How can she tell if he really likes her?

This is a problem most women have, although few men do. Perhaps it’s because women have more to invest and lose … oh, and because they don’t have hanging brains beneath their privates.

“How can I tell if he really likes me or just wants to sleep with me?”

“You’re hoping for both, aren’t you?”

“I don’t want to have sex with him if he’s not emotionally invested.”

“All right. That means you like him.”

“I do. I also don’t want to frustrate him and scare him away by making him wait too long.”

“Yep, that happens. Like you would with a new hire, you need to set expectations.”

“Right. I’ll tell him he can’t touch me until he likes me.”

“No, you need to be more specific. Show him some light at the end of the love tunnel. Tell him you’re selective about your lovers, and it could take a dozen dates before you’d be willing to go there.”

“Will a guy wait that long?”

“If he likes you he will … or, if his prospect pool has dried up.”

“Great.”

This is quite a love tug, isn’t it? If I’m attracted to a woman, by definition I want to have sex with her. That desire usually arrives before I have her name memorized. It’s a good thing as long as I don’t insist upon sex too soon, or have it and leave. It takes days or weeks to build a strong like; it takes seconds to build a strong desire.

I’m fighting myself by suggesting women make their men wait when women desire long-term relationships. Sometimes (right fucking now, in fact), a casual encounter is what the doctored ordered to get Russell the Love Muscle back in shape. A long sexual drought will cause a man to say and do whatever is required to close the deal. Humbly, I’ve been stunned by what came out of my mouth (and wallet) when I needed a slump-breaker.

Still, I bet most women can see through all the pleasantries and tell if there’s potential for a walk down the aisle or a walk of shame.

“If you know how you feel about him and have specific desires and goals regarding your relationship, you should tell him. Be honest. Be prepared for him to be scared off due to impatience. His departure will be a blessing.”

“Fine. Give me an example of what to say.”

“OK. Remove all distractions, sit across from him, and look into his eyes. It’s probably a good idea to hold his hands so he doesn’t sprint away. I’m kidding, sort of. Then say something to the tune of, ‘I want you to know I really like you and am excited about the possibility of building a significant relationship between us. I’m highly attracted to you and eager for the day we make love. If you feel the same way, we should enjoy the build up and not take things too quickly. Don’t worry. I won’t make you wait forever—just long enough to be confident that our hearts are equally invested. Fair enough?’”

“Wow. Can you print that on a note card for me?”

“Stop it, silly. Ad lib and he’ll find your sincerity refreshing … or, you’ll be back tomorrow for my consolation services.”

Older women are typically more skilled.

Don’t you love people watching? It’s my favorite spectator sport. While the MLB was having, arguably, its most exciting game in history, my fellow imbibers and I discussed mating strategies.

The prime subject was a fifty-ish woman with the usual (blond, bubble lips, boob-a-mungus). Her strategy, however, was a curious one. While sipping her vodka, she opened her suitcase-sized satchel and deployed her lure: a lollipop. Perhaps, when scientists come up with a way to create  Maker’s Mark suckers, I’ll indulge. Hers was some reddish flavor, which matched her shiny lips. A female friend from the junior squad made the first comment.

“Do older women just love to give head or what?”

“Wow! Quite a sweeping generalization. Where did that come from?”

“Tell me you haven’t noticed Barbie-Plus-Twenty mouth-fucking her candy over there.”

“Yes, I may have, now that you mentioned it.”

“Right. So, answer my question.”

“First, let me respond by saying, ‘I sure hope so.’ Second, I think your question is best rephrased as, ‘Why do most older women love to give head?’”

“Fine. Why?”

