What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Monday, April 30, 2012

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 14

My mother staggers and nearly faints at Bea's revelation. I would catch her, but I'm stunned as well.

"What a wonderful surprise!"
"Isn't it?" Bea concurs as she gives my mother a hug. I scratch my head.
"Let me see the ring," my mother begs.
"Oh, we haven't picked one out yet."
"Perfect. Have you decided on a date?"
"No, Mother, I just proposed last week."
"Well, come on in you two. You must be starved. Neal, your brother has some fantastic news."

My brother emerges from the family room shakes my hand and gives me the "bro" hug.

"Neal, this is my ... eh, hem ... fiancée, Beatrice Plastique."
"You sly devil you. I've never known you to be able to keep a secret."
"Right, that's your thing, bro."

Neal goes to shake Bea's hand, but she stops him.

"We're practically family now. Families hug."

Neal hugs her and gives me the silent "not bad" look with his lips. I shrug.

"So, Bea, how did the old man manage to snag such a young beauty?"
"Oh, your brother is quite charming."
"It doesn't bother you that he's eighty?"
"Nice, dickhead."
"Language!" my mother yells from the kitchen as she unwraps enough food for an army.
"Have you ever been to San Diego, Neal?"
"Can't say that I have."
"Well, the boys out that way have priorities that begin with surfing and skateboarding and end with drinking microbrews and eating cheap Mexican food."
"Surely, they'd make room for loveliness such as yourself."
"They have little space, considering all the roommates and sloppy pickup trucks. Your brother is sophisticated, mature, and he doesn't play games ... much."
*cough*

We chat around the table for an hour or so while nibbling. Bea fits here too. What should I do? Mom says she has my childhood room upstairs all set for us.

"Honey, why don't we unpack and take a little nap. Flights always wear me out," Bea suggests.
"Good idea," my mother agrees, "you two rest up and we'll have a nice dinner around seven."

I open the upstairs door for Bea and grab the suitcases. She wiggles up the steps, slowly, teasing me. I lean forward and bite her ass. She shrieks and giggles.

"So, this is the room you grew up in?"
"Indeed. Had my first orgasm right there on that bed."
"Ah. Who, pray tell, was the lucky girl?"
"She's right here, actually. Let me introduce you, wife-to-be."

I spank her.

"Ha, ha, Rosy Palmer--a woman's biggest rival."
"Yep."
"So, you've never had a woman in your childhood bed?"
"Nope. Fantasized about it a lot."
"Mm, let's change that right now," she insists as we undress in seconds and go at it like teens.

It seems so naughty with my family downstairs. That's the brand of danger and excitement she has brought into my life. I'm growing addicted to it ... to her. Surely, she's playing games with me about the engagement, but a lifetime with my kinky Lovergirl might not be so bad.

(sometimes control is best relinquished)

Sunday, April 29, 2012

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 13

Great conversation with "The Hammer" made the flight go quickly. My disappointment about not having my love with me returned when we landed. When I came through the jetway, there was a man waiting with a sign reading "Mr. Silver." Really? A limo, perhaps? I approached him.

"Are you here for Mormon Silver?"
"Indeed. Come with me, Sir. May I take your bag?"
"All right."

That saves me a car rental, I guess. When we exit the airport, his limousine is parked at the curb. The driver hits the remote, opens the trunk, stows my carry-on, comes to the side, and opens the rear door for me. I could get used to this lifestyle.

I duck and step in. There she is.

"Hello, Uncle M."
"What? How did you beat me here?"
"Is that excitement or disappointment I detect in your tone?"
"Oh, definitely excitement." I give Bea quite a squeeze. She fits so nicely. "Before I forget, thank you for the upgrade and it was amazing meeting my idol."
"Who?"
"Don't play coy with me, Lovergirl."
"Honestly. I have no idea whom you're referring to."
"Dave Shultz?"
Nothing.
"Flyers? Broad Street Bullies? Enforcer?"
"I know who he is. Was he on the flight?"
"In the seat next to me. He shared some amazing stories."
"How serendipitous."
"And, now you're here ... with me."
"I am."

The driver pulls away and Bea reaches across my lap to press a button on the console raising the window between us and the driver. Her scent drives me wild and her positioning gives me the urge to spank her. So, I do.

"Ow!" she exclaims as she looks back at me mischievously.
"You've been naughty; you deserve a spanking."
"I do."

I lift her skirt and peel down her undies.

"He can't see, can he?"
"No, silly. And, I really don't care if he can."

A few tiny spanks and she arches into me. I caress the area after each strike, work my way to the middle, and slide in a finger. She's so wet already. Can I fuck her here? I so want to.

"Take me, Uncle M," she begs as she starts unbuckling my belt. It's a ninety minute ride to the house I was raised in, and we use most of the time pleasing each other. As we regain our composure in the last ten miles, Bea can't escape, so I ask her.

"Bea, tell me something about you. I'm honestly crazy about you and I know almost nothing, other than you're a gorgeous billionaire hockey fan."
"Thank you. Actually, I'm not a billionaire, my love. A few years ago, maybe. No longer. The markets turned and I'm on the brink of bankruptcy."
"I'm sorry."
"Have I scared you away?"
"Bea, nothing you can say would scare me. I've fallen for you. Can't you tell?"
"I've fallen for you too. Are you OK with this?"
"You being here? Are you kidding? Hell yes!"
"OK, now you tell me something: What is your ultimate fantasy?"
"I'm sure it's not nearly as exciting as yours, but I've always dreamed of pitching for the Padres."
"Cute."
"Seriously. I guess it's something women can't relate to."
"It can happen, you know."
"Not in this lifetime, my dear. Your turn: What's your ultimate fantasy?"
"It's boringly typical, actually: A sunset beach wedding with the man I adore."
"Aw. I expected something darker from you."
"See? There are many shades of me--some light and delicate. I am a lady, after all."

