Varieties

      I was fortunate to grow up in a diverse family. My parents adopted four children, each with a distinct ethnicity. My cousins were mostly Italian, but we had some Japanese mixed in one branch. That was cool. I never saw ethnicity as anything to judge a person by any more than hair color or shoe size. So, when I tried to set a woman up with a friend of mine (who happens to have a really dark tan) I was shocked by her answer.

      “... not that I’m prejudice, but I wouldn’t date a man of color.”

      That’s some last-century shit right there. Assholes come in all shapes and colors. It’s safe to say the shelves are still overstocked with large, white ones.

      I didn’t get into it with her. Some people are (improperly) raised to make snap judgments about a person’s value at a distance. It’s silly. I hope we’re growing out of it, then I hear people say some shockingly ignorant things about people they’ve never even seen in 3-D.

      “Hey, Donald. I don’t give a shit in which country or planet our president was born. He’s an exceptionally smart man doing his best to clean up a mess he didn’t make, while you bankrupt companies and whore yourself in prime time to the pudding-headed masses.”

      “... but, the rules say ...”

      “Yeah and those rules were written long before we had enough sense to realize how silly they are.”

      I’m sure my buddy would have shrugged off the woman’s statement, if I told him about it. Still, it pissed me off. She may have meant she isn’t normally attracted to certain men. I’m OK with preferences--I have quite a few of them myself. I wouldn’t say (or even think) something like:

·         I would never date a tall woman.

·         I would never date a blonde.

·         I would never date a Mormon.

·         etc.

      I would say it in the form, “I’m not typically attracted to older women.” That leaves the opportunity door open and allows me to pleasantly surprised on occasion instead of frozen in my ignorant isolation.

      Maybe if that woman were less intelligent, young, or oblivious, I wouldn’t have been so derailed by her statement. She had no excuse. My exposure to racists doesn’t give me the desire to become racist any more than my exposure to 4x4s makes me want to attend a monster truck rally.

      Sure, I enjoy jokes about stereotypes--even Italian ones (since we’re easy targets). In fact, last week I had a woman ask me about the origins of my last name. I said it was Sicilian and she remarked, “Wow, I guess I’d better be careful or you’ll break my legs.”

      I smiled and said, “Nah. I’m more liable to cook for you.”

      She was just trying to be funny. I wasn’t the slightest bit offended, but I could tell by her reaction to my response that she wished she hadn’t let those words pass her lips. See? I can tell the difference between someone being goofy and someone being malicious. No harm, no foul. That other woman, however, isn’t worthy of dating any of my colorful friends or me.

Pool

      The ideal way to seduce your man is to play pool with him. It’s so simple and obvious. It vexes me when I consider how it took me almost fifty years to notice. Pool was definitely invented by a man. You ladies already know this, don’t you? You’ve been acting unaware, just to humor us.

      Damn.

      Think about what the game requires: lots of bending over. Leaning across a pool table, when towards the man, exposes cleavage. Bending over, taking a shot while facing away from the man exposes the fine curvature of the buttocks. On top of it all, taking a shot requires the wrapping of both hands to around a pole. (OK, in my case one hand will do, unless she’s a dwarf. I’m not proud.)

      So, it’s simple: If you want to seduce a man, suggest a game of pool.

      A woman wisely suggests that her man break. She uses the excuse that she isn’t strong enough to hit the rack of balls hard enough to cause an effective scattering. She offers to take care of the racking and—oopsie—forgets how to arrange the balls, which requires the man to rub up next to her and assist. Another clever ploy.

      The woman I played pool with this weekend had me all lathered up before my first 75 cents were gone. I tried to concentrate so she wouldn’t suspect I was letting her win or that I was an unskilled player (especially disturbing because I have a pool table in my living room). She had to lean over a corner and raise one leg to make a shot. I became aroused and forgot if I was stripes or solids. Ah, but I did discover a wise strategy to add to my enjoyment. Pool is all about cue ball placement. Henceforth, I consistently placed the cue ball as close to the center of the table as possible. Brilliant!

