Aside

The Penis Monologues

I wanted to get inside their heads, to find out what they were thinking, and by “they,” I mean men, so I asked three of my favorite online guys, and being the great sports that they are,  all three graciously agreed to answer our questions.  Apparently, I’m not the only one who wants to know because ladies and gentlemen, you brought some fabulous questions, so many that I am going to do a weekly installment of “The Penis Monologues” until we have them all figured out…and by “them,” I mean men.  

Today we tackle what men really think about appearance, but first let me introduce you to my guys.

I crossed the demographics and found us a single guy,  a guy with a girlfriend, and a married guy.

Representing the single guys is my California boy, Dave, aka Hellabuzzed. Did you hear that, ladies? This one is on the market.  One (and it’s hard to pick just one) of my absolute favorite things about Dave is his candor. He tells it like it is, and even if I don’t want to hear it, he’s usually right.  He’s adorable, charming,  smart, and he always makes me laugh. What’s not to love? If you’re interested, leave your bio in the comments, and we’ll see what we can do. Kidding…kind of.

Commonly referred across the interweb as “Hotberg,” is Phil. Phil likes to tease me with his hot (keep reading) spots around NYC over at his blog: The Regular Guy NYC. If you ask me, he’s anything but regular.  But ladies, we have to back off of this one.  He’s fully committed to his girlfriend.  He does, however, like to blog naked.  You’re quite welcome for the visual as you read his answers to our questions.  Is anyone else smiling?  I know I am. *winks at Phil*

And then to even out the playing field, I give you the married guy, Don. Don has a huge heart, is a great father, and a loving husband. He loves to swear and can be bribed with Bud Light Lime, but he can also tug on my heart strings when he tells stories of his kids.  He’s quick with his wit and with his pistol because when he isn’t writing over at Don of All Trades, he puts on a uniform, carries a gun, and keeps the bad guys where they belong.

Now that we know who we’re talking to, let’s pop open a beer, put our feet up, and get comfy in the man cave as we try to figure out what’s going on in those thick enigmatic XY heads.

Beth (who gets full credit for the title of this series) from Writer B is Me would like to know:

Do you even notice cellulite, or is it just women who obsess about it?

Dave:  Yes. Guys notice cellulite, and it is not attractive. It doesn’t matter if it is white, brown, black or any color; however, I have a lot of respect for women I see out at the gym or walking around town in little short shorts wearing cellulite proudly. It’s the people who decide to cover it up and not be proud of who they are that I personally don’t like. Wear skirts. Wear shorts. Wear what makes you comfortable. If you have it and don’t like it, change it. Exercise.  It’s not permanent. If you have cellulite or not, it doesn’t change who you are inside. Sometimes women just need to say “Fuck it. This is me….like it or don’t like it. Either way, kiss my ass.” Do women like men with big ole pot bellies? It’s the same insecurity.

Phil:  Of course we do, we’re not blind you know. We notice it just as much as we notice our own beer guts, receding hairline, and aging. Men are vain too, but we just hide it a bit better. I think women obsess about it more when it comes to body issue things. Most guys won’t mind if they really care about the lady they are with.

Don:  Is cellulite that stuff that looks like cottage cheese on the back of a woman’s thighs or ass that is totally gross and makes me shiver and want to both laugh and vomit when I see it? No, I don’t notice it. I guess if it were an extreme case, I’d notice, but I’m a pig and generally just stare at a woman’s boobs, so no worries about cellulite there. You women are all beautiful and shouldn’t worry about such silliness. You didn’t ask, but I’d say that it does look better tan though, as all things do. I feel like I’ve lost 20 pounds when I get some color on my skin.

Lizzi from Considerings asks:

Does it matter to you to look good for your woman, or is it a “done deal..why does it matter?” kind of gig?