The limo pulls up to the house where I was raised. My mother is waiting at the front door with a big smile. Arm-in-arm we walk up the steps. I give my mother a hug and kiss on the cheek, then introduce her.

"Mom, this is my ..."
"... fiancée," Bea interrupts.

(uh oh)

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 12

She tortured me with radio silence the rest of the day. Is a genuine relationship possible, or will this be fun and games until we run out of ideas? Guess I'll enjoy the ride while it lasts.

I'm up before dawn and waiting in line at the US Airways ticket counter. My texts to Bea went unanswered, still I scan the area for her--wondering and hoping. When I hand my license across the counter, I have a pleasant surprise.

"Hello, Mr. Silver. Will you be checking any bags?"
"No, I'll carry this. It's a short trip."
"I see here that you've been upgraded to First Class."
"Huh?"

That's wonderful, but there's still no sign of Bea. I wait at the gate, browsing my Kindle, peeking over my reading glasses every few minutes. Nothing.

They call First Class to board. I try calling Bea. No answer. I try calling Eric. No answer. I hand my boarding pass, walk the jet bridge, enter, and find seat 2A. I place my carry-on overhead and relax into my seat. Where is she? She must be 2B.

I check my cell again. Nothing. Suddenly, a FaceTime request comes through. I answer and see Lovergirl's smiling face. She's in the jet's restroom, wearing a red wig, dressed like a flight attendant.

"Hello, Uncle M."
"Bea, what's going on?"
"I always wanted to do it on a plane. Are you game, Uncle M, or are you already a mile-high member?"
"Technically, this would be only around twenty feet but, where do I apply?"
"Walk to the rear of the plane. I'm in the restroom on the right. Tap twice and I'll let you in, lover."

Like an anxious teen at his prom, I stride back with an uncomfortable lump in my jeans. I arrive and tap. The door unlocks and opens.

Sex in a jet bathroom is anything but easy. We giggled like mischievous children as we contorted our bodies to find a comfortable angle. I banged my funny bone on the faucet. She accidentally pressed "Flush." Yet, we managed to make love.

We finished quickly before the plane began filling up. Bea suggested she leave first and wait for me at our seats, as to not raise suspicion. I agreed and cleaned up after she left. I stared at myself for a moment in the mirror, wondering how I'd explain our relationship to my family. My face showed beaded perspiration, lip gloss glitter, and an unfamiliar blissful smile. Bea is holding my heart now. I shrug and head back to our seats, annoying the travelers by going against the grain.

When I get back to First Class, there's a man sitting in 2B. I check above the seat to make sure I have the right row.

"I'm sorry, sir. You must be in the wrong seat."
"No, actually I'm in two B," he said as he showed me his boarding pass. He looked familiar to me.
"I'm in two A and my, um, girlfriend is sitting there."
"Sorry, buddy," he tells me as he rises to let me in.

Did she do it to me again? I flop down into my seat and check around. No sign of her.

"You OK?" my row mate asks.
"I guess so."
"Want a drink? I know I could use one."

He waves to get the attendant's attention. I notice a huge ring on his right hand and it hits me.

"Holy shit! You're Dave Fucking Shultz."
"Dave William Shultz, actually, but you can call me 'The Hammer.'"

I shake the hand of one of my heroes, a Philadelphia Flyers legend, and wonder how much of this she has orchestrated.

(my love is taking me higher)

Saturday, April 28, 2012

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 11

It's not my first choice for places to get it on, but definitely a first for me. My friend pokes her head in the bathroom door.

"Yo, Boss, you best be finishing up. Bogeys are closing."
"Bogeys?"
"Cops."
Shit.

Bea plants a deep kiss on me, jumps off, lifts her panties, and leaves the stall. My legs are half asleep and my ass is killing me. She insisted we do it with the toilet seat up to teach me about manners since I left the seat up at the Hyatt.

"Goodbye, my love. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Wait ... hold on," I demand as I struggle to my feet and stamp my foot, trying to get the blood circulating again.
"Ciao."
"Bea, I'm flying east tomorrow. Bea?"

It's no use; she's gone again.

I check myself in the mirror and splash water on my face. Ladies rooms are gross. Women can be such slobs. I wash my hands and open the door with the hand towel. Outside the bathroom are two police officers and an elderly woman. Yep, I'm fucked.

"That's him officer. I saw him give money to what I assume was a pimp and then he went in there and had sex with that woman who just walked out. I could hear them. It was gross."
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
"Officers, I can see how this strange situation could be misunderstood," I dance with lies while Bea walks away smiling. She waves and winks. Got me again. "I actually saved that woman's life."
"Really."
"Oh, yes. You see, I was just passing by when another woman came out and asked for help because somebody was in the bathroom ... um ... choking."
"Choking? On what?"
"His penis, I bet," the old woman interjected. We all stared at her incredulously. "Just sayin'."
"An Altoid, actually. I ran in, performed a Heimlich maneuver, and saved her life. You're welcome."
"Look, sir, I don't know what kind of sick bastard you are, but you need to leave this courthouse immediately."
"What? You're not going to let him go, are you?"
"Thank you, Officer. Good day."
"He ... but ... he's a pervert. Lock him up!"

I made haste. That could have gone much worse. What did Bea mean about seeing me tomorrow? She can't be seriously considering coming east with me, can she? I can't introduce her to my family. God, she's so fucking amazing, though. I can't believe I'm falling for her, even after all she puts me through. Bathroom stall or not, her kisses have changed. I think she's falling for me too. We share something more substantial with every tryst. I'm losing control ... and I love it.

