Phil Torcivia's Blog

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Phil

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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."

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.

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*

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.

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'.