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Oh, the talent…the skill…the passion. A friend shared an incredible musical performance to my Facebook feed this morning. As I watched and appreciated the moans, squeals and screams the cellists’ fingers coaxed from their stringed lovers, all of me fantasized only one thing…

…and now I need a smoke.


Was It As Good for You As It Was for Me?


Don’t Ask the Maytag Repairman To Fix Your Ferrari

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Awhile back, a few girlfriends and I were exchanging creepy date stories on Facebook. Suddenly, a male member of the chat group wandered into our little estrogen-charged bris-fest, lamented that women were confusing and asked exactly what the hell we wanted. Oh, the door he opened! We beat around the bush (no pun intended — well, okay, it was intentional) for a while and finally I put together answers to his laundry list of questions.

It occurred to me — as blind testosteroned beings lead other blind testosteroned beings through their collective darkness regarding us — some might actually be thankful for a lighted path. So here’s my response.


I realize your questions regarding what women want were not directed to me specifically, but that’s never stopped me from butting in before:

(1) No. I, personally, have never gone on a date for free food and entertainment. I make my own money and I find myself very entertaining. If an evening out and a penis are all a man has to offer, I’m not interested. Besides, if I pay for my own meal, I can go home to a drama-free climax with my little battery-operated buddy — and no obligations.

(2) “Nice” guy? Many of us have defined repeatedly for you what constitutes a “nice” guy. But I’ll summarize them again: clean (ah yes, soap and water – such an inexpensive aphrodisiac), monogamous, gainfully employed, intelligent, humorous and chivalrous. If he’s a resident app in his momma’s house, that’ll crash any budding romance.

(3) With regard to kissing, ‘good’ is in the lips of the recipient. It’s not so much in the technique as it is in the perceived feelings that accompany the action. Funny thing about women – feelings are important. This is where so many of you fail. Kissing is like an appetizer — bad ones simply don’t entice us to salivate over the entrée — or to stay around for the dessert.

(4) It is far easier for a man to date than a woman. Women tend to be desperate because society defines them differently when they are “man-less.” Unfortunately, many women also tend to not like themselves very much. Many of them will accept garbage rather than be alone. There’s a lot of low-hanging fruit out there. Men just have to reach out and pluck it. Women who value themselves more highly are a little different. Be aware, however, that you’re not likely to find who you say you want slithering around bar stools (unless, of course, your passion is being the toad perched atop the bar stool). Try doing the things you enjoy and talking to us about those things. Treat us as if you’re looking for more than a place to park your prick.

(5) Internet dating sucks. It’s nothing more than an eBay for hook-up chasers. Sellers place their ads (most are lying of course, after all, they’re not trying to tell you the truth; they’re trying to get you to buy the product they likely can’t sell in person — is advertising ever truthful?). They assume that if they can “hook” you, they can attain barnaclehood once you’ve met. But if you insist, at least take advantage of the sacrifice I made to research them for you (Rating Online Dating). Ugh…

(6) You’re concerned about farting on a date? Honey, if she doesn’t know that men fart, you might want to check her encephalogram for signs of brain activity and put a mirror up to her nose to make sure she’s still alive. Of course, if it’s too pungent, you might have to do that anyway. And if a woman’s farts bother you, best thing you can do is get yourself a jar of Vaseline.

(7) Instead of worrying about a “pick-up” line, how about some honest conversation? When you walk up to a woman and open with “you’re cute,” you’ve just devalued her as a person. You deserve to be shot down, stomped and run over. If she backs up and runs you down again, figure you got off easy. Even the dumbest of women like it when you at least pretend to value the vacuums between their ears.

(8) I know this wasn’t one of your questions; this is a freebie. Just be happy with yourself. You will project that happiness outward as well and you’ll attract a woman who’s happy with who she is as she is and who doesn’t need you to ‘complete’ her. Besides, if you’re a sad sack and can’t stand your own company, what have you got to offer anyone else? Be honest; be genuine — both with yourself and your prospects. And, I realize it’s a dying art, but respect her — and yourself. That’ll get you farther than any of the dumb shit — oops, I meant insightful queries — you’ve posed to us.