(I'm lost in a daze.)

Friday, April 27, 2012

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 10

Lovergirl won't answer my texts, so I call Eric.

"Dude, what's up with your crazy boss?"
"What do you mean?"
"She's ignoring me."
"Actually, she just has a full schedule this morning. I'm glad you called, though."
"Why is that?"
"She asked me to set up a lunch appointment today between you two."
"When and where?"
"The Courthouse Cafe at noon."
"All the restaurants in town and she wants to eat at the fucking courthouse?"
"Yep."
"Fine. I'll be there."
"Oh, and can I ask you a question, Mr. Silver?"
"You just did."
"Clever. No, really."
"Shoot."
"Why did your parents name you Mormon?"
"They didn't. It's a nickname, Eric."
"Cute."
"I was a chubby kid. Whenever mother made my dinner plate I'd say, 'More, Mom.'"
"Aw. So what's your real name?"
"Jew."
"What?!"
"It's short for Jude."
"Oh, thank God ... or whomever."
"Tell Bea I'll see her at noon."
"I will. She asks that you bring the signed document."
"We'll see."

I tie up some loose ends around my house and pack for tomorrow's trip back east. I wonder what was captured by that camera and what it will cost to get it from her. I can't stand being at a disadvantage. Right now, she owns me.

Still confused about her choice of lunch venues, I park at the courthouse and enter through security. It's as one would expect: police, lawyers, and criminals. I find the cafe and scan the area for Bea. No luck. It's five after noon. Have I missed her? I grab a cup of (awful) coffee, pick a table for two, pull out my phone, and wait. The text rings in.

Bea Plastique: Dearest, Uncle M: It seems I've been assessed a five-minute major for fighting. I'm stuck in a penalty stall. Please rescue me.

Oh, Jesus. The games never cease with this woman. Penalty stall? What the hell is she referring to? It's a penalty box, not a stall. Oh, shit. She's in a bathroom stall! No doubt she's picked a ladies room stall to make my hunt more difficult.

Mormon Silver: Bea, stop playing games. Where are you?
Bea Plastique: 4:30 remaining.
Mormon Silver: There must be four bathrooms on this floor alone. Where are you?!
Bea Plastique: 4:15 remaining.

I can't let her beat me. The clerk behind the counter points me to the closest restroom. There are police everywhere. I can't walk in or I'll be fucked. In fact, I'll be fucked either way, but I prefer the kind that doesn't involve a TASER. I need to find an accomplice. There's a Latina woman sitting outside a courtroom--obviously a call girl. I approach her.

"Hi."
"Hi, yourself, handsome."
"Are you busy right now?"
Bea Plastique: 3 minutes.
Fuck.
"Court is in recess until twelve thirty."
"Perfect. How'd you like to earn twenty dollars?"
"Man, you are brave, soliciting a woman in a damn courthouse."
"No, no, not for that. I just need your help. I'm looking for someone and I think she's hiding in a restroom."
"Kinky."
"Forty dollars?"
"Make it fifty."
"Let's go."

I show her a picture of Bea on my phone as we jog to the first bank of restrooms. She darts in and checks. 

Bea Plastique: 2 minutes.

"Nothing?"
"Nope. I am getting some dirty looks from people when I look under the stall doors. I may need another twenty." 

Bea Plastique: 1 minute.

We head down another corridor past angry couples obviously there for divorce hearings. My new friend enters. I hear voices, then she reappears.

"Yep, she's in there. Center stall."

I attempt to enter. She stops me.

"What are you doing? You can't go in with other people in there." 

Bea Plastique: 30 seconds ... :(

"Damn it! Look, here's another fifty if you go in and get everyone to leave."

My friend takes the fifty, goes in, and starts yelling like a crazy person. Women come streaming out. 

Bea Plastique: 10 seconds ... >:(

Finally, the coast is clear. I sprint into the bathroom and throw open the center stall door. There's Lovergirl, sitting on the john, phone in hand, skirt up, panties down.

"Hello, Uncle M."

(if the stall is shaking, it's love we're making)

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 9

I'm walking through a field of marijuana plants. The scent is overpowering and delicious. Suddenly, I feel a sting on my left arm. A psychedelic bee licks his lips, winks, and flies away. I fall and lie in a clearing, staring at the clouds as they take various forms.

*Tap, Tap, Tap*

What is that noise? I try to sit up but I'm weak. I tilt my head forward and see a door in the middle of the field.

*Tap, Tap, Tap*
"Hello?"

I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to rub them clear. I realize my arms are bound. A room comes into focus.

"Housekeeping."

The door opens. Two maids stand in the doorway of the master suite, eyes wide and giggling. I'm bound to the bed, naked except for ... oh, no ... underwear--Bea's Montreal Canadiens underwear.

"I'm sorry, sir, would you like us to come back later?"
"No, actually I'd like you to untie me."
"Is someone else here?" one of the maids asks as she approaches me cautiously. She looks into the closet as the door is ajar. I see the tripod with one missing camera. Fuck! The camera! How could I have forgotten?
"Nobody is here. Please untie me and stop looking at my package. I'm not a damn Canadiens fan."
"If you say so."
"Flyers rule."
"Who?"
"Never mind. Just untie me."

They each untie my arms. I sit up and undo my feet.

"Thank you, ladies. Perhaps you could come back in an hour or so."
"Of course," they respond. I hear them chatting and giggling as they leave the suite. Bea will pay for this.

As I run my tongue under a fat lip I realize my left shoulder is sore too. The bee sting. She must have drugged me. On the bedside table I find my love glove. It has been posed with the fingers curled in, except the middle one. Cute. There's something in the palm. I open the fingers and find a $25 Amazon gift card. Well, at least she doesn't welch on her bets. Under the glove is my copy of Bea's Rules with a "sign here" sticky note pointing to the line above my name.

