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Thank you!

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.

She woke up with a wiener.

A woman I met last night told me she had a recent dream where she had a penis (attached) for twenty-four hours. I knew where her story was heading, but joined her for the ride anyway.

"The first thing I thought was, Wow, I have this thing now. What should I do with it?"
"When you find out, let me know."
"Seriously. I decided to find a place to put it that would feel the best."
"Technically, you'd need to put it there and remove it numerous times."
"Yes, I know. So, I figured a vagina would be nice."
"Indeed."
"Ah, but what kind of vagina?"
"Kind? You mean size? Shape? Age?"
"Well, sure, but which vagina would make my penis feel the best."
"One that fits snugly."
"Right again!"
"I'm so perceptive. You'd be tempted to think I have a penis."
"I bet you do."
"All right. Continue."
"I wondered if a petite woman would be best. You know--smaller and tighter."
"Not always true. A friend of mine once observed, 'Big women have big pussies. Little women ... all pussy.'"
"Right. Then I wondered if an athletic woman would be ideal. If she's firm and works out often, chances are ..."
"Nope."
"Ah, the key is to find a virgin. If my penis is the first one there, it won't be all stretched out. It should fit like a glove."
"Yes, but pain and bleeding on the recipient's end will make the experience less enjoyable. Plus, the sheets--you need to consider the sheets, and whether you have peroxide handy."
"Good to know. Then I decided to find a porn star. She'd be skilled in the fine art of penis handling. That should feel wonderful."
"Fine, but you don't often find porn stars in your local pub."
"True, and I only have twenty-four hours. Guess I could find someone similarly skilled, like a prostitute."
"Then you and your penis could wind up in the clink, and that's not a great place to have a penis."
"Indeed. Time was running out, and I kept asking my male friends for advice. I was becoming more desperate, and they were of little help. One suggested my hand would be a convenient fit."
"Yep. Then, at least your desperation should subside, while you think about something other than vagina for an hour or so."
"A hand can't possibly feel as good as a vagina, can it?"
"No, but it eliminates most of the investing, begging, apologizing, and such."
"My time with my penis was nearly finished, so I went to a bar and smiled, chatted, and flirted with every woman I found, trying to find any vagina. It was as if the women sensed my desperation. The harder I tried, the more I drifted from my goal."
*Sniff*
"I even tried hitting on the bartenders and servers, to no avail. I grew tired, but determined to find a warm place for my penis, I stayed until last call. Surely, there would be an inebriated woman with sufficiently lowered standards to accept my penis."
"And?"
"Nothing. I went home, climbed in bed, and fell asleep before I remembered to masturbate."
"Welcome to my world."
"I woke up without a penis and felt a like big weight was lifted from my shoulders."
"See? Penis is overrated. It's not a man's world after all."
"Would you and your cursed penis like a drink?"
"Yes, we would ... and a kiss, please."
"Don't push it."
*Sigh*

How NOT to deliver criticism.

NOTE: I apologize to my friends who are bored by this silly battle between a group of vampire fantasy authors and me. I'll try to make this my final post on the subject.

Background: A fellow author posted a negative review (2 of 5 stars) on my book. I read her book (did not make it all the way through) and posted a 1-star review because I felt the book earned it, and to make my point that authors should not criticize each other in a public forum where it could hurt sales and livelihoods. Point was made. We both removed our reviews.

Then, some uppity authors (probably friends of hers) decided to pile on by trashing me on their blogs. They hurled personal insults and criticized my writing. If they did this to get attention, I'd understand the motive. I won't mention the blogs or people specifically, as they don't deserve the exposure.

The most pompous of the asses slams me for mixing a past tense sentence in a present tense paragraph. Here is his biography on Smashwords. How many tenses are in this?

"[asshole's woman's name removed] has a doctorate in English literature.
[shithead's name removed] was in the Navy for more than fourteen years, both enlisted and as an officer, before he cashed out and started writing. Together, she and [fartbag's name removed] have written more than thirty sf/f books. They live in Colebrook, New Hampshire."

After seeing his picture, I realize there's no insult I could hurl that would exceed the severity of the one his ancestors delivered. Ooh-fah!

Perhaps I should explain my stance about authors posting negative reviews (as in below average or highly critical) with an analogy:

If a chef of a popular restaurant visited a rival restaurant, dined there, and then published a negative review of the rival's chef, how would that be perceived? Jealousy, right? Even if the food was sub-par, the chef is out of line. Would it be less egregious if that review were posted by the restaurant owner? I think not. If that chef were to speak in person to the rival's chef and suggest another way of caramelizing onions, that could be respectable, if done tactfully.

This scenario applies to most professions. Heck, it even applies to parenting. Don't you cringe when you see a parent scold a child in public? Must children be forced to learn through embarrassment? Jeez, I hope not.

So, people, please exercise restraint when criticizing others in a public forum. It's not nice, and you're not going to correct anyone by embarrassing them or damaging their livelihoods.

Since I get to have the last word in this (it is my blog), and I know the jealous author who attacked me will read this, here you go:

"Fuck you, Mr. M--the mule you rode in on, the tic on its ass, the flea on the tic's ass, and the microbe on the flea's ass."

See, I learned nothing from you--still mixed case.

Lies, lies, lies, yeah!

Isn't it more fun to be surrounded by smiling people? People who like you. People who, occasionally, will grab the bartender's attention and say, "Hey, Joe, I'd like to buy my friend here a tall libation." Consider your compliments to be wise investments. Nobody says they need to be truthful. In fact, sometimes the truth hurts, which results in a beverage bath instead of a buzz.

So, be nice and lie.

"Hello, there. My, what lovely eyes you have."
"Thank you."
"Say, do your parents work at Snapple?"
"What? No. Why?"
"Because it looks to me like you're made from the best things on earth."

OK, don't overdo it.

"Wow, I love your necklace."
"You're staring at my tits."
"What tits?"
"These tits."
"Oh. Well, now that you've pointed them out, might I add that your breasts are outstanding, and they go well with your necklace."

More subtlety, perhaps.

"What do you for a living?"
"I have two children under five."
"Ah, you supervise drunk hobbits."
"Sometimes it seems that way."
"Well, that's the most important job on the planet. You deserve a raise."
"That's what I keep telling my ex."
"Doesn't it make you want to fuck the daylights out of some stranger you met at a bar ... to get back him?"

That's a lottery statement: big payoff, but slim chances.

"Gosh, how do you keep your skin so soft and lovely?"
"I moisturize."
"How do you get those hard-to-reach places?"
"Really?"
"I'm simply offering my services for the sake of your skin. I detect a bit of dryness along your spine."
"Actually I squirt lotion on the wall of the shower and rub my back on it like a cat in heat."
"That's hot."

Or not.

"You must spend half your day here at the gym, to maintain a body like that."
"I'm here often, yes."
"Have you considered becoming a personal trainer?"
"No."
"How many pushups can you do?"
"I don't know."
"Do you do yoga?"
"No."
"Twilight or True Blood?"
"What?"
"Do you want to make-out?"

Fine. I need more practice.

P.S. You're the smartest, sexiest, and kindest reader I have. Just sayin'.