Finally, Sam, I really do laud you for coming to the source with your questions. You came to the right place. Unfortunately, many of your brethren seek information regarding what women want by asking — uh, other men. That’s akin to getting lessons in kindness from the Marquis de Sade!

Now go forth and get laid.

The Freida Manuever

Smug and self-assured, he swaggered through the room – his massive chest alone signaled to all present – “I own this!” His steely eyes – which burned a fiery gold when illuminated by the moonlight – were fixed and focused; he missed nothing in his domain. The reputation of his brethren as vicious killers was world-renowned and any who encountered him hastened to put as much distance between themselves and his glare as they possibly could …

… unless they happened to see my snarling, snot-gargling, schutzhund-trained Rottweiler with his favorite lamb’s wool teddy bear in his mouth.  Or unless they happened upon him as he snuggled with it and drowned it with kisses from his pink sandpaper tongue as big as the toy itself.

But Manny’s beloved teddy was also the favorite of our other fur baby – Freida.  Manny, at 150 pounds, was twice Freida’s weight and her momma didn’t birth a dummy. She was well aware that a wrestling match wouldn’t end favorably for her. So, she did the next best thing. Freida sauntered over to Manny and gave him kisses. Then she turned around, stuck her butt beneath his nose and wiggled. Manny’s eyes glazed over and when his jaw dropped, Teddy fell to the floor. Freida whipped around, snatched it and ran.

Now Rottweilers are among the smartest of dog breeds. After one trip to the vet, he learned that when we exited the freeway at First Street, that’s where we were headed. During obedience training he saw another dog corrected for breaking a stay — once; Manfred never broke a stay. Nonetheless, each and every time Freida’s stubby little tail signaled “come hither, big boy” Manfred would freeze and lose whatever Freida wanted.

And it worked every time.

The Freida Maneuver is also very successful at the online poker tables. I don my chocolate Wonder Woman cartoon profile – with my girls bustin’ out all over — and choose a table populated by men. As they compete by sending me virtual drinks and other gifts, I proceed to take their chips.

And it works every time.

Men …

Romance – RIP?

“What are you wearing?”

It’s a legitimate question when it comes from a friend who doesn’t want to be inappropriately dressed for your girls’ night out. Or when voiced by your very fashionable daughters who would be embarrassed if your attire did not befit a woman also known as their mother. Or when whined by your own mother who’d love nothing more than a new son-in-law to torment.

But not from an old geezer who only minutes earlier introduced himself via JDate’s instant messaging. And whose left hand was undoubtedly quite busily involved beneath his shorts as he typed with his right.

Guys, we know how much you love sex. And we know that you think about it  — on the average — almost as often as you inhale.

But while we do enjoy your visits to our little retreat, the long and winding indirect route will get you there much faster than your usual colorless, over-used short-cut.

Whatever happened to romance? Did the booty call say a eulogy over it that we missed somewhere along the line?

Yes, I am perfectly capable of opening my own doors, but I love it when you do it for me.

Yes, I am perfectly capable of buying my own flowers, but I love it when you buy them for me.

Yes, I am perfectly capable of preparing my own candlelit dinner, but I love it so much more when you cook it for me.

Slow down and court me with some of the romantic little indulgences that set my heart aflutter because, honestly, I’m also perfectly capable of producing my own orgasms.

I Do!?

What on earth possesses a successful, accomplished woman — independent, with no one who’s the boss of her — to get a bug up her butt and get married — again!? It’s almost as if at 62 some demon — a wrinkled, white-haired three-legged one — simply grabbed her soul’s remote, plopped his ass into her LazyBoy and started pushing buttons. Had it not been for the deliriously happy grin that spread across her face as she uttered those fateful words, I’d have felt sorry for her.  But she was my friend.  I forced myself to be happy for her instead.

She’d met him at a Sunday morning “silver singles” group and they’d been joined at the titanium-replaced-hip ever since. Our regular yentafests miss her share of the gossip. Our regular Saturday shop-a-thons are now one piece of plastic short. Our regular poker nights are minus her contribution to the winner’s spa fund.

No sooner had my better-you-than-me kicked off its Choos and settled comfortably into my gray matter’s chaise, than a try-it-you-might-like-it leaned insistently on my doorbell. And I had to admit it.  There could be good reason to (gulp) trip over jump the broom yet again.