Thankfully, my clothes are here, folded neatly. I quickly remove her panties, toss them, get dressed, and go down to the lobby in search of a large espresso to clear my head. The kind barista brews a strong triple and offers an apple fritter. I grab a Union Tribune, sit, and plot my revenge. Suddenly, I hear the patrons seated behind me giggling. They're reacting to odd noises coming from the TV. Holy shit! I'm on TV, and I'm not doing the news--I am the news.

I leap to my feet, stand on a chair, and power off the TV before somebody recognizes the embarrassing shot of me tied to a bed in panties. Fuck.

My phone rings. It's my mother.

"Hi, Ma."
"Hey there stranger. How have you been?"
"Fine. You?"
"Just getting the guestroom ready."
"Ma, that was supposed to be a surprise. Did Neal tell you?"
"You know your brother can't keep his yap shut. I'm so excited. What a nice Mother's Day gift. You'll be happy to hear there's no rain in the forecast."
"That's nice. I sure need a vacation. I've had a rough night."
"Did it by chance involve the future mother of my grandchildren?"
"Not likely."
"Really?"
"Ma, I have to run. Let me call you back later today."
"Okey dokey. Say, will your lady guest be sharing the room with you?"
"What lady guest?"
"Bea."
"What?! How on earth do you know Bea?" Lovergirl is completely under my skin now.
"She sent me a lovely package with my favorite gourmet teas and a kind note saying she was eager to meet me."
"No, Mother, she won't be staying with me."
"Why not?"
"It's complicated. I gotta go, Mom."
"If you want to talk about it ..."
"Not now, Mom. I'll call you later. Love you."
"Love you back."
"Bye."

Advantage Lovergirl. Not for long.

(Silver is now a man on a mission.)

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 8

When I see my love she's struggling to free her hands. I wink and point at her with a gloved finger. She lies back, exhausted. I walk past her bed into the bathroom.

"What are you doing, Silver?"
"Uncle M."
"Untie me."
"Nope."

I lift the toilet seat like a gentleman and relieve myself.

"Are you peeing?"
"Yeppers. I was trying to hold it because, you know, once you break the seal ..."
"And, I can't believe you brought a gun here."
"I didn't."
"You threatened Eric."
"Truth be told, your kind Uncle M simply bribed him with a movie print."
"Ugh, The Wizard of Oz, no doubt."
"Very perceptive, Lovergirl. You see? I do my homework too."

I shake twice and dab the tip with a sheet of TP. Bea has somehow managed to free her right arm. Her wrist is chafed. Serves her right.

"Where do you think you're going?"
"You didn't flush, you pig."
"The Rules clearly require me to give samples. I'm one-fourth of the way there. Help yourself when I leave."
"Gross."
"Hmm, now, what other samples are required? That's right, saliva."

I crawl up from the foot of the bed, reach under her right thigh with my gloved left hand, and gently tug at the top of her glistening cock holster with my index and middle finger vibrating as they straddle her clit. I dive in tongue first as she grabs my hair and steers with her free hand. In mere minutes she arches into orgasmic bliss.

"That's one orgasm and two fluids. I'm almost there."
"Almost where, Uncle M?" Bea asks as she relaxes in the afterglow.
"I have one very hungry Kindle, my love. That Amazon gift certificate is two orgasms from being mine. There's a new erotic series I'm dying to read."
"Now, for that third fluid."

I reach into my satchel, pull out a silver condom, unroll it down my average-sized penis, kneel in front of her, and slide myself in only a tiny bit.

"Shall we play 'Just the Tip,' Lovergirl?"
"No, Uncle M, I need you to fill me," she begs as she grabs my hip, trying to pull me in.
"Answer one question and I'll give you all my lovin'."
"Fine."
"What's the story with your Uncle Tomas?"
"Oh, Jesus. I'm going to kill Eric."
"Tell me," I order as I withdraw a bit.
"You might not like it, Uncle M."
"Tell me."
"OK. He took my virginity."

I withdraw entirely and try to process what I just heard. Kind of creepy; kind of gross; kind of hot, actually.

"That sick bastard! I hope that fucker is in jail."
"Mmm, stop swearing and do me!"
"How old were you?"
"Eighteen and, actually, we were in love. He's not a blood relative, Silver."
"It's still twisted."
"Yet you seem hard as a rock."

She's right. Why does this turn me on? Yuck! Someday I'll meet this man and make him pay, but right now I'm her uncle. I enter her fully as she arches in joy and comes again ... and again, this time with me. I lie on top of her kissing her neck as she caresses my head and shoulders. I pull out, push myself up, slide off my condom, place it on the nightstand, and smile.

"Well, Lovergirl, that's at least three orgasms, three fluids, and one gift card for Uncle M."
"You're one fluid short."
"What? Blood? You don't think I'm actually going to leave you a blood sample, do you?"
"No. I'm going to take one."

I catch a glimpse of her right hand as her fist crashes into my jaw then, lights out.

(a bloody mess ensues)

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 7

"You're a funny man, Eric. We need to have a little talk."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Silver, last I checked you weren't the one signing my checks."
"Hello?" Bea interrupts.
"Hush," I tell her, "we'll finish our business soon enough, Lovergirl. Eric, I have something that may persuade you."

Sitting on the side of the bed with my back to Bea, I open my satchel and reveal Eric's kryptonite.

