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Phil

Self-Deprivation causes much irritation.

Since I expect to find myself shirtless by a pool in the coming months, I've joined my fellow huskies and adjusted my meals accordingly.

Yesterday at the sub shop I ordered a turkey salad with vinaigrette dressing on the side. As I dipped my leafy greens I couldn't avoid the sights and scents of meatballs, pastrami, and melted cheese.

I ate angrily.

Those more disciplined than I see choices like these differently. Heck, some even feel sorry for the people one booth over who are mowing their ways toward pasty arteries.

"I feel so much better when I eat right. All I've eaten so far today is two egg whites and an apple."
"Fucking salad."
"Don't be like that. It's so good for you."
"I want to kill something ... and eat it with a wad of wasabi."
"We'll take a long walk this afternoon and splurge a bit for dinner. How about skinless chicken breast and snow peas?"
"No, damn it! I want a big, greasy burger with lots of bacon and cheese. I want waffle-fucking-fries and warm pretzel bites with honey mustard. I want a cookie sandwich of two warm, dark chocolate chip cookies surrounding a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. And, I don't give a drool if it make me lumpy."

The same nonsense goes on with women I'm attracted to, but can't have. If the fellow next to me is enjoying a tasty brunette with a side of morning nookie, I become angry. If one of my attractive female buddies seeks my advice about men while reminding me that my penis is off-limits, I see red. If my lovely wingwoman has a few too many, which makes her extra touchy/flirty, my insides boil.

I can't have any.

When the next day rolls around, I don't look back and take pride in my discipline. No. I deal with the woulda-coulda-shoulda song pounding in my head. So, I'm fat and fucked either way: I'm either mad at myself for gorging like a beast, or my empty stomach is full of regret about what should have been.

When I get to this point it's time to splurge or someone is going to suffer as I purge my frustration. Tonight, instead of veggies, hummus, salmon salad, and light beer, I'm going to have French-Freaking-Onion soup with extra cheese, gnocchi with thick, zesty paste, and a warm, chocolate dessert with a lump of creamy frozen stuff. Heck, I may even have it with a bucket of Baileys and a woman far too young to fondle my sagginess. Good day.

Your guide to love in the workplace.

It's time for that ancient HR manual to be updated. The entire chapter on interoffice relationships needs an overhaul, and I'm just the man to do it. You see, I have a PhD in Reality.

The Situation: You're spending almost half your weekday waking hours around mating options.
The Dilemma: If you have sex with a coworker, it could affect your work and (when applicable) your other relationship.
The Solution: Have at it and avoid being caught.

Don't groan at me!

Yes, yes, I know: Most relationships fail, so any interoffice relationship is doomed from the get-go. Right. So, why not acknowledge that fact in advance, and agree to enjoy the fantasy fuck until it's no longer mutually pleasant? Then, just like at the end of a recreational sporting event, you shake hands and go about your business.

Office affairs don't really need to complicate things. They can be as simple as, "You scratch my gland (with your tongue, please) and I'll scratch yours." You don't fall in love with your masseuse or chiropractor, right? Keep love out of it. Provide a kind service to a coworker, and I advise you to keep money out of it. (You don't need the stress involved with collecting tax IDs and reporting payments to the IRS.)

Sexual tension and frustration cause job performance issues. It needs an outlet. By the way, I'm leaving in the clause forbidding office masturbation--that's just creepy and gross. Let's do a little role-playing exercise, shall we?

Scenario: Director Phil (unrelated ... honestly) is clicking through his unread messages in his office while sipping office coffee made from ground-up twigs. New employee, Valerie, strolls up and taps on his door. She's wearing a skirt and blouse that teeter on the edge of office-inappropriate (according to some HR beast whose vagina gets used about as often as Rush Limbaugh's treadmill).

"Good morning, Sir. A group of us are heading to Friday's for happy hour, and I thought I'd extend an invitation."
"Ah, how nice. I'd love to join you."
"Excellent. See you at six."

Later that day, the group slams appetizers and cocktails on the boss' tab while trying to avoid talking about work. Valerie's on martini #3, her blouse is partially untucked, and her hair is wild. She sits next to the boss and chats about ... who knows. All the boss hears is, "Please put your penis inside me."

At first there's some positive body language: outer leg crossed over inner leg toward boss. Then a bit of harmless touching of hands to arms and knees to knees. Things escalate with a hand on thigh, to make a point. Tension rises. Coworkers kind of notice, but they're not sure. They begin leaving. Finally, just the two of them remain.

Choice A: Phil walks Valerie to her car, ensures she's sober enough to drive, thanks her for inviting him, delivers a gentle fist-tap, and says he'll see her tomorrow.
Choice B: Three shots of tequila later the two sneak off to her SUV, crawl into the back seat, and knock nasties.