Reason #1 – I love good food.  Everything about it turns me on — the sight, the aroma, the taste as it slowly teases its way over my tongue.  And I enjoy watching my guests enjoy the dishes I’ve created.  I tingle as they close their eyes and that smile of satisfaction only a chef could appreciate slowly spreads across their faces. But I’m sorry; I could really use a little help in the kitchen. I love shopping for ingredients; I hate unloading the car and putting things away.  I love creating incredible dishes; I hate the torture of the prep work. I love messing up the kitchen as I work; I hate cleaning it afterwards. Yup, some testosterone in the kitchen doing the crap I hate would be nice.

Reason #2 – I love to travel. One of the greatest pleasures in the world is traveling to other parts of it and experiencing the people, the cultures and, of course, the cuisines that make us all so very different. Many of the most wonderful memories of my life were born from vacations with my daughters.  But now that they have lives, a handsome onsite travel companion would be nice.

Reason #3 – I love to shop. But I could do without the labor of schlepping my finds from store to store. A little muscle to manage the movement of goods would be nice.

Reason #4 – I love snuggling.  California is gorgeous and the weather is great — for most of the year. But for our ‘bone-chilling’  below-sixty nights, I could use a little extra warmth.  My dachshunds, Lilli & Clifford try really hard, but at less than twenty pounds on either side of me, there’s not a lot they can do. Being wrapped in a couple hundred hairy pounds spread out over six feet would be nice … very nice.

Reason #5 – I love security. Yes, I have a pair of vicious guard dogs — who can be bought for a good cookie or two. And although I can shoot a hair off a gnat’s ass at twenty paces — as long as I’m wearing my glasses — a man who can do it at forty would make me happy. Besides, shooting is much like cooking. While I enjoy it and I’m good at it — I hate the maintenance. A sportsman who enjoys the oiling and the cleaning and the cleaning and the oiling would be so nice.

Reason #6 – I love romance.  I love little texts, notes and voice mails that say someone special is thinking about me. I love impromptu kisses and embraces just because. I love getting flowers (especially my favorites, lilacs, in the spring) and little sparkly things  for no reason at all, except to say that someone loves me very much.Yes, I know romance has a different meaning for men than for women. And as long as he doesn’t wake me when he’s done, even his version of romance would be nice.

Nice? Indeed. Free? Hardly. There is that toilet seat issue — men just don’t get it. And I’d have to give up at least one of my half-dozen closets.  And I’d have to share my garage. But while I love my solitude, even more wonderful are the tingles that travel my spine when that shared garage door opens … and he’s home.

Hmmm … Sunday Silver Singles, huh?  It appears perhaps my Sundays are free after all …

Let It Be!

VILE-agra (n) – any of a family of pharmaceutical equivalents to duct tape and popsicle sticks whose purpose is to extend the recreational function of the human male reproductive organ far beyond its useful life.  Common names include Viagra®,  Cialis® and my favorite chuckle, Levitra® (from the Latin levitas – rise; although a more accurate brand name might have been a derivation of the name Lazarus, as I believe it was he who rose from the dead).

When “things” (seriously, I’m not being facetious now) are no longer necessary for the function for which Mother Nature intended them, they stop working. For example, when we’re no longer popping out rugrats, we stop releasing eggs and our ovaries just hang there. Look at the top of this page.  See them?  There they are — relaxed and happy;  just chillin’ and hangin’.  Here’s another: when the breastfeeding stops, guess what happens? We no longer produce milk and our little boobies just hang there too! Notice a pattern here?

Men, once you reach a certain age – that is, when you’re so old that you’ll be sharing diapers with your newborn spawn – Mother Nature takes over where your alternate brain typically fails you. Once you see your prime in your rear-view mirror, honey, “erectile dysfunction” is a misnomer; it’s not supposed to function anymore.

It’s time to retire Oscar Mayer.