"Oh my god, is that what I think it is?"
"Yes, Eric."
"What is it?" asks Bea.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry but I'm going to have to do what Mr. Silver asks. He has a really big ... um, gun."
"Are you insane, Silver? It was just a little kinky fun." Bea is definitely agitated. Good! I can play her games. I decide to let her stew as fear heightens the senses, making the orgasm parade I'm about to unleash on her more intense.
"We'll be right back. Come with me to the kitchen, Eric, and no sudden moves, or else."
"Yes, sir."

I flip on the kitchen's overhead light, hang my satchel over a chair, remove my weapon, and place in on the counter. Eric's eyes widen.

"Is that ... oh, it can't be."
"Yes?"
"It's signed?"
"Indeed, as you can clearly see right here."

I point to Judy Garland's signature on a The Wizard of Oz promotional eight by ten print.

"Now, Eric, this ditty is a gift from me to you if you answer three questions."

From the bedroom we can hear Bea struggling to free herself.

"Don't you hurt him, Silver! Eric is a good man. He was only following orders."
"Hush!" Eric and I respond in stereo as he admires the still.
"Fire away, Mr. Silver."
"One, what's your opinion of facial hair?"
"It doesn't work for me personally, but I've heard a certain young lady remark how she adores the salt and pepper on your chin. I'd say keep it cropped and you're fine. Please don't ever color it, though. I mean, ew."
"Thank you. OK, two, am I too old to be wearing plaid shirts and loafers?"
"Well, as long as you have on an undershirt, you're fine. No V-necks, please. I highly recommend going sockless, but I know argyle is your 'thing,' so whatever. Have you tried John Varvatos? His fashions are ideal for the mature man."
"Excellent tip. One more question."
"Eric, don't be a hero. Cooperate with him for now. We'll make this right later," Bea muffles.
"His gun is so big, Ms. P, what shall I do?" Eric hisses.
"Silver!"
"I like you, Eric. Now, the most important question: Where does Bea's strange fascination with hockey-related sex stunts originate?"
Eric leans in and whispers, "Her Uncle was very influential in her upbringing, if you know what I mean. He played goalie for the Canadiens in the seventies."
"Disturbing. Name?"
"Tomas LeBaleur."
"You're the best, Eric. This is for you." I hand the signed print to Eric. He trembles as his eyes well up.
"I, I don't know what to say. If you weren't straight, I'd ..."
"Tut, tut, tut. A 'thank you' is sufficient."
"Thank you."
"Now, do me one tiny favor and hang out in the lobby bar until I'm through with my naughty friend. There's a kind bartender working down there."
"Emily. She works for us."
"I see. So can you manage keep Emily company for about thirty minutes?"
"Indeed I can."

Eric blows a kiss to me and leaves.

"Eric? Silver? Hello? Anyone?"
"Yes, Lovergirl, how can Uncle M be of service?"

I turn on my glove and return to my love.

(three orgasms--four if you count mine--are on the way in chapter 8)

Monday, April 23, 2012

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 6

Eric. He's the key to understanding this strange woman. Personal assistants know everything about their bosses. All I need is leverage. What do gay men like? Think, Silver, think!

I pace from room to room in my home and then it hits me. Of course. A hand-me-down I have been so tempted to toss finally comes to use. I place Eric's kryptonite into my satchel along with Bea's Rules and zip on down to Hustler to get the love glove she requested. Bea has no idea what she's gotten into. Not since the great MJ has anyone been so skilled with a glove.

I swing by her office before our rendezvous, hoping to catch Eric by surprise, but her office is dark and the doors are locked. Missed him.

What does Bea have waiting for me on that 43rd floor? My stomach is tight. I need a drink.

I valet at the Hyatt and go straight to the lobby bar with my not-a-man-purse. Nothing soothes me more than a few ounces of Don Julio. The nurse behind the bar dispenses my sedative with salt and lime. The glass barely meets the bar before I throw it back and request another. I review Bea's Rules again and wonder if she can get me weak enough to sign. Another glass of courage appears and the nurse smirks.

"Somebody must have an important meeting."
"Darling, you have no idea."
"What's with the paper? Divorce settlement?"
"Not quite."

I'm tempted to show it to my new friend as I've found the best advice often comes across a bar. Still, one of Bea's Rules is no sharing. I need to see where this goes.

"Let's just say I need to perform a service, best delivered with agave."
"Go get her, Tiger. Oh, and I hope you like candles."
"Wait ... what?"

She smiles and walks away. I slam the shot and head for the elevator. As I stroll toward 4301 I hear Frank Sinatra crooning. The door is ajar. There's flickering golden light and the scent of vanilla. I push slowly and enter the foyer of a massive penthouse. A path of candles leads toward the back. "The Way You Look Tonight" plays from an iPod stereo above the wet bar. I need another drink. I find a mini-bottle of Cuervo. This will do. Down it goes. Time to follow the yellow candlestick road.

As I round the corner the candles lead to the double doors of a master suite. I turn both knobs and slide the doors open. In the golden strobe of candlelight is my love, naked and tied spread eagle to the bed, wearing an old school hockey mask, a la Friday the 13th. Fuck! She's so hot and mysterious.

"Hello, Lovergirl."
"I seem to have gotten myself into a bind, Uncle M. Can you help me?" she muffles through the mask.
"Perhaps."

I place my satchel next to the bed, remove the love glove from it's package, and place it on my left hand like a surgeon.

"Black. As requested."
"Mmm. Does that mean you have agreed to the terms of our arrangement?"
"Maybe."

I flip the switch on the back of the glove and it vibrates gently. She's going to pay for teasing me so. I lie next to her and kiss her ear and neck as I run my gloved hand up her left thigh. She arches her back in anticipation. I whisper in her ear.