      No other sport, except perhaps naked tapioca wrestling, has such seductive qualities. Bowling does require posturing and bending, but it can’t be done while wearing heels. Similar to pool, bowling allows for (requires, if you ask me) alcohol consumption during the game. That always helps. Still, bowling balls are greasy and often cause broken nails and annoyed women. Granted, some women may get a rush from watching their men send pins flying, but the finishing pose with arm and leg lifted isn’t flattering.

      How about golf? Miniature golf, perhaps? She must bend slightly over the putter while striking. Not bad. True, there are sticks and holes involved. It could be considered a more monogamous game since it’s played one hole at a time instead of having six to choose from. Nah, it’s too goddamn frustrating trying to get the ball past that fucking windmill. I hate windmills. Windmills blow.

      So, pool it is. Not darts. Not paddleboats. Not skee ball. If you want to get a non-chemically induced rise out of your man, chalk your stick, bend over, and wink while he drools.

I Am Not a Slut

      It would have been much wiser for me to publish under a pen name—perhaps Peter Dragon. Now, after I dip my toes in the dating pool, the object of my desire types my name into Google and assumes I’m keeping an autobiography online. My sexual conquests are grossly exaggerated in print. Honest. They have to be or you’d be yawning. Seriously. I haven’t penetrated anyone since March 2.

      If you look closely, you realize I write about not getting laid more than I write about getting laid. It’s easier and funnier to fail. I’m that kid in Little League who steps up to the plate, while parents begin checking their phones and outfielders start their way to the dugout. Sometimes I make a connection, but it usually goes foul. *sigh*

      I know, I know, I know—“Settle down and find yourself a nice woman. The sex will come.” Easier said than wed.

      “Hi, Sweetness. I hope you are having a wonderful day.”

      “Oh, hi. I’ve been checking out your musings online …”

      Uh-oh. “And?”

      “… and it sounds like you’re a player. Are you?”

      “No, silly, that’s just fiction.”

      “Really?”

      “Of course it is. My sex life is as interesting as Chloe and Lamar’s perfume. In other words, it stinks of artificially inflated egos.”

      “How can I be sure?”

      “Here, look at my penis. No scars, no friction burns, no condom marks … this is one pristine peter.”

      “OK, you can put that away now.”

      “No. Now, you tell Willy you’re sorry.”

      “People are beginning to stare.”

      “I don’t care. Willy has gotten over his shyness. Yesterday I successfully deployed him next to another dude at a urinal trough.”

      “Funny, he looks kind of shy.”

      “He’s just turtling because it’s chilly. Now, say you’re sorry for calling him a slut. He’s sensitive, especially the tip.”

      “I bet.”

      It’s quite a balance, actually. If I come off as a player, women will make me wait forever to prove I’m not. If I come off as someone approaching involuntary revirgination (Yay, a new word!), then I seem desperate. What’s a boy with his pet Willy to do?

      No matter how much sex I am receiving, I could use more. That’s universal, right? It’s natural for me to be out seeking mating opportunities. Just like fishing, it’s also natural for me to exaggerate my catches. I bait with fine wine and humor, but usually carry my pole and tackle box from Lake Singlehood all by my lonesome—gone hungry again.

      So, don’t believe everything you read (including this). When you go out tonight and spot that guy sitting at the bar with an empty seat on either side of him and a golden puddle of courage in the rocks glass in front of him, it could be me. My imagination can fill those seats with loose women although, in reality, they’re more likely to be filled with similarly starving anglers. We’ll boast about tales of the big ones we reeled in back in the day. As men, we’re skilled at suspending belief for entertainment’s sake.

Splitsville

      The breakup process is distinct between genders. Men are lazy and want to finish the task as quickly as possible so they can move on to the next vagina. Women, however, need closure. It takes time to flush the oxytocin from their systems.