Choice A is by the (former) book, which results in two highly frustrated individuals whose only recourse is to go home to their mates and fantasize. This is unhealthy.
Choice B results in the bliss of sexual afterglow and an exciting little secret, which can be reminisced upon at any time to lighten the mood and improve morale.

I vote B.

Reasons why superlatives suck the most.

I'm feeling extra sensitive. Perhaps I'm going through man-o-pause. As I watched The Bachelorette finale last night, I hugged a pillow, sipped chardonnay, and dabbed my eyes with Kleenex. (OK, not really.) When Jef piled on the superlatives by claiming Emily was the most beautiful, smartest, kindest, best woman/mother, he forgot to add those four words to make it acceptable: "for me right now." Even if he did, it would be technically inaccurate. Without using those words he insulted other fine women as well as more-deserving men.

He also bragged about how God brought this perfect person into his life. So, God spurned all other men to bless His High-Hairness? God decided that Emily is the woman most worthy of the "best woman ever" title? Me thinks he should thank Lord Harrison instead. He should also thank the producers for stocking the pond with so many douche-guppies.

When a woman gushes to me about her man, my sarcasm generator kicks in forcing me to tilt my head and utter, "Is he?"

"He is the most wonderful man in the world."
"Right, the New York firefighters who run into crumbling buildings couldn't compare."

"He's my best friend."
"Right, and a dog is his best friend, so you're a runner-up to something that eats its own vomit."

"He's the sexiest man alive."
"Right, go watch Magic Mike and give it a few days to sink in."

"He's the most romantic person who ever lived."
"Right, this will come in handy when you stop putting out and he needs to land a mistress."

Rarely do men brag to other men about their mates. Thank goodness. When they do, it's typically something sexual about an impermanent lover. On rare occasion, when Mr. Clueless decides to gush to me about his wife, my shield of sarcasm deflects the blows.

"My wife is the best mother."
"Really? Guess I'll fly east and get that title belt from my mother who raised thirty foster babies."

"She's my best friend. She knows me better than anyone."
"Right, I'm sure she always dreamed of being a you expert."

"She's the sexiest woman alive. She can't get enough of me."
"You don't get out much, do you?"

"She's the most loyal woman in the world. I trust her completely."
"Right, I'm sure her last boyfriend said the same thing. Her loyalty is indirectly proportional to her opportunities."

Well, maybe I'm the most jaded man in the world, who continues to shoot himself in the foot by keeping it firmly planted in reality.

Her number comes with a time limit.

I see a cute woman at the wine bar. She glances my way, smiles, and waves. I zip through my rusty, internal hard-drive to evaluate the target.

• Someone I dated? Nope.
• Did I sleep with her? Nope.
• Coworker? Nope.
• Gym? Maybe.
• A friend's ex? Possibly.

Strategy: Warrants further investigation before attempting penetration.

"Hey, how are you?" I ask with hesitation on the last word, hoping she lends a hand.
"Kelly."
"Yes, that's what I thought it was. I'm so bad with names," and courtship.
"I met you a while back with your friend, Will."
"Yes, I remember." I really don't.
"It was kind of fucked up, what he did."
"I know." Not a clue. "He's a real shit. I only keep him as a friend so I can counsel his victims."
"Oh, so he told you?"
"Um, I think so." Oh, fuck.
"What did he tell you?"
"I'm sure your side of the story is more accurate." See me dance?
"Well, I gave him my number that night."
"Right."
"And, naturally, I didn't hear from him in the next few days, so I figured he wasn't interested."
"Ah."
"Then, two weeks later, he texts me around ten at night, obviously from a bar."
"Foul!"
"I know."
"What did he say?"
"He asked if I wanted to get together. I responded telling him to give me one good reason to go out with him."
"Did he?"
"No. He said, 'OK, never mind. Let's not waste each other's time.'"
"Yikes."
"Right? I'm sorry, but your friend is an asshole."
"Let me ask you this: If he would have responded differently, including an apology for not getting back to you sooner because he was busy with work, would you have gone out with him?"
"No."
"I see. So, you basically attempted to turn his rejection around, and it backfired into a second rejection for you."
"Men suck."
"I can't argue that, my dear. Next time don't encourage the sloth. Simply respond, 'Who is this?' You need to give the criminal sufficient length of rope to toss over the rafter and wrap around his neck."
"Fine. Then what?"
"When he responds, kick the stool out from under him by saying, 'Oh, hi. Honestly, I was pretty drunk the night we met and I only gave you my number because I felt sorry for you.'"
"Ouch."
"Don't worry. We're all well-schooled in the fine art of handling rejection. Here, I'll demonstrate: How'd you like to go home with me, and let me tie you up and give you a tongue bath?"

Baggage isn't bad; it's practical.