Proven: Controversy Sells!

When I saw all the negative reviews come in on E. L. James' Fifty Shades books as the sales shot up, I had a feeling the controversy was driving them. Heck, it persuaded me to buy them. I was tempted to send my books to reviewers I knew would be highly offended (Sunday-morning people) in order to feed my evil machine. But first, I needed to perform an experiment: Write a controversial post. Not highly controversial, mind you--mildly. Sure enough, that post increased my blog traffic over 500% and drove a great week of book sales.

(Sure, it caused some neglected housewives to blog out their sexual frustration on someone not financially supporting them: me. Bring it, you lonely windbags, I can take it.)

Time to step it up. Daddy's hungry for filet and top shelf bourbon. More controversy must be served! OK, let's see how many controversial statements I can make in one blog post. Let the gasping begin.

1. Obama is the best president of all time, and he should replace that dope Franklin on the hundy.
2. Gay people are better dressers, less obese, and more sexual than straighties.
3. Abortion is a much better option than dick-numbing condoms.
4. Steroids make sports interesting.
5. (Stand back. I'm going to use the N-word now.) Nipples need nibbles.
6. Dogs that bark should be baked at 350 degrees and served with cabbage.
7. Wine is for pussies, especially white wine. ({}) <--- My sign for a large, stinky pussy.
8. We don't pay enough tax. I want banked fucking turns and gold-plated curbs on my street.
9. Bring back the Humvee, and this time make it bigger.
10. God lives in an poppy patch, where She reads her Kindle and farts a lot.
11. Whiny children should be locked in closets and fed celery.
12. French people are kind.
13. Bloggers are doo-doo heads. Um, wait--except me.
14. Professors should be having sex with their students in order to "teach" them the proper ways to have sex.
15. Stop signs are merely suggestions, especially when you have to pee.
16. The inside of a vagina is no prettier than an uncircumcised cock.
17. Hiney sex is fun, especially in the bathtub.
18. Fat people are happier.
19. The Tour de France needs weapons.
20. Cats are way fucking smarter than most humans, especially ones from Pennsyltucky.
21. Nothing is better than a blowjob ... nothing.
22. The drinking age should lowered to two and pot should be handed out like coffee sleeves.
23. Cocaine smells good.
24. Bald isn't beautiful, it's fucking regal.
25. People who post negative comments on my blog are fat-tongued, yeast-infested, jiz guzzlers.

There you go. Every statement comes directly from my loving heart. I guess that makes me wicked. I should be punished, yes? Don't you ignore me! I'll never learn if you do. Let me have it, you mindless rube. ( ! ) <--- That's me mooning you. Nyah, nyah. (I'm dancing, doing the twist right now, with my tongue out.)

Oh, come on already. Jeez, you are stupid. Just go up there to the top-right and type in "random insult generator" in the search box, if you need help. Christ, must I do everything?

ABC Announces the Next Bachelor: Satan

In light of recent seasons featuring too much sobbing and not nearly enough violence, ABC has decided to cast none other than the Prince of Darkness to get rating backs where they belong.

“Recent contestants have caused numerous douche chills with their incessant whining and blubbering,” according to independent TV ratings. “Female viewers seem turned off by high hair, hairless chests with little-boy nipples, and runny noses. It’s obviously time to insert a bad boy.”

And, who could fill the role better than the angry beast from Hades? We stopped by his steamy pad in the bowels of the earth, and interviewed the new bachelor (AKA Jimmy Mac) about his role.

“So, Mac, what are your expectations for this season?”
“I’ll tell ya one thing for sure: There will be lots of fuckin’.”
“Wow. Anything else?”
“I may gnaw some toes off the ones who annoy me, and slap others with a trout. It all depends on my mood.”
“Is there anyone you’re hoping to connect with?”
“Well, since that horse-lipped hedge-head Ben stole Courtney away, I’m not confident the talent will be up to my standards. Courtney would have made the perfect bride. Damn it. Guess I’ll wait until she breaks down and starts hitting the pipe. Hey, speaking of chicks on that slippery slope to rehab, where’s Vienna?”

ABC has been silent about who the contestants will be, but they did leak three of the names to whet the media’s appetite. Here’s your first look at who might wind up your Princess of Darkness.

Raychel - She’s a blogger from down under who enjoys casting imaginary spells and mashing vegemite into her forehead.

Robbin - Known for her uncanny ability to stuff an entire beer bottle (not a twelve, yo--a forty) into her baby hole, this one must be an early favorite.

Susie - This bulbous skank from Kentucky has been preparing to suckle Satan by ingesting gallons of horse semen before each derby.

Some of the romantic destinations for dream dates allegedly include a rest stop in Idaho, a Dumpster behind Taco Bell in Tijuana, and a large medical waste container containing aborted fetuses and Larry King’s scrotum.

It will be a season to remember.

Form letter to a person who is annoying you.

This is a wonderful stress relief exercise. I bring it to you free of charge. No expensive webinars from me. No, sir. Copy and paste this document, and select the words that are most appropriate. Once complete, print it out, read it aloud, and shred it. (People have guns and lawyers.)

Dear [insert name of ex/colleague/critic/neighbor/random ass-hat],

This is not about you; it's about me. I'm venting.

Gee, golly, you are annoying the [living/freaking] [piss/shit/heck] out of me. You probably don't realize it, because you are an oblivious [pee-tard/monkey/lump of pus] who lives in [her/his] own [little/smelly/flea-ridden] world. If you would care to look beyond your own [enlarged/pocked/greasy/deviated] nose, you'd notice fellow passengers on this blue marble, to which you claim ownership. We don't [like/respect/have any use for] you.

Have you ever ridden the [subway/bus]? You know that odoriferous slob who always seems to select the vacant seat next to you? The one who showers monthly, at best, and talks to himself. Yep. That's you--figuratively--on this ride of life.

There are numerous traits I detest about you, beginning with the fact that you're so oblivious that you will deny all of them. How doth thou annoy me? Let me count the ways.

[Insert all that apply.]

• You whine when I don't answer your [call/text/email] immediately, yet your phone seems to be dead more often than Kenny from South Park.
• You never pay your fair share of the bill, which--oh, by the way--includes little things you may have heard of called tax and gratuity.
• You've told me the same fucking story five times and, although it has changed slightly each time, it has not improved.
• You've tagged me in unflattering Facebook photos numerous times, although I've asked you not to. You think it's funny. You think I'm kidding. I'm not.
• Speaking of Facebook, one more status update from you about going shopping, and I'm going to begin hurling expensive china.
• You whistle off-key.
• Stop trying to borrow my [Chapstick/lip gloss/eyeliner/deodorant]. It's gross.
• You use the word "like" so often that you make me want to stab my ears with a cocktail fork.
• Your [pet/baby/boyfriend/girlfriend] is so not cute. You're either blind or doing ugly-care community service.
• You tell enough white lies to coat a ski jump.
• You have no idea what personal space is.
• It takes you half an hour to decide what to order, then you customize it excessively, and send it back to the kitchen, where I hope they spit in it.

Now, please stop annoying me, you [lame, brain-dead, ugolicious, rectum-sniffing smegma eater/festering, puke-inducing, smelly-crotched bumwipe/vermin-ridden, anti-genius, vomitrocious ape-face].