Dave:  Yes it matters to me. First off, let me say that I am single currently, but I have been in every sort of relationship, so I can speak from experience. I take a lot of pride in making sure I am at my best most of the time, especially when I am in a relationship. I am fairly metro. I like to make sure my hair is always trimmed and my clothes are current and up to par. I like to work out but not because my girl wants me to but because it makes me feel better on the inside, which shows on the outside. I am not the best looking person in America, but I don’t take that as I shouldn’t be presentable. I expect certain things from my girl that I would assume she would expect back from me. I want my girl to take pride in doing her hair and makeup and making sure she looks good…But mostly because I want her to want to look good. You have to be secure in your relationship too. If she is the center of attention and everyone is gawking at her when she walks into a room,  that could be hard for a lot of people. I’m insecure just like the next person, but you have to have confidence. Confident in how you look, how you feel, and how you present yourself to others. Confidence, not arrogance.  For example, when you get married there is no reason to let yourself go. That just means you don’t care enough about yourself to try. I understand marriage and kids is a huge responsibility, but everyone needs time to work on themselves. Guys are very visual creatures. Give them something to look at…….

Phil:  It matters a lot to me to look good for my gal. It’s a total turn on for my woman to see me in shape, and the perks that come from working out and staying fit delivers even more in the bedroom. Plus, I’m the kind of guy that takes care of myself when it comes to grooming and clothes, whether it be times when I dress up or just go casual. Plus, gotta smell good and be clean, as good hygiene is a must. Life is too short to look like shit. Don’t be that guy who smells bad and looks like a shlub. Take care of yourself and look your best, as I know you ladies do appreciate it. Heck, we all know how long you ladies usually take to get ready and look good for us, it’s the least we can do.

Don:  There’s very little argument that I married up and my wife down in the looks department, but the funny thing is that I think I’m more confident in how I look than she is about how she does. Maybe that’s a woman thing? I guess my wife and I have been together long enough that I don’t really concern myself with how I look THAT much. Aside from my stunning handsomeness, I think she also loves me because I’m her friend and an okay dad to our kids, etc. so I don’t worry about her leaving me for dressing like a homeless man or rarely bathing like a single guy might have to worry about. I do still think about her sometimes, like before I get a haircut, or when I’m buying clothes or cologne. If I remember she mentioned she liked a certain style or whatever, then I’ll do that for her, yes.

Dana from Kiss My List would like to know:

Do you worry about aging the way women do? Lines, wrinkles, hair loss, weight gain – does any of that phase you?  How would you fight it, or is fighting it too girly?

Dave:  I worry about aging just as much as everyone else. I don’t obsess about it. I understand how life works, and I don’t fight it. Am I as handsome as I was at 20? No. Not even close, but I try to make myself feel young. I know I can’t go to Vegas and party all night anymore, but that’s okay. I am older, and I don’t need to anymore. The older you get the wiser you get. Unfortunately we are all in a fight against time, and time always wins. I worry about lines and wrinkles and getting fat, but I don’t let it run my life or control who I want to be. I can’t eat what I want now and not expect  the consequences…and I know that going into it. You have to know what you do will catch up on you….Yes, sitting at the beach or the pool is fun and relaxing but remember in 20 years, it’s going to ruin your skin. I actually support people who are into improving their image with surgery or treatments as long as you don’t look like a duck or Joan Rivers at the end….at that point, just face the facts. You are old. Accept that. Everyone gets old. Your boyfriend, spouse and family love you regardless.

Phil:  Sure, we notice it, but most guys don’t obsess about it as much as women do. I’ve been lucky that I still have my hair, and many women like the gray in it now. A few wrinkles add character. There’s the old adage that as men get older we get hotter and women not so much. I think that’s a case by case basis, and depends on how that person has kept themselves over the years, how they dress, genetics, etc. Living in NYC, I see a ton of hot sexy women 40, 50, and older. I also see a ton of guys in their 20’s and 30’s who look like crap and will age very badly. Personally, I’ll admit I have a healthy concern about how I look to others, and do my best to stay fit and youthful. Aging gracefully is bullshit. I’m going to fight it kicking and screaming until the end. So yes, we do worry about aging, but as human beings I think we all do. It’s up to that person to make the best of it. Everyone handles it differently.

Don:  Worry about what?? My appearance? I’m a generally average looking 40 year old man, so I don’t worry about the way I look so much. I have had periods where I’ve not liked the way I felt about myself and I do want to be healthy enough to see my kids grow up, so I guess I’m phased a bit by aging, yes. It certainly doesn’t consume me, but there are times when I see a wayward hair protruding from my ear or eyebrow and think to myself, “what the fuck?”