But, you croon, how are you supposed to live without him – after you’ve been loving him so long? Well, darlin’ that’s where the other tools in that belt of yours take over.  You know – that cornucopia of skills you developed over your three to five dozen years of experience at making us happy. Yes! We love the amuse bouche with which you earlier teased us only fleetingly that you can now serve up as the main course! We love the incredible friends you previously relegated to second-class citizenship in your rush to Wee Willy’s fireworks. We love the sweet nothings you whisper in our ears – especially in a duet with some serious mustachioed nuzzling. We love being kissed, held, caressed and cuddled (didn’t Ann Landers – or was it her sister, Abby – teach you anything?).  Hey —  here’s a thought: titillate our minds! Talk to us! Guys, there are a myriad of things we enjoy far more than that which you seem to find so worship-worthy — for example, a good night’s sleep (don’t forget the spooning, please). And honestly, given a choice between a rock and a hot stone massage …

Am I saying that women – particularly those of us who now have  finely developed patinas – don’t enjoy sex?  Oh, far from it, especially when you’re — uh, very creative.  But I am saying that one of our much-maligned past presidents had a point. You might want to clarify the definition of “sex.” Let’s evolve a little further; perhaps we could simply replace sex with making love. After all, it wasn’t your tallywacker we fell in love with; it was the man it accessorized.

By the way – and I mention this only because we love you and we need you here to kill our spiders –  that shit can kill you! If you have liver, kidney or heart problems – as so many men your age do – that little stiffy can be your last! This woman would prefer to be buried in the embrace a pair of strong, loving arms than to bury six feet under a cold, necrotized nibblet — even if its life insurance premiums are all paid up.

So, Mr Winkie has had a long (I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here), productive and happy reign. His time has come and he’ll be in good company. Retire him.

And let him just hang.

All Sizzle; No Steak

Almost as much as I love vacations, I hate jet lag. It’s approaching lunch time in Paris, but it’s 3:00 AM in my bedroom, I’m wide awake and my satellite dish is failing me miserably.

Flawless Face … Awesome Abs … Brazilian Butt …

As a business owner, I understand the importance of marketing – of selling the sizzle, so to speak. But does it really matter how enticing the wrapper if there’s no product within? When you leave the Louis Vuitton store on the Champs Elysees with your shopping bag in tow, you know that its contents will serve you – and turn your friends a bright pickle green – for years to come. Imagine your disappointment should you get home and discover you have nothing but tissue paper. Wait, I’ll make it even easier (so you men can understand). When you hand the dealer a check and take the keys to that new BMW, you expect there to be the ultimate driving machine within that beautiful body, do you not?

Why then do we so lower our standards when it comes to choosing a life partner?

Across the crowded dance floor, your eyes meet. Her Hairlights glisten in the reflection of the stars in your eyes and her Miracle Mineral Skin creates a stirring in your– uh, heart. As you scan her body, your fingers tingle in anticipation of what lies beneath her Best Bra Ever. So you buy her a drink and she takes you home. That the foundation of your relationship has less strength than half-beaten meringue is irrelevant.  That your conversation outside the bedroom consists of little more than breathless nothings has no importance. That she has the character of the snake with the apple is invisible to you. When she wraps her Gorgeous Sexy Legs around your Bowflex Body, you are in heaven. That’s all that matters. And you know it will always (or at least for Pfizer’s forseeable future) be that way.

So, the two of you jump the broom. Or tie the knot. Or whatever it is you do.

A couple of years – perhaps merely months – pass and life drizzles on your sparklers. You have little in common, conversation is practically nonexistent and the thrill is long gone. All that’s left is that foundation of friendship you laid before you laid her. What? You didn’t? Oh. Now the two of you are rapidly and very unhappily crawling down the road to the Dr Phil Show. And one  — or both — of you pulls out the matches and ignites new fireworks with someone other than that old ball and chain.

And you become contributors to marriage’s 50% failure rate.

Perhaps a better plan is to develop the product first so there’s actually a lily to gild? Hmmm…what a novel concept!  I‘d actually like to see the following as late night infomercials:

24K Character … Fabulous Friendship … Incredible Intellect …

I know; you’re right.  Ain’t gonna happen.

Oh well, back to my boob tube:

Best Vacuum Ever! … Bake, Broil, BBQ … Best Dog Training Secrets …

Good Lord! Anybody got an Ambien?