This is one of those questions where my brutal honesty gets me into hot water—alone. After consulting my cougar manual, I provided the following reasons why one would have exceptional oral desires and skills:

1. She wants to give her man exceptional pleasure. (Well, duh.)
2. She realizes (Oh boy, how do I keep this one PG-13?) her engine oil is down a pint, as it would be on any classic machine, and she is providing additional lubrication to allow the piston to move freely without causing friction damage—affectionately referred to as “pink-socking.” (Calling you a pig would be an insult to pigs.)
3. She has had lots more practice, young Asshopper. (What?)
4. Her exceptional skills will distract from the bloody wreck below the neck. (That’s mean-spirited.)
5. She finally admits that her quickest route to O-town requires the man to go down. Therefore, she is giving him a not-so-subtle hint that reciprocation will be required if he ever wants to receive another sheet-clenching, back-arching, ab-cramping, mental-sparks-a-flying BJ. (I’m assuming you’ve had one?)

Whatever her reason was, spinning a lollipop between her plumped lips looked odd. I’m not sure I would have enjoyed it any more if she were Rihanna. Similarly, it doesn’t give me vicarious turgidity when I see a woman eating a banana, Popsicle, or hot dog. Any stimulation that begins, ends with the inevitable bite. My penis is not food. I’d like to think of Willy more like a straw than a Rocket Pop.

Do people overanalyze you?

Do you hate being evaluated and diagnosed for flaws you can’t perceive? If someone has a problem with something about you, it’s her problem, not yours. If he insists you should eat, wear, or do something, he ought to mind his own beeswax.

I receive constant analyses, especially from females who happen to be occupado. They usually do this by talking about me in front of me. Rude! At least when I write my sarcastic generalizations I’m not naming people directly. I protect the guilty by changing the names. These self-proclaimed relationship experts pound away at my psyche without the common decency to do so behind my back.

“Phil’s problem is he has a closed heart.”

“I'm right here! What the fuck does that mean?”

“I’m not talking to you. Would you agree, Sheila?”

“Hm. Perhaps. Somebody probably broke his heart into itsy bitsy pieces.”

“That’s untrue! Hey!”

“No doubt. Now he’s all guarded and alone. He won’t let anyone in because he’s scared. Poor thing.”

“I’m so not fucking scared.”

“I agree. I wonder what she did to him. She probably cheated on him.”

“What?”

“Ah, yes, complete ego destruction. So, now he doesn’t trust anyone—hence, the recluse and his cats.”

“You leave them out of this.”

“Or maybe it stems from some childhood tragedy.”

“Yeah, he probably left a valentine in a girl’s desk and she laughed about it and tore it up in front of the entire class.”

“Wait … what?”

“He’s probably turned away dozens of women who would be ideal partners. How sad is that?”

“So sad. He’s probably like the rest of the forty-plus men around here who never grow up and waste their time chase young girls around.”

“I love ALL women, not just the lovely, young, firm, tight, unspoiled ones.”

“When will he learn?”

“Maybe never. I can picture him hunched over in the corner of the diner with his morning paper and no companion.”

“Fuck, I do that now.”

“Women shouldn’t waste their time with him anyway. I mean, he’s fit and cute, but not worth the effort.”

“He does appear to have slimmed down and toned up, though.”

“Yeah. Hey, Phil, do us a favor and stand up for a second.”

“Why?”

“We’d like to check your butt out. Lift your shirt too.”

“I’m not ashamed, damn it. Fine.”

“Not bad. Almost time for a trim, I’d say. Grab his ass, Laura, and see if he has been keeping up with his lunges.”

“Sure, let me see. Hm. Decent. Did you just flex your butt, Phil? Admit it.”

“Oh … my … god! I am not a piece of meat.”

“Yes you are.”

Why do I defend myself? I should ignore the barbs and concentrate on The World Series. What do I care if women think my heart is closed? Damn it. What’s my alternative? Should I bounce around the bar with bouquets of flowers asking ladies to invade my heart and my life? Yuck. Sure, I’m flawed, but at least I can live with myself.

Why is gray hair sexy only on men?