My 4 year old called me fat a couple of years ago, because I was getting fat, so I did sort of start working out/running to get myself back into semi-decent shape. For me, it’s how I feel more than how I look, but I can’t let myself go too badly because little ones are brutally honest and nobody wants to hear, “daddy your belly is really big” or “daddy you smell funny” all the time.

While I certainly don’t think it’s too girly to work out and try to look good, metrosexual or whatever is beyond my interest level for sure.

Joy from ComfyTown Chronicles asked:

How long do you have to be with someone before you no longer care what they’re wearing, or how long they spend on their appearance when you go out together?  Do pajamas ever really matter past the initial stage, I guess. Why or why not?

Dave:  You should always feel presentable. Don’t ever lose that feeling, everyone. If you feel like a slob, then people will look at you like a slob. When did you stop trying? When you are wearing sweats at the mall, your man is looking at the hot young thing wearing the skirt and low cut shirt. You want your guys to feel that way about you, not her. When you first start dating I understand you are always at your best and gradually it tapers off once you get more comfortable. Don’t ever get to the point where you don’t care….Then don’t cry about what happens after his attention goes elsewhere.

Phil:  Hey, nothing wrong with throwing on the sweats and a t-shirt on a lazy Sunday while watching tv and having bagels. Or just chilling out on the couch after a long day at work and getting comfortable. Yet, I don’t agree with letting it all go as the relationship progresses. Neither me or my gal own pajamas. Never have and never will. Pajamas are the kiss of death when it comes to sex and intimacy. Once you go there it kind of kills the spirit of sexy-time. Maybe me and my gal might be a bit vain but we try to look good for each other whether at home or going out. Believe me ladies, men do notice and we appreciate it.

Don:  Hahaha, as I answer this, my wife is to my right on the couch in her flannel green pajamas. 18 years of her in pajamas and still going strong. I sleep nude and have never ever been able to understand how a person can wear anything to bed, let alone pajamas. That’s what the covers are for!

My wife and I are both really low maintenance, but I guess if my wife suddenly started to leave the house without brushing her hair or teeth or putting on any makeup, I’d wonder what was wrong with her. I’d not say anything and it wouldn’t matter to me outside of wanting to know if she was losing her mind or something.  She’s never been one to make us late because she changes her clothes 52 times or anything like that. We have three kids and they are the reason we’re always late wherever we’re going. They are also the reason we rarely go any place where appearance matters.

 ***********************************

So there you have it, ladies. Did you learn anything? Were you enlightened? Are you checking your cellulite in the mirror, too?  We asked for it.

Make sure and tune in next Tuesday when they tackle some of your questions that may or may not have made my guys blush.

If you have any questions you would like to add to the monologues, please feel free to leave them in the comment section or tweet them to me.

Thanks again to my guys. I loved your honesty. We need to know these things.

Aside

Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

She paces back and forth in her bathroom in nothing but a sexy bra and panty set, heart pounding in her chest.  Just do it. She tells herself, taking a quick peek at her reflection in the mirror.  Not bad.  She adjusts her bra for the 27th time.  Just do it. She silently says again, taking a deep breath.  She walks into her bedroom, picks it up off her nightstand and holds it out in front of her at arms length.

Click.  She looks at the photo.  Ick no.  She shakes her head and ruffles her hair, pulling it over her near naked shoulder.  Blonde hair splays across her chest.   She stretches her arm out again, holding it a little bit higher than the last time.

Click.  She tilts her head.  Click.  She looks up.  Click.  She looks down.  Click.  She looks to the side.  Click.  This time straight at the camera, pouty lips.

She holds her phone close to her face  and goes through the camera roll.  Delete.  Delete.  Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

She growls and throws her phone on her bed.  Why is this so hard?  He’s your husband.  He’s seen it ALL before. 

Deep breaths, back to the phone.  Click Click Click Click Click.

Camera roll. Sigh.  Okay, that one’s not so bad.  She bites her lip and stares at the photo for few more minutes finding every single possible flaw, anxiety billowing deep in her belly.