"Do you have any idea what I'm going to do to you tonight?"
"Yes."
"I don't think you do. You're quite brave, Lovergirl. You don't know me that well. I could be insane ... and you're so helpless right now. I could do almost anything to you."
"I'm frightened."
"You should be."

I run my glove lightly across her engorged nipples as I bite her earlobe. She thrusts her hips when I run the glove down her torso, stopping just above her clit.

"Please, Uncle M, I need you."
"Not yet, Lovergirl."

I flip the glove switch off and get up from the bed.

"What are you doing? Get back down here, Silver!"
"Candles. I love candles."

I take a candle from the side table and hold it over her body. She gasps as I drip hot wax onto her nipples. She's about to explode. I place a gentle kiss on her love button.

Suddenly I hear a thump coming from the closet. Holy shit! Someone is here. I should have known. She couldn't have tied herself.

You, in the closet, show yourself. As the door slides open, I see a man and a camera. Jesus.

"Eric? What the hell is going on?"
"Crap," Bea exclaims.
"Come out of that closet right now, Eric."
Eric smiles and responds, "Again?"


(she will pay in Chapter 7)

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 5

We made love in the shower until our toes pruned and the water ran cold. Bea wouldn't speak to me.

I'm confused, lost, exhausted, and happily so. Still, I need to dig into her past and understand the root of her fetishes. Is this love?

I spend hours the following day Googling her name with assorted hockey terms. She was born in Canada. That explains her odd last name. Sure, Canadians love hockey, but this woman is obsessed. There must be something. I climb her family tree looking for clues. All I find is an uncle of hers whose name is on the Stanley Cup. Hmm.

As I go to learn more about this uncle a direct message pops up on my Twitter feed.

BPlastique: Check your bedside table. Initial, sign, and bring it to me in room 4301 at the downtown Hyatt tonight at 8pm.

Oh, Jesus. My bedside table is nothing that should be witnessed by anyone--old condoms, lotions, ugly watches, and my secret (no longer) weapon: the Fukuoku Pink Left Hand Five Finger Vibrating Massage Glove. I open the drawer slowly and find a document entitled "Rules of Sexual Engagement." It lists ten clauses and is signed in blood red at the bottom by Beatrice Plastique. What the ...?

As I read her rules I feel myself becoming slightly aroused. This disturbs me. I'm no submissive. Then I realize she has sprayed her luscious Chanel scent on the paper. I'm tempted to sexually relieve myself, but resist because this woman demands stamina. The rules convince me she truly is from Venus.

Rules of Sexual Engagement

  1. Mormon Silver (henceforth referred to as "Uncle M") agrees to bring Beatrice Plastique (henceforth referred to as "Lovergirl") to orgasm daily until the Stanley Cup is hoisted by the 2012 champions.
  2. On each day, if Uncle M brings Lovergirl to orgasm more than three times, he'll receive a $25 Amazon gift card.
  3. Uncle M agrees to allow Lovergirl to shave his testicles.
  4. Uncle M will refrain from masturbating, eating buffalo wings, and watching NBA games.
  5. Uncle M will provide ejaculate, urine, saliva, and blood samples within 24 hours.
  6. Uncle M will not make love (yes, that includes blow jobs) to any other women.
  7. Uncle M will not discuss with anyone his sexual relationship with Lovergirl.
  8. Uncle M will answer every text message sent by Lovergirl within five minutes or he agrees to be tied to a bed face-down and lashed with a leather belt once for each minute late.
  9. Uncle M will discard his Fukuoku glove, buy a new one (in black, please), and bring it with him--sealed in its original packing--to the agreement signing meeting.
  10. Lovergirl will give up the ass to Uncle M.

The ass?! Oh my god, her luscious ass! I can hardly contain myself as my erection tears at my boxers. I resist, but why? I can't agree to her silly rules. This is crazy. If I want to beat off, I'll beat off. I'm a grown man. How would she know anyway?

As I grab my waistband and release my throbbing monster, my phone beeps.

Bea Plastique: Don't you do it.

Shit.

(other things to come)

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 4

I'm home trying to understand what just happened. I went in for an interview with a billionaire babe and left with salty sex residue, a sore nipple, and no story. Eric said he'd reschedule me--often, I hope. Bea's a strange woman, but she definitely has a mental grip on me. I wonder where her hockey fascination originated. She probably had a fucked up childhood like most of us.

My iPhone rings with an unfamiliar number. I've learned not to answer those, not that I have anything against Indians. Less than a minute later I get a text message from the same number.

How dare you ignore my call, Silver. That's a major penalty. - B

How did she get my number? I should have known a woman with her resources would be, eh hem, resourceful. I tap on my recent calls and plan my approach. She answers after five rings. Clever girl.

"Who is this and how did you get my number?"
"Very funny, Bea. I was just about to ask you the same question."
"Oh, Mr. Silver, how nice to hear from you. What are you up to, and are you naked by chance?"
"No, my dear, I'm not naked. I'm just trying to make corners meet."
"Ends."
"Excuse me?"
"Ends, Silver. The cliché is 'making ends meet.' Aren't you a writer?"
"Yes, and actually I'm a writer who is doing laundry--folding my sheets."
"Ah. So, your ends are meeting just fine, are they?"
"Fine enough."
"Your home is a bit underwater, is it not?"
"Whose isn't?"
"You know, I could help you, Silver, if you'd agreed to play with me ... my way."
"You could get me a loan modification? Put me in, coach."
"Oh, I will, repeatedly. Bye for now."
*click*

What a whacky woman! I need to Google her later.

I finish my laundry and go to the gym to clear my head, which is ear-to-ear full of Plastique. She fits me like a glove. Am I just a toy to her? It disturbs me to wonder how many other writers she has "had" in her office.

After a good sweat I return home. I hear water running. Is that damn toilet stuck again?

