Get Out of My Head

It fascinates me when people have such difficulty getting over an ex. She knows the ex didn’t treat her right. She knows he’ll drive her crazy. She knows he’ll disappoint her frequently. She knows he won’t change. She knows she’s better off without him. None of it matters.

The heart overrides the mind.

It’s a sort of addiction, isn’t it? Gosh, so many options abound, but none of them compare. I experienced something similar when I stood in the cookie aisle of Ralph’s. I wanted Double Stuf Oreos—not Single Stuf or that awful low-calorie version. Guess what? They were out. No DSO for me. There were no less than thirty tasty options surrounding the blank space on the shelf that represented the emptiness in my stomach and unfulfilled desire in my mind. Those other cookies could not compare. I hungered for DSOs and, regardless of my logic, my mind was overridden. I drove to Vons.

I try to be a supportive friend when speaking with an afflicted female. It’s not my finest skill.

“You just got done telling me how much of a shit he is.”
“Yep.”
“And you’re still going to meet him for coffee.”
“We’re just going to talk. No big deal.”
“He keeps you hanging on to that noose, doesn’t he?”
“I’m not going to hook up with him.”
“Bet you will.”
“I’m over him. I moved on.”
“If that were true, you would have left his text unanswered.”
“I don’t hate the kid. We just can’t be together.”
“Why?”
“The list is huge: He parties too much, doesn’t treat me right, isn’t financially responsible, and so on.”
“I bet the sex was good.”
“Legendary.”
“Ha! You’re hooked.”
“I am not. I can easily find another skilled lover.”
“Have I shown you my lick-the-tip-of-my-nose trick yet?”
“…”
“Fine. Go do what you need to do, feel guilty about it, and I’ll be here waiting to help you heal.”
“Aw.”

Maybe it came with age, but I don’t find myself addicted to much. I rarely miss my exes. Instead, I regret opportunities lost. Regrets fades quickly as I know Ms. Next is somewhere nearby, armed with smiling eyes, sugar kisses, and stemware.

The best advice I can give you, ladies, is if you’re addicted to a man you know isn’t good for you, find a way to get over him before you get hurt (again). That doesn’t mean you should settle for a convenient fellow who won’t hurt or stimulate you. Numb is dumb. Figure out what qualities your addictive man has that haunt you. Look for those in another man.

Cold turkey is an option you should consider. Lose his number. Delete his texts and emails without reading them. If he’s where you go, leave. Do these until the temptation wanes.

Don’t get a puppy. Don’t get another job. Don’t binge at Nordstrom. Don’t overdo the yoga.

Avoid the one who addicts you and seek the one who fits comfortably in your heart, mind, and conscience.

The End Hurts

When the relationship ends, sometimes there’s closure and sometimes there’s uncertainty. I’ve found my preference depends upon how much I enjoyed the relationship. If it was tedious and stressful, I don’t mind unanswered pokes. If I fell for her and she’s gone, I need answers. How am I to improve without feedback? Depending on her reason for leaving me lonely, there could be collateral ego damage causing me to limp toward my next victim.

Insignificant ego damage occurs when the reason is:

• I’m moving.
• I can’t fight it any longer—I’m gay.
• I’m pregnant with my ex’s child.
• I’m in prison.
• You’re too short, old, or hairy for me.
• Our religious beliefs, political affiliation, or values don’t mesh.
• We don’t enjoy the same things.
• I need to be pregnant like yesterday and you’re not helping.
• Work is too demanding right now. I don’t have time for a relationship.
• There’s no way we could ever live together.
• My parents threatened to cut me from the will if I continued dating you.
• You won’t commit so I’m off to find someone who will.
• My pets/children/parents/friends hate your pets/children/parents/friends.

Moderate ego damage comes from reasons like:

• I got back together with an ex.
• You won’t let me get freaky in bed.
• I never was that attracted to you. Sorry. I tried.
• We both knew this would never work.
• It was fun while it lasted—more so toward the beginning, though.
• Look, I was drunk. That’s why I slept with you. I can’t justify it by continuing this charade.
• I can’t keep a mate right now because it’s summertime.
• You need etiquette training.
• [crickets], de-friending, and finding your overnight stuff in a bag on your porch.
• This text message: “Please lose my number.”