Yours,
[Sign and date here.]
Grumpy

P.S. Have a nice day! ;)

When you forgive, you encourage bad behavior.

Forgiveness sucks; give it up. I don't care what ancient texts say. We are ruled by Nature, and Nature does not forgive. The squeaky wheel that gets greased will be squeaking again soon. Best to replace that wheel. You don't need to be angry about it or hold a grudge. Forget the pain of the slander, but remember the slanderer.

If you don't deliver the punishment deserved, the next person will be adversely affected because the misbehaving party hasn't learned to behave.

Let's think of some things men do in a relationship, which deserve punishment but are often forgiven:

1. Checking out or flirting with other women in your presence.
2. Slobbery, including not putting away his toys, leaving dishes around, creating dirty laundry mountains, and expecting accolades for a loud belch or fart.
3. Forgetting important dates.
4. Communicating with an ex.
5. Creating an orgasm tally imbalance.

You can't forgive these grievances, my sweet, or they will continue and grow more severe.

This applies to platonic relationships as well. On my twice-weekly commute into the city, often I am stuck next to a man who has some sort of problem with his nose. This, mind you, has been going on for months. He sits near me, takes out his iPhone, tilts his head down, and begins playing some pointless game. Since his head is tilted down and he has a leaky noggin, he performs a snot symphony for the entire forty-minute ride.

*Sniff, Snort, Sniff, Gulp, Sniff, Cough, Snort*

I'm not allowed to euthanize him, oh, but I fantasize about it--sliding that needle into a vein while he sniffs and whimpers. One final gurgle, then off to the glue factory for Mr. Boogers.

Since his parents, friends, and (horrors, if such things exist) ex-girlfriends have forgiven this behavior instead of stuffing cotton up his nose and swatting him with a rolled-up magazine, we, the disgusted commuters, must endure this nonsense.

Another example close to my black heart is the way some fellow authors behave. As authors, we consume a large share of written media to see what is selling and why. It guides our work. Do we enjoy everything we read? Hell no. When we dislike something we read, we need to make the following distinction:

1. Does this suck because I don't enjoy this subject, whereas certainly others would?
2. Does this suck because it is horribly written?

In scenario #1, it's best to stop reading and move on without providing feedback or negative reviews, because authors, of all people, should realize that authors need to eat, and it's plain wrong to hurt sales due to a mismatch in tastes or preferences.

In scenario #2, it's best to provide PRIVATE feedback and suggestions directly to the author. Again, a bad review won't help correct the problem; it will just create hatred and embarrassment.

A fellow author has left a nasty review on one of my books. (See Rachel's review here.) If I forgive her, she'll do this to others. Instead, I'm going to read one of her books (already started and it is god-awful, as expected) and trash the shit out of her in a public forum by posting a one-star review. I also have a social media army I can enlist to assist me in the defensive assault. I hope she learns that her bad behavior must cease.

So, the next time someone offends you, pause to see if the offense was accidental. If it was intentional, don't forgive--punish.

NOT to do list for new relationships.

A friend is visiting from back east this week. She met a man on a dating site. They had some online banter, and she requested more pictures from him, since the ones on his profile were mostly head shots. That's a reasonable request, right? He asked for her mobile phone number so he could send the pictures. She complied. He sent (attached) a self portrait naked in bed. With the corny caption: "*Stretch, Yawn* Do I have to get up? G' mornin'."

What do you predict her reaction was?

1. "Damn, that's hot! Wish I were there to get you up."
2. A picture of herself naked.
3. Lose my number, quick.

If you chose #3, you were correct.

This is a grown man who needs to be schooled on dating etiquette. He sent this picture to one woman. How many people does he assume have seen it? Probably one. In reality, she has shown dozens, and I just posted it here to thousands. Now, this guy quite possibly has a massive ego and is unfazed and flattered by the spread of his nonsense. If nobody calls him on it, he'll continue doing it. I'm confident he will eventually find a woman who finds it sexy. Maybe he's strong enough to shrug off the misfires until he meets that woman.

"Dude. I'm sorry, but it's just creepy," is what I'd like to tell him.

Another thing people tend to do early in relationships is mention an ex. Bad move--not sometimes, every time. If you trash your ex to your next, you're showing the person you haven't healed. How many times have you had boyfriend wind up back with the ex he trashed thoroughly? It happens all the time, Sugartoe.

"I can't believe he went back to her."
"How do you know he did?"
"He friended her on Facebook and is tagged in photos with her."
"OK, that's slightly stalkerish on your part."
"It came up on my wall."
"Bull poopers. Don't go looking for dirt if you don't want to get dirty."
"He said all sorts of awful things about her, including how crazy, controlling, and sexually dull she was. Why would he go back to that?"
"Because she's really not all those things. He described her that way to justify the split to himself and to disarm you in case she appears in the vicinity."

If he speaks too highly of his ex, this also waves the yellow flag of caution. It could signal that he's not over her. This puts the new woman in a defensive posture and ruins the game.

This, among other reasons, is why exes should not come up in conversation. Exes are like sewage treatment plants: We all know they're around, but nobody wants to visit them.

Reasons you should consider the old dog at the shelter.

Since I'm single and an exceptional wingman, I enjoy a great view of mating dances from behind bars.

You've been to the animal shelter, right? You're checking out the cute, yet sad animals in the cages, trying to decide which to save. There are spunky puppies yapping and playing. You like those. There are tired, lonely dogs lying at the base, staring up at you. Sad. Over in that far corner, in his dusty cage is an older dog, calmly gnawing on hide. He winks at you. He's cute, but you want a puppy.

"Aw, look at this old fella."
Yeah. I'm flattered. Move along.
"I wonder if anyone will adopt him."
Doubtful, but that's OK.
"He'd probably make a good companion."
Well, that depends. Would you?
"I'm sure he's housebroken."
I chew what I should and I shit where I should.
"He looks tired, though. He's probably not very playful."
No, I'm not going to chase a fucking flying plastic disc.
"The last two puppies I took home drove me crazy. I probably should consider a well-trained grown dog."
But, you won't, because you haven't been trained.
"I think I'm going to get the puppy."

It's the same silliness in human adoption. I'm not claiming all older men are better-trained. We grasp for the games of youth and pay the price, occasionally. Still, if you take home a puppy, you're going to have your hands full.

Part of the blame for this masochistic tendency is the way the media glorifies romance. Women create lists of attributes they must have in a man, including:

• Tall
• Dark-skinned
• Defined abs
• Good job, his own home, no roommates, and a nice car.
• Believes in a similar diety.
• No ex he's not over.
• Close-knit family.
• Within five years of my age.
• Likes pets.
• Is available to see me when I'm available.

Naturally, they meet someone outside this range and consider filing a waiver. The friend reminds them about the list, insisting "it would never work out." So, they walk past the old dog's cage and pick up the trainable puppy. Let the shoe chewing begin.

Women are all caught up in the impression they give to society, so they worry about being with the mature dog and being labelled as a gold-digger who has daddy issues. Pity. Have fun with that, sweetness. I've grown to enjoy my shelter, with or without you.