I bound up my staircase. It sounds like a shower--my master bath shower. Could it be?

I cautiously round the corner of my bathroom to find Bea in my shower. She's partially obscured by steam and the foggy glass door. I watch the suds run from her golden mane down the line of her back, across her perfectly round buttocks, into the crevasse I want to make my home.

"Jesus, Bea! How did you get in here? For that matter, how did you know where I live?" My cock is so hard right now it practically tears through my sweats.

She turns to face me and speaks not a word as she raises an index finger to her lips to shush me. Then, she licks the tip of her finger and runs it down her chest, across her navel, to her love tunnel as she sits on my shower bench.

"You're killing me, Ms. Plastique. I have a mind to come in there and clean up a very dirty girl."

Bea smirks as she reaches my shower shelf and takes hold of my Gillette Fusion razor. With her other hand she grabs my Old Spice liquid soap and squirts a dab on her tiny patch of fur. She lathers up and stares longingly at me as she slowly lowers my razor toward her vagina.

"No! That's my fucking Fusion! Do you have any idea how expensive those cartridges are? I beg you, don't. Pubic hair is too coarse. It will dull and clog my blades. You evil beast. Noooooo!" I bang on the glass door. Oh, God, another hockey game! I'm like a rabid rink-side fan at the arena.

Bea teases me by pulling away the razor and inspecting it. She grows a devilish grin, puts the razor back under her navel and swipes a tiny path. I slap my head and cringe. She looks up with those huge toasted almond eyes and extends the razor toward me.

"Would you like to finish me, Silver?"

(this isn't over)

Friday, April 20, 2012

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)



Thursday, April 19, 2012

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)

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

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 thirty-three 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.

  1. Interviewer will not look at interviewee's eyes, breasts, or feet unless directed by interviewee.
  2. Interviewer will allow interviewee to touch him as she pleases without disclosing it in his blog. Yes!
  3. Interviewer will answer honestly questions concerning his sexual stamina and history. Wait a minute, who's interviewing whom?
  4. Interviewee reserves the right to bathe interviewer and demand he wear the cologne and robe of her choice. Well, I am a dirty boy.
  5. 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)

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

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?

Saturday, April 14, 2012

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
  1. Extension Requested - Sometimes, but those women are greedy.

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

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

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


Friday, April 13, 2012

It's time to put the man back in romance.

Hey, what about us? We feel neglected as we stare at a sea of Hallmark cards full of words we'd borrow to keep your fire burning. Love is more than just a blowjob, you know. We could use some non-sexual treats too. Think of the stress we go through at the florist's counter.

"I would like some flowers, please."
"All right, which ones?"
"Real ones?"
"I mean which types of flowers? Roses? Tulips? Lillies?"
"Um, yes?"
"OK. Let's start with the recipient."
"My girlfriend."
"The occasion?"
"Maintenance."
"I see. Budget?"
"Whatever it takes."
"I have no way of knowing that, sir. Can you give me a ballpark?"
"Jesus, not as expensive as a ballpark."
"..."
"Baseball joke. I get it--you were speaking metaphorically. What can I get for twenty bucks?"
"A pat on the head from a disappointed lady."
"Fine. Fifty?"
"We can create a nice arrangement for fifty. Would you like a vase?"
"No, I wouldn't. Would she?"
"Probably."
"A vase it is."

Can you feel the turmoil? This poor lad is knocking years off his life with chores like holding doors, tucking chairs, remembering important dates, and delivering jewelry. Where's the reciprocation? He deserves something more than permission to squeeze boobies.

Here are the top ten suggestions for romancing your man:
  1. Bacon - It doesn't matter what it comes with, just make it crispy.
  2. Kegerator - We'll even keep it in the cold basement or garage.
  3. Bathe Us - Ah, to be surrounded by suds. Add a frosty mug while you're at it.
  4. Wings - See #1.
  5. Headphones - Really good ones that help us ignore things ... not you, of course.
  6. Women-Only Weekend - We trust you. Can you take the kids too?
  7. Fine Cigars
  8. Single Malt Scotch
  9. Nine Uninterrupted Innings - If you want to know what HBP stands for, Google it.
  10. Neck Rubs - Extra points if you do it topless.
There, that wasn't so difficult, was it?

Thursday, April 12, 2012

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 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.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

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.

Monday, April 9, 2012

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.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

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 ...

Friday, April 6, 2012

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?"

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Question #1: Would he do it?

Like me, many men were stuck watching the women's NCAA basketball championship last night as it hovered over the bar. Men don't watch women playing sports the same way men watch men. To us it's more of a twisted beauty pageant. I appreciate a woman's athletic ability, but she's still a woman.

Now, don't be alarmed. When you present this hypothesis to your man, he deny it, as he was taught. Still, as I watched all six-foot-eight, size-seventeen-shoe-wearing Brittney Griner make her opponents look like pests, my internal conversation was predictable.

"Would you do it? Would you have sex with her?"
"Yep."
"Really?"
"Sure, why not?"
"She's so tall."
"I can find something sexy about every woman I see."
"She's not very feminine, you know."
"I disagree. I see high cheekbones, a lovely smile, and her skin tone is deliciously light chocolate."
"It just seems like it would be awkward."
"All the more reason to try. Sixty-Nine would probably be out, though."
"Have you heard her deep voice?"
"Yes, so what? She can't control that. Again, it's unique and could be fun. I'm usually the cuddler; it might be fun to be cuddled."

Wipe that look of disgust from your face, woman! It's completely natural for a man to consider every woman he meets as a potential mating partner. There's no harm if the thought never manifests as deed. It's not like I'm going to tweet her.