Ding dong…ding dong…ding dong.  She drops the phone when she hears her best friend, Kimberly’s, signature ring.  Then she laughs and picks it up answering with a chuckle.

“Hello.”

“Hey.  What are you doing?”

“Taking sexy selfies of myself, ” she says holding the phone with her shoulder as she pulls on her jeans.

Kimberly lets out a breathy laugh.  “Why?”

“To send to Huz.” She puts her arms through her shirt and pulls it over her head.

“Send it to me.”

“Dude, no way.  I can’t even look at them.  I’ve taken at least 30 pictures.  One is just okay. ”

They talk for 30 minutes about 247 different subjects, their typical daily chat that takes place every day during Kimberly’s commute home from work.

“Okay, I’m here at the daycare.  Talk to you tomorrow.  Oh, and send me that picture.  I’ll tell you if you should send it.”

“Okay, whatever.  Bye.”

She waits the 20 minutes it should take Kimberly to get home before she hits “Send” along with the message, “You better fuggin delete this.”

Nothing.

Another text.

No response.

Then she paces back and forth, stomach twisted in knots, and waits for her alleged “best friend” to respond with…anything.

She convinces herself it’s terrible and decides not to send it.

Then she hears the ding on her phone.

Kimberly text

 

She responds with a sigh of relief.  Huz leaves for the store, so she decides it’s the perfect time to send it to him.

Send. Sigh.  Done.  Wait.

Tic toc.  Tic toc.  Tic toc.

Huz comes home, says nothing.   She waits until the kids are in bed and says, “Did you get my text?”  He smiles a half smile  “Yeah.  Why did you send that?”

“Really?”

She looks at him, rolls her eyes, and walks into her room.  If he only knew.  Later he says, “I like it.”  Too little.  Too late.  Not good enough.  She grabs his phone and deletes it after already deleting it from her phone and vows to never ever take a sexy selfie again.

Remember children, “Naked selfies almost always work.”

But almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

Naked Selfies: The New Little Black Dress

I met my husband back in 1998 before Social Media ruled the world…even before Bob Dole invented the internet, or was that Dan Quail?  Or maybe Obama?  Okay, okay.   Maybe the internet existed, but nobody used it…really.   Back before Twitter and Match.com, how did we snag our mates when we couldn’t text them and get an immediate response, when we couldn’t stalk their Facebook page for pictures of their exes, before they could “check in” and we could just “pop in” where we knew they were?  Well, I for one did it the old fashioned way.  I put on make-up and donned that short little black dress that showed off my legs for days (shut up I’m not short) and my 19 year old perfect ass.  And it worked.  Every.  Single. Time.  But things have changed.  Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to the new little black dress:  Naked Selfies.

Her mom is very supportive.

Her mom is very supportive.

I recently learned that it’s fairly common practice for girls to send guys naked, (or half naked) selfies.  Wait, what?  Isn’t this along those lines of milk and cows and giving things up for free?  Not leaving anything to the imagination?  Right, mom would not approve.

Don’t even get me started on the demise of society through selfies.  I can go on and on about my antipathy for them.  In fact, I’m president of the club:  MAS.

But curiosity always kills the cat right?  My follow up question was, “Does this actually work?”

His response, “Naked selfies almost always work.”

He said almost:  Click here…do it!  Do it!  Do it!

Hmmmm…. So I started to ponder how this could affect my own life.  Being that I’m extremely self-centered, I asked myself:  How often do I pull out my “little black dress?”  Truth…almost never.  My daily uniform consists of yoga pants, a tank top, and sneakers…always sneakers.  I wear my hair in a pony-tail bun about 85% of the time.  Make-up gets used on weekends and when I have to volunteer at my son’s school, but most of the time, I’m simple, plain, and boring…a dun dun dun…housewife.

Back when I worked, I wore tailored business suits, pretty silk blouses, and even high heels.  My hair was always down, lipstick on, and I never left the house without accessories.  The only jewelry I ever wear now is my Ironman watch…sexy, right?  Back off, boys.

The truth is: there are girls out there sending naked selfies to guys in order to get laid.  Maybe I need to try harder.