      I’ll take a pass/fail over a letter or number grade any day. If it’s bad news, I don’t want to hear it. I want to make up my own reasons why I was left at the curb. Give me back my T-shirt and let me believe you’re breaking up with me because all the sex you want to have with me is detracting from your daily obligations and giving you a noticeable limp.

      My biggest concern during a breakup: Is she going to cry?

      If tears start a-flowing, I’m in deep shit. I’d rather have her swear at me and throw china. If we’re out in public—don’t ever break up with a woman in public, you ass—and her face starts leaking, it’s more embarrassing than eating a banana while shopping at Abercrombie & Fitch. Every man that sees her cry wants to beat my ass and rescue my woman. Every woman that sees her cry instantly places me on the Chris Brown Memorial Entry Forbidden list.

      When I’m dumped, I try to spin it into something positive, expected, or insignificant.

      “Hey. You’re a nice guy, but I don’t think this is working out.”

      “Huh?”

      “I don’t feel like we’re connecting the way we should be. You know?”

      “Oh, definitely. Yep. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

      “Really?”

      “Yes. Nothing personal. You’re great.”

      “How long have you felt this way?”

      “Um, probably about as long as you have.”

      “Why didn’t you say anything?”

      “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

      “Don’t you think it’s best to be honest?”

      “All right, look, I was hoping things would progress. Oh, well. It happens.”

      “OK, whatever. We’re going to be seeing each other out, so I don’t want it to be weird.”

      “Totally. It won’t be weird. We should remain friends. You’re a cool chick.”

      “So, we’re good then?”

      “Of course. Hey, do you want to come over and watch a movie?”

      “…”

      “Or not. There’s this other woman I wanted to date anyway.”

      “Who?”

      “Oh, nobody you know. So, it’s cool now. You won’t feel weird when you see us out, right?”

      “Well, don’t make a point of having PDA with her around me. That would be weird.”

      “Why? Would it make you jealous?”

      “No. It would just be awkward because other people there know us and have seen us together.”

      “All right. I can wait until you’re over me. Do you think a year is long enough?”

      “It’s not that I’m not over you.”

      “Yes, it is. That’s OK. You don’t have to admit it. I understand.”

      “Fine. Whatever. Just please don’t make a scene.”

      “I would never. We’re cool. Hey, let’s do some celebratory shots. Want to?”

      “…”

      “You so want to have closure sex with me right now.”

      “Is that what you’re sensing?”

      “It’s natural. Don’t be embarrassed.”

      “Like I said, we don’t connect the way we should. Goodbye.”

      “Hey, why are you walking away? Honey? Baby? Um. OK, fine. Whatever. I’m over you already.”

      It’s tempting to make use of modern technology for breakups. Email, chat, and text messaging are cowardly means, perfect for pussies like me. Ouch, the e-dump. I’m not proud to admit I’ve done them all. I’ve also received my share, so it’s even.

      Here are some creative methods for future consideration:

·         Skywriting – “My vagina is under new ownership, now open for business.”

·         Scoreboard Announcement – “Adopt this fellow. His shots are current.”

·         Bar Napkin – “I hate your ass. Please go away.”

·         Paid Search Ad – “Stop googling yourself. You’re stupid and now you’re single too.”

·         Obituary – “Our relationship died because he can’t control his f-stick.”

·         Rap Lyrics – “Yo shawty, you be whack. Now bounce and gimme my sheeyit back.”

·         Sign Language – “Middle finger extended on left hand while right hand waves bye-bye.”

·         Barista – Have your favorite Starbucks clerk write the following on his Venti cup: “Your girlfriend is sick of your shit, and will henceforth be referred to as your ex-girlfriend.”

·         Coupon – “Get out of one relationship free.”

·         Bulletin Board at Work – “She fucked me in conference room B and now I’m fucked. Sorry about the stains.”