A little darling commented about my chin fuzz saying she liked my “salt and pepper” look. Why? Does the white in my beard suggest that I am a wise elder or, perhaps, God-like? (All the pictures I see of God show Him pre-Grecian.) There’s a term floating around for sexy, older men: Silver Fox. Hm. I don’t know. When I see one of these men I think, There goes Blue Pill Bill. Then, I realize Bill probably has the same impression of me.

It’s an interesting distinction between men and women regarding hair color. When a woman encounters a Silver Fox, she finds him sexy not because of his hair color, but in spite of it. Gray hair doesn’t imply the man is unfit, physically or emotionally. It implies wisdom and maturity.

Put gray hair on a woman and she’s not going to be sexy, no matter who she is. Funny though—it’s not many shades away from the platinum blonde color that distracts men and pushes women up the ten-point scale.

Hair coloring is something completely acceptable and expected for women. Maybe that’s part of the turnoff: If she allows her hair to gray naturally, she’s not concerned about being attractive, so why should I be attracted? If men color their hair, people see it as silly and vain (except for hair stylists and hair product salespeople.)

“Have you ever considered coloring your goatee?”

“Yes. In fact, I actually bought the stuff once.”

“Did you try it?”

“Nope. I couldn’t bring myself to do it and deal with all the barbs. People would start paying me compliments, which would cause me to lie: ‘Oh, you look great. Something’s different.’ ‘Did you lose weight?’ ‘Is that a new shirt?’”

“Why wouldn’t you just tell the truth and say you colored your hair?”

“Because that would be seen as a display of low self-confidence and put me in an indefensible position.”

“Not at all.”

“Oh, bullshit. You’d be kind and supportive, but you’d begin wondering if I’m wearing Spanx and eyeliner.”

“Ha, ha. Are you?”

“No, but I am carrying a bratwurst in my pocket. Wanna see it?”

I hear scientists have developed a pill that will turn our hair back to its original color. OK, if everybody does it, fine. I’m sure the pill will have some undesirable side effects. Maybe it will give men the desire to skateboard, play acoustic guitar, and hang out around Apple stores. Great. I’ll have a pill that helps me have sex with women I’m not attracted to, a pill that allows me to eat food that’s not good for me, and a pill to override my reminder to avoid doing things I’m too old to consider.

The Man Can't Control Himself

Stay away from men in high demand. That’s the best advice I could give you, whether you’re a starlet or a high school senior. It applies forever. This doesn’t imply that you have low ambition. It’s common sense. You’re not taking home a piece of art or a sports car. The higher the demand is for your man, the more competition you have and the harder it will be to keep him loyal.

But, don’t just take my word for it. Look around.

No threats will keep a mega-opportunity-having dude from messing up either. Financial threats, limited access to loved ones, eternal damnation, reputation destruction, and physical pain aren’t enough. Why? Because men have fallen behind women on the evolution track.

Women usually think shit through logically and know not to jeopardize long-term satisfaction for short-term gratification. Conversely, as soon as two words make it from his ear to his cortex (“blow” and “job,” if you must ask), the future fades and the man reaches for the cookie jar. Bad boy!

I said this before to Sandra and I’ll say it again to Demi: You need to find a low profile dude who wouldn't risk losing something so unobtainable for momentary bliss.

Think about it. When I walked into the bar tonight, two people were happy to see me, and neither one would ever consider sleeping with me—yes, the bartenders. The rest of the patrons may have noticed me and, heck, a woman looking to breed may have even raised an eyebrow at my fashionable jeans. Yet, no vaginas were tossed my way.

Now, if Ashton walked into the same establishment, practically every available coochie-toter in the place would suddenly be an option and, thus, a temptation. It takes too much to override that sensation. The male ego rises above common sense and creates an insensitive prick. The dude knows that if he were to plop two of these women into a hot tub, very little good could come of it. He knows the likelihood that one or both of those vixens will sprint to the nearest tabloid and cash in at his expense. He knows the hour-long boffapaloosa could never be worth the torment he’ll receive from the media, his wife, and family. He knows the potential financial devastation and total career destruction could be cataclysmic.

