Office Bar karaoke night

What kind of man doesn’t want sex?

Picture this: you drive to your typical B-grade karaoke dive, and as you stride in the door you’re surrounded by your good friends. They’re actors and actresses. These actors are partying with you on the Saturday night of a three-day weekend. They know you well and you know them well. There are high-fives and deep hugs. The red wine is cheap and plentiful; someone throws down a credit card for a round of drinks, and the bottles and glasses go around and around.

Someone pulls out a bottle of blue diamond pills. “You can get ’em on-line without a prescription,” he screams happily into your ear as he presses one into your sweating palm. The music is hard and loud as people are becoming brave enough to take over the microphone for their own karaoke faves.

And there are, my friend, women.

These women are actresses; they take care of their bodies, they know how to smile, and tell jokes, and laugh, and dance. When one redhead sidles to the bar, there is an instant of body contact between you two that makes you wonder just how many Mai-Tais she’s had — or whether she might be completely sober. And as you watch the women dance they begin to hold one another. It starts as a joke — my, we’re behaving in a downright lesbian fashion, how novel! — and then it changes into something else, something darker, when they realize that the Men are watching them very closely. Now there’s another group of two, grinding and laughing loudly in the center of the floor; the men whistle appreciatively. Now the men do an improvised karaoke number; their shirts come off as they gyrate and sweat. The women scream happily, ironically, for the instant choreography of the drunken men, and the subwoofer pounds the beat as you dance, kick kick kick, and the women begin to gyrate.

Here I interject:

Something is going to give, my friend. Irony and cool detachment will fail. Too much estrogen in the air, too many chemicals in the blood, too many tens of thousands of years of human evolution overdriving your cerebral cortex.

You are going to have to make a choice.

Let us proceed.

A woman sidles to you, sweat running from her bare shoulders. And her hand touches her moist throat and her eyes make polite contact with yours, and then they make impolite contact, and then the unspoken note hangs in the air, the fundamental frequency of the human race, implacable, unstoppable: touch me, kiss me, hold me, fuck me.

Now what kind of man is going to drive home alone?

What kind of man?

A married man, that’s who.