"Dear @BrittneyGriner, congrats on whipping the skirts off those Notre dames. How would you like to meet me in the desert for some celebratory margarita disposal? #whynot"

Well, maybe.

Anyway, you women do the same dang thing. I present Exhibit A from the movie Animal House where the coeds are discussing Frank, who posed as Fawn Liebowitz's boyfriend to get Shelly to hook up with him.

"I think Frank was kind of cute."
"Ewwwwwww!"
"I really felt sorry for him."
"Eeee-ewwww!"

See? Shelly would (and did) hook up with Frank, even though he was engaged to her friend who was killed in a kiln explosion. Shelly's friends considered him gross. So be it.

"That's freaking fiction, you dolt."
"Oh, and me hooking up with Griner isn't?"
"Men are so disgusting."
"Wait a minute there, Missy. Are you trying to tell me you never considered, even for a fraction of a second, whether you would have sex with me?"
"Um, not really."
"Liar! The only difference is women typically add something to the proposal to make it more interesting."
"Such as?"
"Circumstances, location, alcohol, and whether any of your friends will find out."
"Nope."
"You're saying you never thought, Would I have sex with Phil if I were in a serious sexual slump, we had a chance meeting at a writers' conference in Vegas, and we polished off a pint of Patron?"
"Can't say that I have."
"Until now. Tee, hee."
"Make that a fifth."

Monday, April 2, 2012

Why are we drawing on coffee?

A disturbing trend is the proliferation of pictures containing artistic designs made from coffee foam, or crema, as coffee snobs would say. This is silly. There's no good reason to create art from something I plan on consuming. I never want to utter the words, "It's too pretty to eat."

Imagine if bartenders began making designs in beer foam? WTF (why taint foam)? This would easily double the time from order to first sudsy-lipped sip, and that's unacceptable. What would my barkeep draw anyway? Perhaps she'd make a football team logo from pepper or carefully replace the beer foam with steamed milk foam. Ick!

Smiley faces are the easiest to create and few people have any superstitious beliefs around biting a smiley face. When I get a burger I flip the top bun and draw three dots and a curve from ketchup and, when I'm feeling extra Picasso-ey, I add a blond mustache in the form of mustard. This doesn't deter me from inhaling the artery clogger so it's acceptable.

When I order a dessert and the chef decides to drizzle anything across the plate, I'm unimpressed. It would be more practical to give me a side dipping cup of the sweet goo. When I was in Mexico for my 50th, the chef actually spelled out "Happy Birthday" on my dessert plate in chocolate syrup. I bet he was very proud. Alas, I am a childish ass--a fact the chef was not made aware of. Hence, I used my espresso spoon to mold the second word from "Birthday" into "Boobday" and one-upped that fucker.

Overnight guests are often treated to subliminal suggestion at the hands of Chef Philippe. My signature breakfast dish contains two sunny-side eggs across from two lumps of hash browns with a curiously curved, single link of sausage between the potato lumps. This dish includes English muffins each with a generous round dab of Nutella and one perfectly centered brown M&M. The sub-par gratuity I'm typically left gives me the impression my genius is wasted ... or dark nipples are rare.

So, baristas, please icksnay with the artay. Deliver my stimulant quickly without flair before it cools.

Sunday, April 1, 2012

An important skill to develop while you're single.

Consider your time alone as Spring Training for your next relationship. This is the perfect time to work on yourself. Develop some skills, which will make you a more desirable target and better mate.

For example, I know some bored patrons who sit bar-side and amuse themselves by attempting to tie a maraschino cherry stem into a knot without using their fingers. A talented tongue is appreciated, yet I feel this activity is pointless. The thought of a woman's tongue bouncing around my molars is disturbing and, no, I don't want my penis tied in a knot.

However, I have developed a similar skill, which came in handy before my recent snippage. There were occasions when my little friend, Willy, left the party without his raincoat. This is a foolish and dangerous thing to do, depending on the season. Once I realized what Willy had done, it was time for me to retrieve the sheath while ensuring nothing fell from the pockets during extraction--a delicate and precarious chore. Yet, as some ladies are expert stem knotters, I am an expert condom knotter. In a matter of seconds I am able to (without using my thumb, I might add) dig, twist, loop, pull, and remove my potential child-support payments.

Wah-lah!

Now, you may be thinking, how on earth did Uncle Phil develop said skill. I'll tell you. When I was single, I didn't waste time playing paddle-ball. Instead, I scooted on down to CVS and picked up a pack of balloons, Ivory liquid, and six cans of jellied cranberry sauce. The exercise includes the following steps:
  1. squirt Ivory into the balloon (one ounce should suffice), 
  2. remove the cranberry lid, 
  3. stuff the balloon into the sauce can loaded-end first, 
  4. push the balloon toward the bottom of the can using needle nose pliers, 
  5. put a towel down on your bed,
  6. place the can on its side between two pillows on the towel,
  7. hold your left hand behind your back,
  8. without cutting yourself, dig in with three fingers using a swirling motion until your middle one finds the object,
  9. true, the can will move around making it more difficult, but this is a significant obstacle as it's unlikely the actual vagina will sleep through the process,
  10. with your middle finger, hold the balloon shut approximately one inch from the opening,
  11. use your other two fingers to loop the balloon and recall a childhood shoe-tying poem* while you seal the end,
  12. remove it slowly, keeping your face clear of the extraction in case there's recoil,
  13. dance around the bedroom like you recovered a fumble,
  14. spike the balloon into the toilet bowl,
  15. flush.

Now, wasn't that a more effective use of your time than tossing playing cards into a derby?

*Here's one you can use:
Build a tee pee
Come inside
Close it tight so we can hide
Over the mountain
And around we go
Here's my arrow
And here's my bow!