Severe ego damage is caused by the following reasons:

• Your penis is too small (or vagina is too large).
• You’re stupid—really fucking stupid. How did you get past eighth grade?
• Superior options have presented themselves.
• I’m sleeping with my boss/therapist/gardener.
• You need a complete wardrobe and personality overhaul.
• The clitoris is toward the top, Pokey.
• My friends have finally gotten through to me. You’re a loser.
• You probably shouldn’t have introduced me to your sexy friend/uncle/neighbor.
• Thank you for being my slump-breaker. Goodbye now.
• You’ve obviously been letting yourself go so I might as well let you go too.

In case of severe ego damage, your best bet is to get right back into the game, blur your vision with bourbon, and aim a little lower. Your misery is sure to have company in most watering holes. Avoid the urge to sit in front of the TV hugging your pet and Häagen-Dazs® too tightly while watching movies that make you feel unworthy. Put on some fresh threads, think happy thoughts, and help repair the ego of the fellow jilted patron on the neighboring bar stool.

Distraction hastens healing.

Dicks

Takes one to know one, right? I’m not looking to turn in my “Nice Guy” Card quite yet, but every time I leave my shell, my inner dickiness rises to the surface.

Warning: You can’t convert a dick to a nice person by using kindness, no matter what the Hay House authors say. You can only ignore the dick and hope it goes away. If you can’t resist the urge to call a dick a dick, you’ll probably cause dick enlargement.

Dicks have pride and no conscience.

If your neighbors are noisy, nosy, or naked (depending), they are annoying dicks. If they park unsightly vehicles near your property, it’s a dick move. If there are toys, empty beer cans, or horseshoe pits in the front lawn, they are hayseed dicks. If they have flags or banners of ethnicities, sports teams, or favorite racecar drivers, they’re probably toothless dicks.

Your boyfriend can be a dick (with a dick, technically). If he ignores your call because he’s chatting up a cute bartender, it’s dick-y. If he leaves the toilet seat up, a yellow-spotted rim, and two sheets on the toilet paper roll, he’s an uncivilized dick. If he shows up to dinner empty-handed or with Charles Shaw wine in a bag, he’s about to return home a hungry dick. If he has four orgasms for every one of yours, he’s a selfish dick about to have competition.

Women can be dicks too. Oh, yes they can. If she flirts with me to get something from me that doesn’t include a good, deep dicking, she’s a dick-tease. If she comments on my wardrobe, hair, or wine selection, she’s a pretentious dick. If she checks my phone, scans my Facebook wall for women she doesn’t know, or rifles through my pockets, sheets, or waste cans, she’s a paranoid dick.

Servers can be dicks. A combined check, when it’s obvious I’m not on a fucking date, is lazy and dick-y. In return, I’ll show my dick by leaving a ten percent tip. If the bartender fills my drink to the top, forcing me to bend and sip it like a sissy or pick it up and drip it onto my crotch, that’s a dick move. If my plate is cleared before my date is done eating, the dick is rushing me. If the bartender pretends to be precise by using a stainless two-sided shot measuring cup, I’m not as impressed as the bar manager at the dick’s stinginess.

Coworkers can be dicks. If they fart, snort, or eat smelly food, it’s a dick move. If he disregards the courtesy flush rule, he’s an insensitive dick. If she remarks about the length of a coworker’s skirt, she’s a big, fat dick with cankles and bad skin. If they decorate their cubicles with crayon drawings from their little dicks, they’re tasteless dicks.

Drivers are typically dicks, especially the ones with stick figures, sandals, or other rear window decals. If he’s blowing Marlboro smoke rearward, he’s a smelly dick. If she’s dumping the rest of her coffee curbside, she’s a sloppy dick. If their little dicks are making faces at me through the rear window, they are parental dicks who should have been neutered.

Who’s the dick now?

Better Than Next

Picture this: You’re single again and back in the mating pool. You’re proudly wearing your positive attitude. You do not have a mate right this second and you may not need one. Still, you glance around to see what’s available. Then you spot your ex … with the next.

What do you do?

I investigate two things when this happens to me:

1. Has she become more or less attractive since we parted?
2. How does Mr. Next compare to me?

It makes no difference if we dated for one night or one year; this derails me and distracts me from my hunt for my Ms. Next. The worst scenario involves her noticing my investigation. Subtlety is vital. I’ll swing around behind her to see if that ass has grown. Flaws justify the split whereas enhancements cause reconsideration.

