and sour mix. It was served in a frosted, tall glass with a big straw and a cherry. Yum. Then again, after a half dozen of those, my nose went numb and I parked on the lawn.

I tried to save money during my college years by indulging in such delicacies as Malt Apple Duck and Tango. (I apologize if I’ve just caused you mouth-puke a bit.) The former came in a 40-ounce bottle and tasted indeed like apple beer. The latter was what you’d get if you were foolish enough to mix cheap vodka with Tang. I drank a few of those my sophomore year and learned how to release fluid from both ends simultaneously. Don’t even act like you’ve never.

There was a club back in the who-gives-a-shit 80s that featured a Thursday night deal that probably wasn’t a great idea. It was $10 for all you can drink all night—anything you want. If I were the seasoned pro I am now, I would opt for something velvety on the rocks. As a twenty-something dingbat, I ordered Black Russians and lost consciousness. Who drinks Black Russians? Dumb white Italians, that’s who.

Before anyone came up with more vodka flavors than Baskin Robbins, we had three choices: vodka, cherry vodka, and (God forbid) lime vodka. If you drank lime vodka, you had definitely given up on life and were choosing a gutter nap. Anyone who polished off fifths of that neon green nonsense must now be pushing around a rusty shopping cart while yelling at imaginary beings.

So, now we’re left with micro-brews and SoCo lime. B&J and Zima are fading away. We’ll never pass around a bottle of Giacobazzi again. Sad.

Friday, August 26, 2011

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.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

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.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

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.