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Fifteen

On the day of my uprising, I pick up my clown costume, makeup, and a large banner. I take it all to Bea's office so she can put my face on. Eric greets me as I enter.

"How are you, Mormon?"
"Insanity in progress, and today should prove it. Make sure you watch the news tonight. Did you get in contact with Matt from Fox?"
"You bet. Here's his mobile. He said to text him when ready."
"You are the man, Eric."
"... but, I'll play the woman, occasionally."
"TMI."
"Something looks different on you. Have you lost weight?"
"I shaved."
"Ah, sexy."
"Thank you."

Bea greets me and we go into her office. Ah, this is where the lovin' started.

"OK, babyface, what are you up to?" she asks.
"I'd rather not say. This way, if my plot blows up, you won't be implicated. But, if this goes as planned, Chris will get his comeuppance."
"Ooh, you said 'come.'"
"Behave. I need you to put this clown makeup on my face."
"Hm, never had sex with a clown."
"All right. Do this and my red nose and I will fuck you silly."
"Yes!"

Bea does a great job making my face match my maniacal thoughts. Naturally, she mounts me the second I finish putting on the costume.

"Leave that zipper down, Uncle M. You promised."
"All aboard, Lovergirl," I demand.

The clown outfit is ridiculous: over-sized, white shoes, silver argyle socks, a black and white jumpsuit rolled up to my knees, a silver wig, and a black top hat. I hope I don't cause any accidents on the way downtown.

When I arrive at the Park & Ride, most of the kids are already there, playing catch in the parking lot. I'm wisely armed with candy, which I hand out while greeting the kids. My friend, Jeff, doesn't recognize me.

"Hi, did Mormon hire ... oh, Jesus."
"What do you think?"
"You have completely lost your mind."
"Oh, you haven't seen anything yet," I tease while I honk my toy horn.

The limo bus arrives and we climb aboard with fourteen kids all hyped up on sugar. We sing, dance, and tell fart jokes on the way to The Grey Towers. I send a text to Matt from Fox as we pull up. 

Mormon: Hey, Matt. Please meet us on the second parking level underground. Look for the black limo bus.
Matt: On our way.
Mormon: Will you be able to use a live feed from there?
Matt: Won't be a problem.
Mormon: Excellent.

When we arrive, I ask the kids to wait in the bus while I open the fun house. I pull the banner from my bag and stick it to the wall. It reads, "Grey's Funhouse," and has a big arrow, which points to the doorway. I pull out my iPhone and cross my fingers as I click the link. I hear the buzzing and unlatching. Yes! I open the door to the Blue Room.

"Come on in, kids!"

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Fourteen

We manage to move most of Bea's and Grandma's belongings into storage, except some nicknacks and furniture they insist upon to make my place less of a bachelor pad. They also request I remove the plastic fruit and stop using my kitchen nook as a giant mailbox.

"What's this contraption?" Grandma asks as she and Bea survey my space.
"A foosball table. Wanna play?"
"I think it would look better in the garage," Bea suggests.
"Oh, definitely," Grandma agrees. "This space needs an antique chaise lounge with a side table and decorative lamp."
"Fine. Can I at least keep the poker table?"
"Well," Bea considers, "perhaps we could make use of that."

The three of us catch Fox 5 News while sipping our morning stimulant. The special guest they have on this morning is none other than his dickiness, Chris.

Host: How are your renovations coming along?
Chris: We're nearly finished with the first phase. As you know, I was the chief architect on the guestroom redesign back in January, and now that I own the building, I plan to return the site to the splendor it once was. The Grey Towers will once again be the crown jewel of San Diego.
Host: That's exciting.
Chris: Indeed. We're making the resort more family friendly as well. If I may, I'd like to invite your viewers to an open house and ribbon cutting event we're hosting on Friday. Bring the kids, as we'll have a bounce house and other fun activities for them. There will be tours of the redesigned suites and pool deck, and complimentary beverages.

A light bulb, while slightly dim in my advanced years, sparks to life in my mind.

"Ugh, he's disgusting," Bea reacts.
"Say, do either of you have any contacts at Fox?" I ask.
"I think Eric is good friends with one of their reporters, Matt," Bea suggests.
"Perfect. See if Eric can put me in touch with him. I have an idea."
"Let's hear it," Grandma insists.
"Let me hash it out a bit more, then I'll run it by you both. Oh, I'll also need a clown costume."
"You're scaring me," Bea laughs.
"Good!"

Bea leaves for the office, and Grandma visits the farmer's market while I write a few more blog entries and work on my plan of vengeance. I call my buddy, Jeff.

"Dude, do you still coach that Little League team?" I ask.
"Yep."
"What ages?"
"Eleven and twelve."
"Perfect. I'm going to rent a bus and take the team to the open house of the former Hyatt. I'll try to get my new pal, Trevor Hoffman, to speak."
"Sounds fun. When is it?"
"Friday at six. Let's all meet at the La Costa Park and Ride at five."
"I'll start contacting the parents."
"They're all welcome too. The more, the merrier."

That arrogant prick is going down.

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Thirteen

It was a difficult night to sleep through with the crazy wedding day we had. Bea is up before me, as usual. She pokes me with a hockey stick to wake me.

"Hey!"
"Get out of bed, husband. We're going to the Ice Arena. I need to blow off some steam."
"Did you just poke me with a stick?"
She jabs me again.
"Let's go. Move it!"
"Jesus. Really? And, why do you have a hockey stick with you here in our honeymoon suite?"
"I don't leave home without it."
"Ugh."

I drag my groggy butt out from under the soft sheets, and slide into board shorts, flip flops, and a T-shirt.

"Ready."
"You're going to skate in that?"
"It's all I have. I wasn't planning on a morning on ice."
"OK, then."

We jump into the Jeep and head to the skating arena. I hate ice skating because I suck at it. In fact, I can't think of anything I suck at that I enjoy. That's why I hate golf too: I suck at it, I don't want to invest the time to suck less, so I don't golf. Well, this is marriage. A man has to learn to compromise or he's going to ride a lonely sofa into the sunset.

At the arena, we strap on skates. Yes, I look ridiculous and I'm half asleep so I don't fucking care.

"Why do we need hockey sticks?" I ask, fearing the worst.
"It's time for Olympic event number four. Canada needs a boost, and I'm pretty confident we can even the medal count with this event."
"All right, hoser, bring it! I predict Italy clinches the series this morning."

We carry our sticks out to the ice. Bea reaches behind the boards, grabs two pucks, and flips them out onto the ice.

"Now what?" I ask while stretching my hamstrings, which ache in anticipation.
"We race around the arena. The first one to skate with the puck around each net three times wins."
"Can't we just have sex in the penalty box or something?"
"Maybe."
"Yes! I forfeit."
"Not so fast. If you beat me, we'll do it in the penalty box."
"You hear that, Pippino? Daddy's getting lucky on ice again."
"Ready? Set? Go!"