Don’t get me wrong.  I take really good care of myself.  I work out a minimum of 3 times a week.  I eat healthy and avoid all of the junk foods, etc.  But the buck stops there.  I don’t spend a lot of time on my appearance or getting “pretty” even though behind my workout clothes and my pony tail, I’m quite sure a pretty girl still exists.

Yesterday I thought it might be fun to try an experiment.  The same dude who said naked selfies always work also said that hair is a big deal to guys, so after I dropped my daughter off at school, I decided to actually spend some time on my hair.  I got on Pinterest and found a tutorial on blow drying my hair. I know…those are out there.  I could have also gone on to learn how to apply false eyelashes, but let’s get real.  So after I showered, I spent (and I’m not exaggerating) 30 minutes blow drying my hair.  Then I “put on my face” as my mom used to say, careful to apply blush and bronzer.  I even wore lip gloss.  I chose a cute, fitted shirt and my skinny jeans, and I pranced around the house all day, wondering if my husband would notice.

This just in, he didn’t.

Finally, after the kids were comfortably tucked into bed, I said, “Hey, man, I spent 30 minutes fixing my hair for you today.”

He said, “Why?”  Then he smirked at me with his “I’m about to be an asshole” grin and said, “I fixed my hair for you, too, dude.”

I rolled my eyes and went to my bedroom where I changed from my skinny jeans to my much more comfortable pajamas and fell asleep on the couch.

I guess what I was hoping for was a spark….a little strike to a flame that often gets extinguished with the stress of everything on our plates:  sick parents, kids, work, life, etc.   I’m always looking for something, something that catches him off guard, something that makes him look twice, something so that I can, you know…get some.  Up next I guess is naked selfies.  Didn’t someone say that they “almost always work?”

Stay tuned….this could be good. Or really really bad.

Now, I’m off to find a Pinterest tutorial on the art of taking naked  sexy selfies.   Right after I blow dry my hair.

What do you do to keep the spark afire?  Are you guilty of letting it get burned out?  Do you try new things to keep the magic alive?  Anyone else want to join me in a naked selfie challenge?

Lovepocalypse Take 2

That phone call set my heart to flight.  Brendon, who I had a huge high school girl crush on, just called me at my mom’s house and asked me on a date.   It was Friday.  He suggested that we go to dinner on Saturday night, but I had to waitress at the piano bar, so I begrudgingly said “no.”  He thought for a second and then told me that he already had plans that night with some friends to meet at Blues, the bar next to the hospital.  He invited me to join them.  He didn’t know my age.  18.  He offered to pick me up, but I told him I would meet him there.  I was nervous and socially awkward, and I wanted my own car in case I needed to bolt if my anxiety got out of hand.

I drove to my apartment giddy with excitement about our impending date.  I appealed to my best friend/roommate to find me the perfect outfit since I had/have zero fashion sense, and Brendon had never seen me in anything but my hospital uniform:  Green polo shirt and khaki Dickies.  She found something she said was perfect “first date at a bar” attire that most definitely would make him swoon.  I looked at the outfit, bit my lip, and shrugged my shoulders.  I had only been on a few dates and had very little experience with men, and Brendon was a man.  A beautiful Latin man.  So I took her advice and donned something other than my usual t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers.

I walked into the bar feeling out of place without my normal gang of hospital friends, tugging at my shorts that I was certain were at least 2 inches too short and pulling at the shirt that hugged me a little too tightly.  Then I saw him.   He was sitting at the bar, drinking a Bud Light wearing a white Nike baseball cap, a perfect contrast to his tawny skin.  He turned around and noticed me standing in the doorway.  His smile reached all the way to his dark eyes as he walked over to greet me.  He pulled me into his chest in a surprisingly comfortable hug.  “Wow.  You’re here,” he said offering me that killer smile.  “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”  What?  He wasn’t sure I would come.

He guided me to the bar, his hand barely grazing my lower back.  He ordered me a Bud Light and another for himself, and we sat side by side sharing familiar and easy conversation.   We talked about college and classes.  He told me he was 23 and almost finished.  I hesitated but told him I was only 18, that I had just completed my second semester.  He looked at me and said, “You’re just a puppy, Kiddo.”   “Kiddo” would become his pet name for me, a name that I would grow to love being called.