Emily (The Bachelorette) threw a fit this season when one of the contestants referred to her child as baggage. His honesty also drew the ire of female viewers as they hissed every time the camera was on him. He was pressured into apologizing, which came off as inauthentic and made things worse.

Em, while it was cute to hear you assert yourself by saying, "Get the fuck out," you need to check your shit. Everybody has baggage; that doesn't make it bad. If you meet someone without baggage, that person is hiding his baggage in the closet. If you meet someone who says he is blessed by having the opportunity to handle your baggage, he's lying to gain your approval.

Baggage needs to be considered when you enter into a relationship. Some is light and insignificant and some is bulky and ever-present.

This is baggage:

• children
• pets
• overbearing relatives
• exes who haven't let go
• debt
• jobs that require long days or travel
• smoking
• church/politics
• furnishings
• obsessions about exercise, diet, or TV shows

This list goes on.

The person carrying the baggage may be perfectly capable of carrying it without imposing on you. Other people may be actively seeking someone to help with baggage handling. It's up to you whether lending a hand will be worthwhile (appreciated) or painful. You must consider if you're willing to make this person's baggage your baggage.

I find as I get older, my capacity for handling others' baggage diminishes. If lending a hand causes stress, it injures me because stress kills. If I see it as an investment, it's almost twice as bad because I'll be hoping she returns the favor, which, if she does, will probably cause her stress.

We should each take inventory of our baggage, and become aware of what it takes to handle it. The better we can handle our own, the more attractive we become. That doesn't mean stuffing it under the bed and acting as though it doesn't exist. It means being able to admit, "I have this baggage, I'm handling it, and I still have a free hand to hold you."

A man's guide to pain versus pleasure.

Some men are getting the wrong ideas from the Fifty Shades books. Best you clarify things with your man before he raises welts. In the odd chance you don't feel comfortable giving him explicit guidelines (because he may pinch you for being bossy), you can direct him to this guide and hope he absorbs useful tidbits.

Men, your women want you to be the man in the sense that you have freedom to be sexually aggressive within reason. Such reason is established exclusively by the woman, which means it's rarely consistent with what other women find stimulating. Use common sense, and when in doubt simply ask her. If her response is a knee to the groin, take that as a no, not a maybe.

Let's try a few examples:

• Joe is pounding away at Gladys missionary-style. Joe decides to muscle up with an aggresive maneuver: He withdrawals, flips Gladys over, and reinserts himself--second hole from the top, in this example. True or False: Would this be reasonable sexual aggression, likely to result in Gladys' enjoyment combined with, perhaps, some bragging to her book club. TRUE.
• Frank is lying on his back with arms behind his head, enjoying Lisa's grindage. Frank allows Lisa to do all the work, similar to how he treats household chores. Frank decides to attempt a difficult maneuver by saying to Lisa--and I quote--"That's right, you take every inch you dirty little come-bucket of a maid." Reasonable? FALSE, and it may result in having his testicles slapped.
• Alison is cooking dinner when Bob wanders into the kitchen to obtain beer number four. As she bends over to check the roast, Bob allows his instincts to take over. He raises her dress, drops her panties, and plows into her as the heat from the stove makes the scene resemble sauna sex. Hot? TRUE, as long a Bob does not dump the beer over her head when finished as if he won the World Series.
• Mike has Helen pinned face-down, burying himself deep while holding her wrists together behind her back. Helen's face is buried in a pillow, and she's mumbling something indiscernible, which Mike assumes are muffled terms of endearment. Mike decides to take it up a notch by licking his right thumb and then burying it knuckle-deep in her fart box. Helen stops making noises. This is a good sign? FALSE. Helen is calculating when her last dump was and she's probably going to shove an entire fist up Mike's ass next time she blows him.
• While doggying the pussysnot out of Joyce, Jack removes the belt from his jeans, straps it around her waist, and uses it like handlebars on a carnival ride. Then, he decides to get all rodeo on her ass as he turns his left hand under the belt, releases his right hand, and hoots and hollers "yee, ha" while smacking her on her rump. Fun for her? TRUE, just refrain from spitting any tobacco juice on your hands first.
• Leo blindfolds his wife, Rita, and ties her to the bed. She suggested their sex life needed some spice, so he's all in. Leo decides it would be fun to stuff various household items into her vagina, and see if she can guess what they are. Every right guess gets her a Starbucks gift card. Every wrong guess gets him a beej. Rita will appreciate this: True or False? IT DEPENDS. If the household items include sterile items such as marbles, food, and soap on a rope, he may survive it. If they include utensils, baseball bats, or re-bar, probably not.

Basically, men, if what you do to her will leave little evidence that you've done it (such as welts, scars, stains, and bald spots), you're probably safe. Otherwise, wait until one of your buddies tries (oh his woman, not yours) before attempting.