She takes off. I manage to fall on my face in two strides. I struggle back to my feet, as I see Bea's lovely butt wiggle, while she kicks up ice shavings. I'm hosed. Before I make it around the first net, she has already cleared the second and is threatening to lap me. She catches me in no time and knocks my stick from my hands as she passes me. Players make it look so easy: You drop your stick, you bend over, you pick it up, you keep skating. I bend over and fall. I get up on one knee, grab the stick, get up, and fall backward, as she approaches to pass me again.

This time I hold my stick tightly. I make it halfway to the second net as she scoots by, throwing a hip into me, which sends the stick and me flying. She steals my puck and fires it into the net behind me as she whips around the final time. I helplessly sit on my clumsy ass as she finishes the third lap and slides to a halt, spraying me with an ice shower from her skates.

"Canada two, Italy two."
"Feel better?" I ask, as I crawl to the boards, and pull myself up.
"I do actually."
"OK. Now let's get out of here and figure out what we're going to do about this Chris situation."
"Not so fast. Get in that penalty box, mister. I'm not done blowing off steam."
Sometimes the silver isn't so bad.
Molto bene!

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Twelve

"May I see that?" I request. Bea hands me the notice. I look at it briefly, then sneeze into it, and crumble it like a tissue. "I'm sorry, I'm allergic to fuckwads. Now, if you wouldn't mind, the missus and I have a life to attend to--a life with lots of love, sex, and children, regardless of our financial situation."

Chris smirks at me, then he and his bodyguard leave. Grandma and Eric are first to console Bea.

"Honey, I'm so sorry," Grandma explains. "I tried everything to block him, but we're too far behind and the bank insisted."
"At least we'll have the proceeds from the sale, right?" Bea asks.
"Actually, there are no proceeds. It was a short sale," Grandma laments. "I'm being tossed out as well. We'll both be homeless for a bit."
"Nobody's going to be homeless. I have plenty of room at my place. I'd be honored to have two guests to try my recipes on."
"He does make a mean french toast," Grandma kids.
"I'll prepare a chore list of each of you, and we'll discuss your allowance."
Bea smiles, finally.
"Hey, let's deal with this tomorrow," I suggest. "It will work out."
"I know, Husband. Eric and I have been working on a project that should solve this predicament," Bea recovers.
"Husband. I like the sound of that, Wife," I assure Bea. I hold her face between my hands, wipe the tears with my thumbs, and kiss her. "Let's save what's left of the day and have fun with our guests."

The sunset reception is wonderful, but Chris floats around the back of my mind. When I visit the bar to freshen my bourbon, Eric joins me.

"So, Eric, tell me about this project you're working on."
"Not yet, Mormon. We need a few more commitments. You'll be blown away, if we can pull this off."
"Well, let me know if there's anything I can do to help."
"I will."
 I don't want my expectant wife to stress over this."
"Agreed. She's a strong woman. She'll be fine."
"Cool. What are you drinking?"
"Lemon drop."
"Refreshing!"

When we sit for dinner, I tease Bea about her dress.

"That was a great fucking idea, right there. You have no idea the butterflies you gave me when you came through that door."
"Aw. I'm so glad you like it."
"We do need to find an air vent, though, so we can have the true Marilyn effect."
"Hm, can't do that."
"Why not?"
"I'm not wearing underwear."
"None?"
"Nope."
"Not even a thong?"
"Commando," she insists as she slides my hand from her knee to her sexiness.
"Here comes the bride ... again," I tease.

We agree to postpone our honeymoon until after we deal with the move. There must be a way to extract Chris from our lives. Our wedding night in the suite is memorable and exhausting. Although the bed is cushy, Lovergirl insists we do it on a wooden chair because "we haven't done that yet." I'll never say no to love, regardless of the playing surface. Still, my sore ass wishes I would be more discerning.

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Eleven

Wedding Day--the happiest day of a person's life, right next to that first taste of Nutella. Eric picks me up, and we make our way downtown to the Hotel Del Coronado. Bea and I will exchange vows on the beach in front of the historic hotel where Some Like it Hot was filmed with Marilyn Monroe.

I'm wearing a black tux with the pants tied off at my knees. I have my signature silver argyle socks beneath them. Who knows what Bea will wear? She's eccentric to say the least, and Eric won't share, although I pry.

"Will you at least tell me the color?"
"Not telling you. Mormon, take my word for it. She'll look fabulous."
"Hey, do we have time for a quick mojito to calm the nerves?"
"Now we're talking."

Eric detours off the highway and we stop at Poseidon in Del Mar--the masters of the mojito. In a few sips, my nerves are calm.

Once we arrive at the Hotel Del, I check in at the front desk. They have our honeymoon suite ready. Bea is there having the final touches applied. Guests are gathering by the pool in the afternoon sun, sipping prosecco. I see my mother chatting with Grandma. I approach them.

"Hello, Ms. A, I see you've met my mother." I greet my mother with a kiss on the cheek. She looks elegant in her powder blue dress. "How was your flight?"
"It was quick, thanks to my Kindle. I finished two books."
"Well done."
"How's your writing coming along?" Mother asks.
"You know," Grandma interrupts, "you should be proud of your son. He's quite a talented blogger."
"Why, thank you, Ms. A. I wasn't aware that you read my blog."
"I enjoy it immensely." Grandma grabs my mother's arm. "He's also an amazing dancer."
Right. Maybe when I'm blotto on tequila and have a third leg strapped to me.
"Really?" my mother reacts.
"You're too kind."

The wedding coordinator directs us all out to the platform on the beach. It's time. Other hotel guests come to the edge of the resort to watch.

I take my position next to the justice. A guitar soloist begins the "Bridal March" song. The guests rise and turn to see the bride. iPhone pictures are snapping away. I see the doors open and catch my first glimpse of Lovergirl being escorted by Eric. Her hair is shorter and she's wearing the famous Marilyn Monroe dress worn over the air vent in The Seven Year Itch. 

Wow!

My eyes water with delight. She's stunning. Eric hands her off to me, and we begin the quick ceremony. We exchange vows we've written for each other, slide rings over fingers, and share our first kiss as wife and husband. Our guests applaud as we turn and wave.

Suddenly, there's a commotion on the beach. Two military Jeeps approach and stop at the base of the platform. A helicopter appears and begins circling above us.

"What's this?" I ask Bea.
"I'm not sure, but I have an idea who it might be."

As the helicopter approaches, blowing sand, I notice a name written on the side: Crispy Salsa, or something. Who names his fucking bird? Only the most pretentious of asses. The copter lands, and Chris emerges with a bodyguard. They approach us. The bodyguard hands an envelope to Bea as I glare at Chris.

"Ma'am, this is a wedding gift from my boss."

She opens it and reads the notice within as she turns pale.

"What is it?"
"An eviction notice. Chris bought the Hyatt. I have ten days to move."

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Ten

I want to spend the night before the wedding with Bea, but she resists due to that crazy custom about seeing the bride on the day of the ceremony. I text to convince her otherwise.

Mormon Silver: I'm going to cook the love of my life dinner and cater to her needs, no matter what day or time it is.
Bea Plastique: You're not seeing me after midnight until I walk the beach into your arms forever.
Mormon Silver: Wow!
Bea Plastique: Not a minute past midnight, Mister.
Mormon Silver: Seriously?
Bea Plastique: It's bad luck.
Mormon Silver: It is not. Come on. I have a wonderful night planned.
Bea Plastique: You have me until 11:59.
Mormon Silver: OK, we'll see. Come over at 7 for dinner. How does Chicken Saltimbocca sound?
Bea Plastique: Delish.