It won’t matter.

Here’s the oddest thing to me: The parts on the strange woman are going to feel remarkably similar to those on the woman he has waiting for him at home. The excitement coming from the naughtiness might make it slightly better—because, naturally, some of the passion faded at home—but not substantially. Less than ten seconds after he ejaculates, he’ll begin to regret what he did and wonder how he could be so stupid. Then he’ll go into justification, panic, and damage control modes. He’ll swear that if he’s lucky enough to get away with it he’ll never do it again. (Really?)

Go slumming, my dear. Find yourself a man who’s way out of your league—to the downside. Make sure he knows you’re way of it his league—to the upside. Then you have a fighting chance of keeping your puppy in your yard. Otherwise, don’t be surprised when you hear his lies.

What to do if you don’t like a best friend’s boyfriend?

If I’m dating your BFF and you don’t like me, I have some advice for you: Go dry hump a cactus. Ah, just kidding. It would be unrealistic for me to expect everyone to approve of my sarcasm. It’s also too much work to win the approval of people who I didn’t choose as part of my decision to date my woman.

So, what should you do if you do not approve of the man your friend is dating? Here are some suggestions:

• Make sure that your disapproval doesn’t stem from jealousy.
• Get all the facts. Certain physical attributes and skills can override some of the most glaring personality flaws.
• Be supportive of your friend’s decision.
• If you’re convinced that he’s a toad, do some investigative work, and gather evidence before presenting your case. A good place to start is by looking for his profile on popular dating sites. He’s probably lying about his age by five years, minimum, so start there.
• Find excuses to avoid double dates where you would make your disdain for him painfully obvious.
• Keep it to yourself. You’re not dating him so get over it.

Please don’t:

• Sleep with him to discover what she sees in him.
• Threaten him with bodily harm if he doesn’t excuse himself from the relationship.
• Break them up by telling him that she has herpes, hepatitis, and incurable halitosis.
• Schedule an intervention with her, especially on live TV.
• Get her drunk and introduce her to a parade of male alternatives.
• Invite her ex-boyfriend to an event the new boyfriend is attending.

Shouldn’t we be watering and weeding our own lawns, ladies? If your BFF is happy with her man—regardless of how douche-y he is—be happy for her and support her decision. Lord knows she’ll probably be back sipping chardonnay in the circle of singles soon enough. Be supportive and wait until he’s gone before deploying the BFF’s favorite phrase: “You deserve so much better, sweetie.”

I rarely find BFFs who approve of me. How sad is that? BFFs look at me with a certain expression, which has become all too familiar. It’s hard to describe in print though. If I made the face, you’d recognize it.

You can replicate the look. Go stand in front of a mirror and imagine at the foot of your bed is the most amazing pair of shoes you’ve ever seen. They’ll go with everything. When you tried them on, they made your butt pop, and wearing them was like walking on a velvety cloud of (synthetic) mink fur. Got it? They were too expensive, but you couldn’t let them go. You splurged and bought them. You can’t wait to don them this weekend and be the envy of your tribe. Aren’t they marvelous? OK, now imagine finding an uncle ejaculating upon them. Quick, note your expression. Yep, that’s the one.

The Nicest Guy and His Lonely Penis - Free eBook

This isn't your average self-help book filled with good news and inspirational tales nudging you toward your soul mate. This is reality, folks, and it's funny as hell. Enjoy this collection of essays from Phil's numerous works detailing the relationship disasters that have him considering a third cat.

Pick it up for FREE here:
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/96276

I don’t want anything F’d out of me.

I’m sorry. I'd rather not have anything F’d out of me, aside from the obvious. Is that odd? Why do people use such terms?

“I’m going to F his brains out.”

“I’ll F the S out of her.”