As far as the new guy goes, I’m guessing that this is different from each gender’s viewpoint. If my ex is with a man I rate as more attractive than I am, it’s easier to relent. If he’s a balding tool who is older, wearing faded Levi’s and a sheepish grin, I’m troubled. Why is she with him?

Various scenarios run through my mind:

1. She’s just trying to make me jealous.
2. I kicked a dent into her self-esteem.
3. The guy is fucking loaded.
4. He has a debilitating disease and she feels sorry for him.
5. I was there first.

How juvenile of me!

What does my ex think when she sees Ms. Next? Is she tempted to follow her to the restroom and pee all over my résumé? Will she become slightly jealous and open up the possibility of rebound sex? Will she even care?

If Ms. Next is younger than the ex, there’s definitely going to be cat fur flying (ladies, cover your chardonnay). If Ms. Next had any kind of enhancement, the ex will pull a Nancy Grace by staring at it and angrily pointing it out to every friend of hers who ever met me. If Ms. Next and I get into any sort of PDA, she’ll probably insert herself between us and prompt an uncomfortable introduction. (When that happens, I retaliate by acting as though I forgot the ex’s name. All is fair in love.)

Ideally, the one who was last to arrive should leave, to avoid unnecessary conflict. That won’t happen. What will happen includes smirks, sighs, and slurs. As the bucket of exes fills, some animosity is bound to spill. Fortunately, time and alcohol heals all.

TWI

Texting while intoxicated is highly encouraged (but not while driving). This is also why you should keep every contact you have gathered, including even the douchiest exes. Eventually, you’re going to reminisce about that time he did something silly, and want to remind him. Also, you know he’ll be sending a post-midnight text with “just checking in,” which means “boy, would I love to have some makeup sex right now.” Depending on your occupancy status, this may not be a bad thing.

My fingers are fat and my eyes are failing, which means my alcohol-induced texts are unintentionally comical. The autocorrect feature on my phone consistently fucks with me. I also have this habit of receiving a text from bootycall, unlocking my phone, typing a clever reply, and then realizing the reply went to exgirlfriend or baseballbuddy.

Oopsie.

Here are some suggestions for 2 a.m. texts to ex-girlfriends:

• “Hey, QT. Can I come over and motorboat you?”
• “Don’t you miss my penis?”
• “I just received my certification as Supreme Cunnilingusator. Can I lick you now?”
• “Stop flipping your bippy and come over.”
• “All the lonely vaginas—where do they all come from?”
• “Daddy wants to come tuck you in.”
• “OK, I admit it: I miss you. Can we fuck now?”
• “I’m sorry I was such an ass. BTW, can I date your sister?”
• “I just beat off to your match.com profile.”
• “How drunk would you have to be to hook up with me again?”

Since I rarely receive booty texts from exes, it seems like a waste of time for me to suggest any. Instead, I suggest the following replies to your ex-boyfriends who are begging:

• “I’m sorry, the vagina you have reached is currently busy. Please find a different ex’s number and try again.”
• “I just showed your message to all of my girlfriends. Good luck finding anything other than a silicone lover.”
• “I would sooner bounce my twat off a railing than have you reenter me.”
• “Look, nothing personal, but you have a disappointing penis.”
• “I’m flattered. Now kindly go fuck a duck.”
• “You’ve helped me locate my inner lesbian and, as such, I am no longer interested in being penetrated by dickweeds. Have a nice life.”
• “So nice to hear from you after all this time. Can you send me your address so I know where to mail your child support invoices?”
• “Remember that marvelous night we spent together? Me neither.”
• “I don’t think I’m drunk enough to spend five minutes in the same room with you.”
• “Funny you should text me. Are your ears ringing? I was just telling my new boyfriend about how you got off on wearing my panties.”

If you really want to spice up the text, why not add a photo of:

• You in lingerie giving him the finger.
• Your new boyfriend’s cock.
• A stop sign.
• A group of your girlfriends reading his message and laughing.
• Directions to the closest therapist’s office so he can get help.

The Rougher Sex

Never tried it; don't have to; won't like it. I understand that some people enjoy oysters, soccer, and Nancy Grace, but I can't find anything good about rough sex. Sure, it depends on exactly how rough, but I'm a puppy compared with some of the animals my female friends have dated.

A petite friend was telling me about her latest man who definitely got off on tossing her 5'2" frame around. She said he left bruises on her numerous times. I was shocked.

"I bruise easily."

"That's fucked up. Seriously."

"Why?"

"A bruise is an injury, you nut. No man is entitled to leave marks except when peeing in the snow."