When she arrives I have the table set, candles lit, dinner simmering, honey-butter rolls browning, and Sinatra singing. I also have one more handy ditty I picked up at Hustler: a blindfold. Bea greets me with a kiss and a bottle of my favorite wine: Silver Oak.

"Honey, you didn't have to bring anything. Let's save this until we can have it together."
"Doctor says Gordie and I can have a glass of wine with dinner, no problem," she insists while she pats her little belly.
"OK, one glass with Pippino. After dinner, I have a special dessert planned. It's going to require that you wear this," I instruct as I show her the argyle blindfold.
"Ooh, sexy! I can't wait."

While dining, we chat about tomorrow's ceremony and timing. We agreed to have something intimate with immediate family and close friends only.

"Are you ready, Lovergirl?"
"You bet."
"Give me ten minutes to get things ready upstairs. Be right back."

In my master bath I fill the tub and light vanilla candles around it. I float rose petals and add scented bath salts. I have Bea's favorite shampoo, body wash, and two loofah gloves ready. I undress, put on a robe, and return downstairs to Bea.

"OK, first you need to put this on," I inform as I place the blindfold over her eyes with the strap under her hair. "Come with me." I lead her upstairs. Once in my bedroom, I continue, "Now, let's get you out of these clothes." I kiss her, neck to toes, while undressing her. "I don't want you to have any stress about tomorrow. Everything will be perfect, my love."

Once naked, I lead her to my master bath. The water is trickling, and the scent is exotic. I guide her into the tub slowly. I have a tray of chocolate covered cake pops for snacking.

"Now, I'm going to wash your hair and give you a scalp massage."
"Seems I picked the right man after all."
"Yes, you have."

I wash and rinse her hair, while feeding her bites of cake pops--red velvet, lemon, vanilla, and fudge.

"Ahh. I could take a nap now."
"Not yet, Lovergirl. Scootch up and make room for Uncle M."

I slide into the tub behind her, rub her neck and shoulders, and bathe her slowly with the loofah gloves. We top the session off with a water-sloshing lovemaking session. After soaking in our orgasmic bliss, I get out of the tub while asking her to stay. I retrieve two warm towels from my laundry room and use them to dry my love.

I honor her desires, and walk my wife-to-be out to her car with thirty minutes to spare. Taped to her driver's side door is a gray tie, a calling card from Chris. Too late, buddy. She's all mine.

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Nine

I enjoy a much-needed nap, while the limo driver sits in Starbucks reading the newspaper. I'm startled awake by knocking on the limo door. Probably a homeless dude looking for spare change. I peek and see that it is Bea, so I push the lever and open the doors. Bea enters with two of her friends.

"What's this? Is the party over already?"
"No, it's just beginning," Bea insists. "These are my friends. I believe you already met Emily."
"Yes, the bartender."
"Indeed. She also happens to be from my home town in Canada."
"Nice."
"And, this is Luca."
"Aw, what a nice name," I compliment as I shake her hand. All three women are tipsy. Something strange is about to happen. I sense it.
"Luca is from Naples."
"Ah, bella!" I respond as I turn her hand over and kiss her knuckles. "Wait a minute. Canadian, Italian: Does this have something to do with our Olympics?"
"Yes, it does. These fine ladies are occasional lovers ..."
"Yes! Oops. I mean, oh, how interesting."
"... and they have agreed to participate in our next event. Uncle M, you will be coaching Luca and I will coach Emily."
"All right. Is this the javelin toss?"
"Close. I'm going to need that strap on," Bea informs as she begins undoing my pants again. "Here's how this works: Each participant will take turns strapping on Rex here. The other will be on the receiving end. The one who takes in the most length wins."
"Ha! Impossible!"

Bea removes Cockasaurus Rex from my waist and holds it out. It's huge. No human could ever...

Luca takes Rex from Bea and sneers, "You're going to need a bigger dildo."
"That's my girl."

We turn on Timberlake, dim the lights, and ring the bell. First up is Emily. Luca straps the beast on while Emily lifts her skirt and removes her thong. She conveniently has a tube of Astroglide in her purse, which she applies liberally. Lovergirl sits next to me as we watch the first attempt. The women kneel. Luca holds steady while Emily backs into her.

"There's just no way," I insist.
"Come on, Emily. You can do it."

Luca slides the tip up and down Emily's hungry slit. If she can take the head alone, I'll be impressed. Emily arches, lowers her shoulders, and pushes back into Luca. The entire head enters. Emily's face shows pleasure, not pain, as does Luca's. Luca pulls out a bit and pushes in farther. Emily cringes and gets another inch in, and another, and another. What a trooper, eh?

"That's it, Emily. Oh, Can-a-daaaah ...," Bea sings.

Emily is able to stuff in another inch before she's "full." Luca smirks while Emily dismounts and unstraps. Bea takes Rex and surveys the damage.

"Fucking impressive," I admit.

Bea marks the progress with her lip gloss. The thing is as big as my fist and she got a good six-plus inches in. Italy is doomed.

Emily straps on the beast and glazes some fresh lube on as Luca removes her jeans and undies. She has a quiet, confident look. Luca kneels in front of Emily, doggie-style as well. Emily presses the head again Luca's glistening pussy. Her lips part and she takes the head.

"Yes! Do it," I encourage.

Luca grimaces as she takes inch after inch, but she's an inch shy of the mark, and Rex is bending.

"Hold Rex still, Emily. Come on, Luca."
"No, I can't. It's ... just ... too ... big."
"Are you giving up?" Bea asks, but I interrupt.
"Don't you dare! You can do this, Luca," I encourage as Luca gives me an exasperated glance. "Use the force, Luca."

Luca lowers her chest to the floor, breathes quickly like a woman in labor, and pushes back, taking that final inch plus another for good measure.

Italy 2, Canada 1.

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Eight

Normally, I'd be all heels and elbows as I run from the embarrassing situation. However, the tequila has persuaded me to hoard my shits. Fuck it. I'll dance for the old woman.

Grandma does a double-take, then she recognizes me. The other ladies in the bingo hall begin cheering. I glare at Eric, hop out of the box, and begin gyrating in front of Grandma.

"How did you know it was my birthday, Blobber?" Grandma asks.
"I'm a powerful man with many connections. You shall henceforth address me as Officer Blobber, or I'll be forced to restrain the suspect."
"Eat me," Grandma defies as she gives me the finger and smirks.
"Fine, you asked for it."

I remove the handcuffs from my belt and grab her wrist. She's enjoying this. Ugh. Maybe it's genetic.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say won't matter, as I'm going to grind my man banana into the birthday girl anyway," I tease. Grandma giggles as the others in attendance roar. Eric is encouraging me as I notice his partner open the door to the hall. The parade of bachelorette party people stream in, led by my Lovergirl.

Once Grandma is cuffed, I hop in front of her, flip around, squat my hairy butt down onto her lap, and grind.