It sounds somewhat gross to me. Naturally, I’m taking things too literally as I often do. My mind ventures into a scene where she’s bouncing away on top of me as the mattress squeals and I try to hold in my Orange Chicken. Finally, she has overwhelmed me, I lose control, and crap the sheets while a tiny bit of brain shoots from my ear onto the nightstand.

“There. I told you. I just F’d the S out of you and banged your brains out.”

“You’re proud of this?”

“Yes.”

“Look, there are so many other S-words I wouldn’t mind F’d from me. There’s sperm, semen, sweat, snot, and even spit. Of all the S-words, why that one?”

“It’s just a figure of speech. You don’t want me to say I’ll F the sperm out of you, do you?”

“Not if you’re ovulating.”

“You know what I mean.”

“It all sounds odd and unfair. Conversely, I can’t F anything out of you, can I?”

“I guess not. Well, a baby, but that’s a delayed reaction.”

“Horrors.”

“I guess some women ejaculate, so it is possible.”

“Great. Next time I’ll warm you up by saying I’m going to F the milky white pussy snot out of you.”

“Lovely.”

Quiet lovemaking is what I long for: no words—just moans, grunts, and sighs. I’ll give a pass to directions. We could all use those. Future bedmates, take all the liberties you want with “To the left, right, harder, softer, faster, slower, and kindly get the F off my hair.” Please don’t F anything out of me. Please don’t refer to me as Papi or Daddy and don’t refer to yourself as a bad girl, slut, ’ho, or a dirty anything. Keep it clean!

Ground Down - Should marriages last forever?

Do you find some people wear you down over time? The tiny quirks shrugged away early in the relationship eventually become festering boils. We all seek companionship, yet it seems we’re not setup to tolerate the same people and situations for long. Comfort wears thin.

I recall my grandparents on my father’s side and their weekly visits. The performance changed little each time. Grandpop sat in a recliner staring into space, swirling his Seagrams while Nana kibitzed and helped Mom in the kitchen. I was just a kid but I vividly remember the look on Grandpop's face. It was as if he were sedated, trapped in a room without an exit, and seriously contemplating how peaceful death would be.

What do I know? As I said, I was only a kid.

Every few minutes he’d instinctively defend himself, say something, and endure another lashing. If he ignored the wife, she said he never listened. If he voiced his opinion, she called him derogatory names in Italian (stugots). I assume my pop was used to the banter because it didn’t affect him. My mother dried the next dish and brought her husband another Bud.

I watched and wondered: Isn’t marriage supposed to be a happy union? Where’s the love and affection? I’d rather be alone than in misery. Maybe watching this scene damaged me—more than Linda Blair pissing on the floor in The Exorcist.

When my Nana passed, an interesting thing happened—Grandpop suddenly came back to life. His slouching shoulders squared, his subdued voice boomed, and his glassy stare cleared. The quick recovery, apparently, also involved another woman. The relatives were disturbed. It seems by their standards he hadn’t mourned sufficiently. (Nobody can set your time limit for mourning. You’re done when you’re done.) This new woman was regarded as evil. Nobody understood how he could go there so soon.

I didn’t see it that way. Sure, he loved his wife and shared decades of memories with her. Still, the air between them grew stale, as it often does between couples who have been together forever (although most won’t admit it). He didn’t kill his wife. She was oblivious to how the relationship was slowly killing him. Her departure was serendipitous. What a contrast to the formulaic scenes in romance films.

I blame the social pressures around the permanence of marriage. It works against nature. It must. Look at the statistics. Of the happily married minority, half of them are lying and heading down the dark path that consumed my grandfather. Most happy marriages have expiration dates, whether stamped on the certificate or not.

Why be sad about it? If your relationship continues blossoming in the fall, that’s awesome! If it doesn’t, might as well get back in line and try again. You should be improving along the way. Consider your past relationships as reps and sets towards strengthening your emotional fitness.

Let’s pledge to leave before we become zombies. Whether it’s a spouse, a job, or your hometown—when things start breaking bad, don’t be sad. Break away.