"I like it rough. I had to ask him to calm down a bit because the bruises were showing when I wore my summer outfits. They're difficult to explain."

"What was this animal doing to you?"

"You know--the average stuff."

"Nothing is average about leaving a lovemaking session with bruises. Perhaps a little neck rash or toe cramp would be ordinary, but bruises? No way."

"You've never had a woman leave any marks on you?"

"They only hurt on the inside."

"Stop it. Some lover must have scratched your back at least."

"Come to think of it, I did have this PYT bite my face once when we were getting into it on my La-Z-Boy."

"There you go. That's hot."

"Is not. I grabbed her by the throat and said, 'Hey, no biting.'"

"I bet that turned her on further."

"Indeed. She was harder to train not to bite than my cats were. I had to splash hydrogen peroxide on my face afterward."

"I like it when my man flips me around and dominates me. His hunger is sexy. You never spanked a woman? Bit her neck or nipples firmly? Threw her onto the bed and ripped down her panties?"

"Um, no."

"Jeez, you're missing out there, Pussycat."

"Guess I've been domesticated."

She went on to describe how he would bite her shoulder and slam her hard when he was on top of her. Then he'd flip her over onto her belly and sometimes plow the dirt road. Ew.

I think there's a deep seeded condition involved on both ends of this nonsense. He probably was whipped repeatedly by his overbearing father and she has been so numbed by ordinary sex, she needs a physical struggle to get off. Whatever it is, it isn't normal. I accidentally have banged incisors, was kneed in the pecker, and had a pinky stuck in a lover's earring loop, but I've never left marks. If a lover asked me to do something kinky like that I'd have to tap out.

Gentle love should be sufficient. Candlelight, soft sheets, lots of pillows, and tiny pinches are all it takes. OK, maybe a feather and some fuzzy cuffs. No biting, bruising, or scratching is required. How about a tiny pat on the cheek of the buttocks? No harm there.

"How do you feel about other kinky stuff?"

"Like?"

"Um, how about spitting?"

"Gross, not kinky."

"Really?"

"Really. Now please untie me."

Insensitivity

I say it’s a good thing. We all could use some mental Novocaine. If we go around all day looking for something to take offense to, we’ll find it and find ourselves in horrible moods. The healthiest choice is to shrug it off or, better yet, join the fun.

We have become an overly sensitive society, which can’t tell the difference between hate and humor. Generalities—whether concerning gender, race, religion, age, height, weight, or hair color—are usually funny, not harmful, and we all know the difference between the two. When some group gets uppity and demands an apology, the accused should ignore the plea of the humorless and continue.

An African American and a Guido went to Palm Desert this weekend for a change of scenery. Both of these fellows have what’s called “a sense of humor” and delight in their diversity.

Example:

The bar, for some odd reason, is showing Star Wars on the TVs. Three lovely Mexican women parade through the front door, all wearing similar black outfits.

The AA comments, “Hey Guido, check it out. Here come the ewoks.”

“Damn!”

“Arggurgle, aye aye, grrrr.”

“What the fuck is that? Did you just have a seizure?”

“That’s the noise them ewoks make, ain’t it?”

“That’s Chewbacca, you dope.”

“Oh, shit. You’re right. What noise do ewoks make?”

Tap, tap, tapping on the wood table, “Housekeeping?”

If someone took offense to that, I’d have to point out the obvious: Most maids are of Mexican descent. If the truth offends you, that’s a sign you’ve lost your sense of humor.

The night continued and, as is typical in most nightclubs, the later it got the freakier the attendees became. A group of three AA men came in wearing Public Enemy t-shirts, gold chains, and pants strapped just above the knees.

“Your team isn’t having a good showing tonight,” remarked Guido.

“Oh man.”

“I just had a Black to the Future moment.”

“I’m going to have to call a team meeting.”

Then, as usually happens, whitey let the other team back in the game. A pasty, pudgy fellow cruised by wearing a Kobe Bryant jersey.

“Really?” remarked AA.

“Christ. That’s a blown save right there.”

“If Kobe were here he’d hand stumpy a thousand dollars and a Lebron jersey.”

“No kidding. You just know he modeled that jersey in front of the mirror before he left his trailer and said, ‘Damn, I look good.’”

This fun went on all night. That’s what we do. Sure, we pointed out the usual (shapely boobs and butts), but the most fun was enjoyed with a pinch of racism.