"Oh, my," Grandma responds. "I hope you registered at Petco so I can buy you shears for your wedding gift."
"Silence, woman, or I shall gag you!"
"You wouldn't dare. And, what the hell is that thing in your pants? You must be dreaming."

I stand in front or her, then turn and rip my shirt open, sending the buttons flying. I forgot I had my nipples clamped. Good thing I'm numb because I may have just dislocated a gland or two. The women cheer as I do my best impression of a pelvic thrust. By this point, Grandma is in tears laughing. Lovergirl inserts herself between us and begins undoing my belt.

"Oh, Jesus. I wouldn't do that."
"We have to set the beast free, Uncle M," she insists.

She unbuttons, unzips, and yanks down my pants. Out flops the Cockasaurus Rex, which dangles and bops her on the noggin. The women (and gay men) all gasp at the sight of my girthy appendage. I chase the girls in Bea's party around like a kid with a garden hose. Luckily the song runs out before I get too crazy. I'm dizzy and drunk from all the tequila. Still, I'm confident I've won Grandma over in the process.

"Put that thing away and uncuff me, you maniac," Grandma insists.
"Fuck, I don't have any keys. Sorry, you're stuck. Can you hold a bingo blotter in your mouth?"
"I have the keys, Mormon," Eric offers.

I take a bow and dress myself. I attempt to give Grandma a hug.

"Happy birthday, my dear."
"Thank you and, no, we don't hug. You may fist-tap me."

I oblige. As I turn to leave Grandma smacks my ass and hugs Bea.

"Was this your doing?" Grandma asks Bea.
"No, it was a surprise to me as well. Eric is responsible."
"Well, let's hope I win a few million dollars tonight. You go have fun at your party."
"I love you, Grandma."
"Love you too. Keep an eye on this one. He's seems to be a toy short of a Happy Meal."
"Ha! Will do."

Bea leads me out to the limo.

"You're coming with us."
"Oh, hell no. Not like this," I refuse.
"Please."
"I need a fucking nap."
"Just come with us to the bar and you can wait in the limo. I'll sneak out and we'll have a little fun."
"Now that sounds tempting."
"I have an idea for the next Olympic event."
"What is it?"
"You'll see."

We pile into the limo. Once downtown, they go into the club as I lie across the seats, hoping to sleep off the tequila buzz. Bea is last to leave. She bends down and kisses me.

"I'll be back in one hour, Uncle M. Make sure that strap-on is ready."

Oh, my.

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Seven

It's Bea's big night with her friends. Eric and his partner have been helping plan my surprise. I get the call saying she has left the office, so I drive there. As I pull up, I notice a pickup truck with a large present on wheels in the bed. Eric and Neil are strapping it down.

"I thought I was jumping out of a cake?" I ask out my Jeep's window.
"The cake was booked, Mormon. This will do just fine," Eric assures me.
"If you say so."

I reach under my passenger seat and extract the second Hustler bag, kept secret from my Lovergirl.

"What have you there?" Neil asks.

I whip out the Cockasaurus Rex as their eyes light up. I'm not sure if it's envy, arousal, or fear.

"In the words of Otter Stratton, 'She'll take this seriously,'" I exclaim while dangling the largest strap-on known to man (or horse, for that matter).

"Oh, my," the boys gasp in stereo.
"Sorry, fellas. Rex is unavailable this evening. He is to ride securely next to my leg, making all the ladies dewy with desire."
"Come inside and try on your outfit, Officer Clydesdale," Neil suggests.

Why haven't I learned to trust my instincts? Naturally, the police uniform is specifically designed for parades at which I would not dare leave the curb. The pants are faux leather with both ass cheeks cut out. There's matching navy, T-back underwear. The belt contains handcuffs and a whip, not a gun. The shirt pockets have flaps with nipple clamps. A somewhat normal cap and mirrored Ray-Bans are all I have left to hide under.

When I emerge from the bathroom to model the costume, Eric and Neil nearly convulse in laughter.

"Turn around, Mormon."
"No."
"Oh, come on," Neil encourages.
"I have hair on my ass, Neil. This won't do."
"We could shave you," suggests Eric.
"Stop, Lover. It's sexy, Mormon," Neil insists. "Men are supposed to have hair. I see the salami fit perfectly."
"Yum, yum," Eric teases. "Pass the Poupon."
"All right, knock it off before I change my mind. What's the plan?"

Eric informs me that a limo bus is taking the women barhopping downtown, and it will be best to do my thing at the restaurant they're meeting in for Happy Hour. He insists it won't be crowded. Neil has a Bose wireless speaker linked to an iPod to provide music for my routine.

"Climb into the box and we'll be on our way."
"What? Why can't I ride with you?"
"You'll be seen. Get in. It's only ten miles or so."
"Fine. Fetch thee my tequila for the ride. It's in the bag."

I sit Indian-style in the box. I barely fit. Luckily the ride isn't too bumpy. When we come to a stop, I lift the top to look around. I see the limo bus. Eric pushes the lid back down.

"Hey! No peeking. You'll be seen."
"Fuck. Fine. Hurry up."

Eric lifts the top a sliver again.

"What?"
"How much of that did you drink?"
"Three fingers, if you must know." I take another pull. "Make that four."
"Stay down until you hear the music begin. Shh."
"Got it."

Eric and Neil drop the door on the truck bed and lift out the large gift box. They roll me across the parking lot while I take one more swig. Their whispering and giggling is making me nervous. Once inside, I hear various muffled voices.

"Ladies, can I have your attention," Eric begins. "Miss, will you please have a seat right here. Thank you. And now ..."

Joe Cocker's "You Can Leave Your Hat On" begins blaring--my cue to begin. I stand and throw the lid off the box. I hear gasps. Oh, fuck! It's a bingo hall filled with senior citizens and seated in the chair in front of me, instead of my Lovergirl, is Grandma Aspinwald.

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Six

After dinner, we dunk warm Toll House cookies in milk and catch up on Nurse Jackie episodes. Zoey rules! Bea's appetite--both for food and for sex--is growing, and I'm keeping up, so far.

"One more cookie, Lovergirl. I bet my boy is smiling," I tease as I pat her belly.
"Uncle M, you constantly impress me. You bake?"
"I slaved all night making sure the batter was just right."
"Swoon!"
"Oh, and please ignore the Nestle bag in the garbage."
"Cheater."
"I need to take it easy, with all those heavy medals soon to be hanging around my neck. My poor back."
"Speaking of, I believe it's time for another event."
"I'll do some deep knee bends and change into my track suit."
"That won't be necessary."
"What's the event?"
"The Grip Test. I noticed two plugs in the bag of fun."
"But ..."
"Exactly."
"Let me chug this wine first." *Gulp* "OK, what are the rules?" I ask as Bea removes the intimidating butt plugs and tube of mint lube from the Hustler bag.
"We each insert one of these and then get it on, missionary-style. Whoever knocks the plug out of the other person's butt, without using hands, wins."
"So embarrassing."
"You can forfeit if you like."
"You may take my pride, but you'll never take my butt plug!"

Lovergirl hands me the plugs and lube, and goes into the kitchen.

