Is it true that nice guys finish last? It sure seems that way as a divorced man fights his way through a comedic dating scene. Will he ever find his soul mate? Phil has been called the male version of Carrie Bradshaw. Enjoy his humorous essays about relationships and the struggles we all have finding and keeping lovers. Women appreciate his open view into the minds of men. Artist Mike Swaim adds to the hilarity with his brilliant sketches, giving another dimension to Phil's quest for love.
Is it true that nice guys finish last? It sure seems that way as a divorced man fights his way through a comedic dating scene. Will he ever find his soul mate? Phil has been called the male version of Carrie Bradshaw. Enjoy his humorous essays about relationships and the struggles we all have finding and keeping lovers. Women appreciate his open view into the minds of men. Artist Mike Swaim adds to the hilarity with his brilliant sketches, giving another dimension to Phil's quest for love.
“Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option.” – Mark Twain I'm at a New Year's party with a bunch of friends, most married. Midnight is approaching, and I'm holding the tallest Bombay Sapphire and tonic I can find, because I haven't found Miss Next. A married friend remarks. “Dude, who are you going to kiss at midnight?” “No idea.” “Why don't you mingle and find someone?” “Maybe I don't see anyone I'd like to kiss.” “Hey, beggars can't be choosers.” “Neither can married men.” “But...” “Careful, lad. You don't want to confess infidelity to a writer.” “I'm not. I'm just saying, if I wanted to kiss another woman, I could.” “Right, and you might be caught and forced to pay the consequences, which would be more significant than mine.” “So, you like being alone because it's safer.”“Single. I like being single, because it offers nearly limitless opportunities.” “What about the sex?” “Really? You want to go there? How long have you been married?” “Never mind. Enjoy your drink, nice guy.” I am nice—to a fault. Then, after being poked enough times, I stray into naughty land. Although I know it's what many women prefer, I can't seem to transform myself into a bad boy. I witness bad boys treating women badly. Often, these women complain to me about it. Then, I watch them walk away from me, and swoon back into the beast's arms. Insanity, if you ask me. This is what makes me fall from niceness. Women constantly saying they want one thing, while selecting the other. Women don't want to fuck nice guys. Women want bad boys to fuck them. There's only one way to describe it: Nice Guy FAIL.
Are you single? Divorced or widowed, perhaps? Are you having your second, third, or fourth go at soul mate searching? Me too! Do you look around at paired-up peeps and wonder why you haven't been picked yet? Or, as I have learned, do you acknowledge the happy couple and snicker silently because you know where they're heading? In the eight years since my divorce, I've gone on hundreds of dates. Now, I could consider that a problem, which I should have taken responsibility for after failure, say, number twenty. On the other hand, I can see it as a natural process for someone with such discerning tastes. Either way, if I don't vent about my struggle I'm going to cramp up and need a new jacket and rubber walls. So, come with me on my little journey here in my sixth book on the subject. (There's no end in sight.) I must warn you that I enjoy swearing and writing about sex. You're going to see the F-word quite a few times in the following pages. If that ultra-flexible word is going to leave a bruise, put the fucking book down now. If it tickles you, follow me into hell in a wine bottle.
Love ... Who needs it? I don't know if this just comes with age or what, but I'm less patient with my relationships, when I should probably be more patient. The first sign of any drama, no matter how sexually starved I happen to be, and I lose her number. Perhaps this makes me unpopular with the ladies. Maybe I'm getting a reputation. Meh What I am hoping is that by reading my take on the whole mating game, you'll have a better appreciation for whatever predicament you're in, be that anything between marital bliss and been lovin' your fist. Karma Kicked Me Sure, I'm bitter sometimes. Aren't you? How many times do you let karma kick you before you become jaded like me, and begin to expect it? So, you're pissed. He dumps you for a skank-hole. Go ahead and be hurt—that's natural. It's an ego slap. As you get older, you'll begin to take these more in stride. Sure, you'll complain about it to a friend, relative, or co-worker, but you'll get over it. Look at this book as my way of getting over it. A collection of irreverent, sarcastic, vulgar, crude, whatever-you-call-it essays containing my odd perception of life, which might actually lower my blood pressure by writing, and generate a giggle or two for the reader. WARNING: F-Word Used Over 160 Times Before we go any further, let me warn you that I love to cuss. F-ing love it. You're going to read plenty of bad words, so reading aloud is strongly discouraged, unless you're in church. Also, since I have taken certain liberties with our language, and I am a bit whiny and insensitive, I've decided to enhance this tome with—drum roll, please—recipes! Yay, Recipes! Cheers, my dears.
A parody. Frightened by the wacky desires and twisted history of the gorgeous, boob-a-licious, young mogul, Bea Plastique, Mormon Silver has ignored all warning signs, and asked for her hand in marriage. Desire for Bea's butt still dominates his dreams, and when she proposes a route there, Mormon cannot resist. They continue their sweltering sexcapades, as Mormon learns more about the disturbing past of his hungry, obsessed, and insatiable lover. While Bea wrestles with her sex toys, Mormon must deal with the fury and cock-blockage of her Grandmother, who came before her (of course), and make the second most important decision of his life-whether or not to reveal that he has had a vasectomy.
A parody. When old fart blogger Mormon Silver goes to interview young entrepreneur Bea Plastique, he encounters a woman who is stunning, smart, and scary. The unsophisticated, horny Silver is startled to realize he wants this woman (from behind, mostly) and, despite her mysterious love of ice hockey, finds he is desperate to get close to her (and honk her boobies). Unable to resist Silver's oral skills, silver chin fur, and argyle socks, Plastique admits she wants him, too-but on her own terms. Stunned yet delighted by Plastique's kinkiness, Silver hesitates. For all of her success-her multinational assortment of lubricants, her gay assistant, her condo on a high floor (I mean, really high-you're almost above the clouds, for Christ's sake)-Plastique is a woman haunted by her past and consumed by the need to have hockey-related sex. When the couple embarks on a bold, twisted physical affair, Mormon discovers Bea Plastique's secrets (including a naughty uncle) and explores his own icky, sticky desires.Silly, sexy, and deeply disturbing, Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks is a tale that will make you horny, tickle you, and give you some great ideas to try on an unsuspecting lover.
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