He introduced me to his friends and his brother who met up with us later, and we all talked and laughed, and I found myself floating in his attention.  He was smart and funny and unbelievably sexy.  We closed down the bar.  He insisted that I let him drive me home…in his jeep…with the top off, which took his hotness D&B to a whole new level.  On the drive home, we learned that we shared a passion for music of all kinds.  When we got to my apartment, we sat in his jeep in the parking lot, listening to Fleetwood Mac.  When the last song ended, I reluctantly said, “I better go in.”  He walked me to my door where he planted a soft, sweet kiss on my lips and said, “Goodnight, Kiddo.” He pulled me into him in a warm embrace and let out a quiet sigh that went straight to my…ahem.   I wanted to invite him in, but I didn’t know how.  I was young and dumb, and incredibly naïve.   I opened the door and walked into my apartment, trying to summon the words to tell him that I didn’t want the night to end, but the words never came.  Instead, I just said, “Goodnight.”  He winked and turned to walk to his jeep.   I went to bed smiling, with his scent still lingering on my skin.

The next morning, my roommate drove me to my car.  I started to pull out of the parking spot when I noticed something on my windshield.  A note.  From him.

Can’t wait to see you again. –B        

Just like that, he hooked me even more, and I was in my first “grown up” relationship.  We took advantage of every free opportunity we had to spend together. It was challenging since I worked most nights, but we made it work.  We didn’t see each other often, but when we did, we cherished the time.  We shared a twisted sense of humor and spent most of our time together laughing.  He had the best laugh, and anytime I said something funny, he would grab me either by my arm or my hand, and hold me while he shook with laughter at something witty that I said.

His touch ignited my skin.

He told me I was way too funny to be a girl, which was even better than all of the times he told me I was pretty and smart and perfect.

He took me to his childhood home, introduced me to his mom, and called me his “girlfriend.”   She made us jalapeno muffins and told Brendon to be nice to me when he made fun of something that I said.   After she went to bed, we cuddled on the couch and watched some old movies on her big screen TV.

Another night, he took me to an abandoned mansion rumored to be haunted.  We crawled through the window and crept through the dark empty rooms, waiting for a ghost to jump out at us, my heart pounding in my chest.  But nothing made my heart stutter more than when he pushed me up against the grimy wall, wrapped his arms around my waist, and kissed me.

We spent countless hours at our favorite music store, standing side by side at the listening stations, ears covered with huge plastic headphones, smiles plastered on our lips discovering new music together…all before iTunes and immediate internet downloads.   Our love of music became our bond, another pull to my heart.

He often surprised me and showed up at the piano bar to listen to me play, which was a huge adjustment for me since I preferred to play for strangers.  That first night, he sat at a table by himself.  He didn’t order anything to eat or drink,  just sat there.  Listening to me.  I forced myself not to look in his direction.   I didn’t even notice that he left before I finished.  I was hugely disappointed when I discovered his empty chair until realized later as I counted my tips that he snuck  a comment card in my tip jar that said:

I didn’t think it was possible for you to be more beautiful, until I heard you play. ~B

That night, when I left the bar, he was waiting by my car.

“I got you this,” he said and handed me a CD.  George Winston:  December.  “It’s really a Christmas album, but I think you’ll like it.”

I suggested that we hop in his jeep and go for a drive to listen to it.  As we drove through our West Texas town, the sound of George Winston’s piano mingled with the warm summer breeze.  Then I heard a familiar song, Variations of Johann Pachelbel’s Canon.  He said that he loved this version and that it was his favorite song to hear on the piano.  We drove for hours that night until he took me back to my car.  He gave me a simple kiss, and said, “Goodnight, Kiddo,” handing me the CD.

I drove home listening to my new album and made it my mission to learn his song.   I listened to it incessantly, always playing it in my head.  I spent hours at my parents’ house practicing it over and over.  When they went to bed, I went to the one place that I knew never closed, the hospital chapel, and I banged my way through it until it was…perfect.

The next time he came to listen to me play, I surprised him and played it for him.

That night, I didn’t have to invite him into my apartment.  He practically pushed me through the door.

heart-music