"What are you doing?"
"We need this, too," she replies while showing me the pepper shaker.
"Pepper?"
"You'll see, Uncle M."

We disrobe, pull down the comforter, and place two towels on the bed. Shit. How intimidating!

"My virgin butt is going to need lots of foreplay, kind words, and a thick layer of lube."
"You can still back out."
"No way. I'm tight, y'all."

Lovergirl lathers the lube onto the plugs and hands me one.

"I don't think I've had anything up there since a thermometer in the sixties."
"Kinky."
"How do we do this? I can't put it in myself," I protest while noticing hers is already in place.
"Gimme."
Yikes!
"Be gentle," I mewl.

She manages to get it in and then mounts me. I concentrate on squeezing my cheeks without pushing as she slams away on top of me.

"Do you like it, Uncle M?"
"It's ... different. Stop trying to distract me," I insist.

I bite my bottom lip as she slams harder and harder. All this concentration is delaying my orgasm, so there's one benefit. She orgasms twice, but her plug is cemented; mine is slipping.

Bea covers my eyes and reaches toward the bedside table. What's she up to? I hear shaking and, suddenly, I smell pepper.

"Aaaaaah CHOO!" I sneeze, which sends my butt plug flying. Rats! 
"Bless you."

Canada has her first gold.

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Five

Bea accepts my offer to cook dinner--stuffed artichokes and filet kabobs. When she arrives, I'm on my second glass of wine. I've left the sex toys in the plain paper bag between our place settings.

"What's in the bag?"
"Dessert, my love. No peeking!"
"You're no fun."
"Oh, just you wait."
"I'll go upstairs and freshen up. Be right back."

I continue cooking with wine, my unconventional way. Sure, I'm a little heavy on the garlic salt, but it makes everything better, as long as both lovers partake.

"Sweetie?"
"Yes."
"Can you come up here a minute?"
"Sure." Uh, oh. What did she find?

When I step into my master bath, she's wearing one of my button-downs and her lace undies, standing sideways in front of the full-length mirror.

"Look!" she glows, showing the first signs of a baby bump.
"Hm. I've got two words for you: salad bar."
"Hey."
"Light beer?"
"Stop it."
"Can you feel that lunch burrito kicking?"
"Ha, ha. Not yet. I'm just over four months, so this is about right. No more top buttons for me," she pouts.
"So cute. Can I take a picture and post it as little Pippino's first update on Facebook?"
"No, Gordon will not have a Facebook account until he is sixteen."
"Gordon?"
"You can call him Gordie."
"You can call him Pip."
"I have a suggestion: Let's settle this child-naming thing with a contest."
"I'm listening."
"A Sexual Olympics of sort," she offers.
"Ooh, I love a challenge. You're going down, woman."
"And so are you. The first event is the sideways sixty-nine sprint to orgasm."
"Huh?"
"The first one to bring the other to orgasm wins."
"Now?"
"Go turn off the stove and grill, and get your butt back up here."
"Italy shall have its first gold medal of this Olympiad," I tease, as I sprint downstairs and turn down the heat. "Dun, DUN-duh, dun dun DUN dun ..."
"That sounds more like 'Rocky' to me."
"Shut it."

I sneak into the Hustler bag and arm myself with the We-Vibe vibrator--dual sensation with penetration. I can't be defeated. Bea's already on the bed. I dive next to her and tickle her toes, then remove her undies as she frees Little Mormon from my jeans.

Lovergirl is quite skilled. At this angle, she's able to bury me deep into her throat. I run through baseball statistics to avoid the inevitable. I draw the alphabet and flip on the We-Vibe. Fuck! I must hurry ... I'm so close!

Once I have the vibrator in place, she gasps and squeezes my head tightly between her thighs. Ouch! She's the best chiropractor I ever met. I hear her muffled ecstasy.

"Oh ... my ... effing ... GOD!" she arches toward climax.
"Booyah, motherfucker," I beam with pride.

She let's loose a thunderous orgasm and finishes me off seconds later. Being the mature type, I do my touchdown dance around the bedroom with my glazed love eclair and purple weapon.

"What is that, and where did you get it?"
"This, Lovergirl, is yet another weapon in my arsenal. Make that Italy one, Canada nil," I bow. "Raise the flag, fuckers! Pippino must be so proud of his poppa."
"You've won the battle, Uncle M, not the war. Now, go finish my dinner."
"Yes, dear."

We laugh through dinner as Bea inspects the bag of badness. I've impressed my love, but I suspect she'll step up her game.

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Four

I’m greeted at the door of the Hustler Store by a lovely young lady wearing an apron. She asks if I need help. Lots. Do I dare ask about the apron? No.

It’s a vast store with stripper wear on the first floor and stairs leading up to the loft of kinkery.

“My name is Nelly. Do you have anything special in mind?”
“I don’t even know where to begin, Nelly.”
“Well,” she asks, “is it for a man or a woman?”
“For this man’s woman.”
“Excellent. What does she enjoy?”
“Overtime goals and zucchini.”
“Um …”
“Right. You can see my predicament.”

She leads me along a wall of dildos and vibrators. I’m not one to blush, but this place has me crimson.

“What does this do?” I ask while attempting to read the price without touching the U-shaped device.
“Ah, this one is very popular. You have a good eye, Sir.” She sounds like she’s selling me a BMW. “This vibrator stimulates the woman, both inside and out.”

I stand perplexed.

“Her clitoris and her G-spot.”
“Of course. I’d like one in purple. Oh, and someone stole my Fukuoku Glove, so I’ll need one of those too—in black, please. Anything else you can recommend?”
“Lotions?”
“Do you have bacon-flavored?”
“…”
“Kidding. Something minty will do.”
“Excellent. Anything else? Perhaps more advanced devices for the adventuresome?”
“Bring it.”

She leads me over to the corner with triangular dildo-ish toys and strings with different sized beads and a ring that reminds me of the merry-go-round ride of my childhood.

“Do you know what these are?”
“Dog toys?”
“No, silly, these are for anal play.” Ouch. “These are butt plugs and these are anal beads. They’ll both go well with your minty lube. Have you used either before?”
“Of course, I have. I’m a skilled plugologist.”
“Great. Then, you’ll require his and hers.”
“Whoa, Nelly—only hers.”
“Ever tried it?”
“No.”
“How about a pinky?” she gestures.
“What?”
“You know, during a blowjob. It heightens the sensation.”
“Exit only.”
“Don’t be like that. It doesn’t mean you’re gay. The anus is quite sensitive and pleasurable.”
“Yes, it is,” adds a boy-stander I’m unaware is standing by me. “You must try the beads too. They all go in except the ring, and just when you’re ready to pop, have your lover yank them out with the ring. Heavenly!”

My virgin butt hole puckers as I try to digest their suggestions.

“Fine. Double bag them. Here’s my card.”

Lovergirl has me outmatched, but I plan to prove I can hang. I’ll whip out my new arsenal and wear her ass (tee, hee) out before she leaves for her girls’ night. Shit! I almost forgot.

“I also need a big black strap-on.”
“Will The Cockasaurus Rex do?” she asks while dangling something resembling a toasted Genao Salami in front of me.
“I believe it will.”