I overheard a woman saying, “There’s not a single man in this bar I would sleep with.”
“OK, how many married ones?” I intruded.
“Very funny. Zero. How many women here would you have sex with?”
“I think you know the answer to that question is substantially more than zero.”
“Jesus. I don’t know. Sixty?”
“Really? Actually that’s much lower than I expected.”
“Well, I’m proud to fall short of your expectations.”
“It’s still pretty ridiculous. Are you desperate or a man-slut?”
“How about a third option: I’m generous.”
She wrinkled her nose and cast me aside like a napkin ring. I was disqualified as a mate along with the rest of the patrons before I had a chance to woo her with charm. That was shallow and judgmental on her part, wasn’t it?
Perhaps, I would have been wiser to identify her as the only woman I found desirable enough to consider pausing my morals, bedding a stranger, and thus opening myself to slut shaming. Nah. She would have seen through it.
I wonder what the typical percentage is by gender. I have male friends who are “generous” enough to get close to 100%. For us, it’s more of a factor of how long it has been since the last encounter. For ladies, there’s just too much at stake (emotions, STDs, and babies) to be open to porking half the bar.
Still, it would have done much for my depleted ego to be her chosen one. In fact, that would be the only answer she could give to make my day: “I only find one guy attractive enough to consider that, and I’m looking at him.” Anything more than one man means competition, and I’m far too old and tired to get into a sword fight.
I would bet most women would answer as she did with zero percent. Some would say, “One or two, but it would require three references, a clean STD report, and more drinks than I’m typically willing to have on a Sunday.”
Kind of sucks for single swine like I. Every time I step into a den of inebriation, I do so with the hopes that tonight might be the night I find a solution to the aches and pains caused by a torturous dating scene. Yet, the odds say I’m almost as likely to drown in my bathtub. (By the way, why is drowning in a bathtub the measuring stick for ways to die? How deep are people’s tubs? Fuck. Who even has the time to take baths? How do you wash your hair in a tub? You’d have to slide down and submerge yourself in ass water. Oh, that’s how people die. Or, are they using a transistor radio while tubbing? God damn stupid. Take a fucking shower.)
Bottom line is bars are full of slutty men and overly-discerning women. It’s amazing we ever dock privates.
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