On Bachelorhood -- Part I

Males, as a race, enjoy no realistic aspirations to independence. What we do, who we're friends with, what we eat, what we wear, where we go – all these things are determined, as H.G. Wells would say, “keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's yet mortal as his own.”

As a microcosm of this notion, consider a wedding: the guests (approved, selected, and vetted by the bride and invited via stationery undoubtedly of her choosing – the dearly departed Susan Ross Costanza notwithstanding) stand amid a venue the bride has envisioned since she was five years old.

The entire scene --- flowers, music, coloration, footwear, wardrobe – is nothing less than the realization of a vision the lovely lady has been composing in her mind's eye for a lifetime (yes, I am painting with an extremely broad brush here; perhaps it isn't so difficult to see why it is that I enjoy firsthand authority to write upon the phenomenon of bachelorhood). In short, for all the formative effect the man of the pairing had upon the birth of the wedding vista, once the big day rolls around, he may as well be a blow-up doll. At least then there would be no risk of him sweating completely through the overcoat of his tuxedo, as my own father did 29 years ago.

What would possess an ordinarily imperspirable man such as my dear old Dad to sink to such soggy depths, particularly on an ostensibly joyous occasion (not to mention a day when he is all but assured of getting a little hanky-panky. Yes, girls, the male mind is that brutally unsophisticated. Guarantee men an orgasm at the end and we can and will sit through absolutely anything (congratulations, you just heard, verbatim, the studio pitch for “P.S. I Love You.”))?

Ladies, provide the men in your life with a non-sequitur broaching of the topic of marriage and they will react in a distinctly not-unhilarious way. They'll spit their coffee out all over the table, crash their car (don't worry, fender benders only) or lose control of their manhood and spray pee wildly all over the bathroom (although, if they are comfortable enough with you to carry on a conversation while they do their business, your relationship is likely far enough along that no mention of marriage will be a true non-sequitur. Either that, or you are a prostitute).

There is a reason that we of the baser sex react to a seemingly amiable proposition like matrimony with frenzied, unfocused terror. Of course, the vast majority of fellows cannot elucidate the precise rationale for this aversion to lifelong matrimony. By and large our reactions in these situations are governed by broad, almost instinctual heuristics. Should the conversation turn to marriage, your typical bachelor with nameless and primal panic and disorientation; like the ancient Aztecs to an unforeseen solar eclipse, or modern Americans to the monster from Cloverfield.

The answer, of course, is Freedom. Not the kind of freedom you might think, though.

At first blush, I'm sure you read that and thought that the biggest freedom that committed bachelors stand in terror of losing is the freedom to get with any woman that comes across their path and is willing to give them a turn in the sack. Certainly, the argument goes, that must be it – the issue comes down to simple biological impulses. Men feel an intrinsic need to deposit their DNA into the genetic pool as much as possible. We're descended from monkeys, and free from the inhibitions of human society, they indulge their promiscuity as we homo sapien males wish we could.

This argument seems so neat and tidy. Well, guess what? It's bullshit. Monkeys also hit their dicks together to decide the order in which they're going to eat lice off each other. Sorry to burst your bubble, but that's not the kind of thing that goes on during your typical “Boys' Night Out.” The issue is not that simple. (As an aside, the phrase “monkey penis fencing” is now forever and inextricably registered on my Google search log history. I’m sorry Mom. I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry Chris Hansen.)

There are couple of reasons why the argument that bachelors fear commitment out of a boorish and unrealistic desire to copulate with every woman under the sun doesn't stand up to scrutiny. The main one is that (and I'm trying to think how to put this accurately without sounding like a closeted homosexual) for all the hype, the conquests in a single guy's sex life really aren't all they're cracked up to be. Sure, the pursuit of a head turning hottie at a bar after knocking a few drinks back has led more than a few men to ruin, but once he’s bedded a few of these beauties the thinking bachelor soon realizes that standard one-night stands have more than their fair share of drawbacks.

The first problem is pressure. I don’t just mean the emotional pressure that comes with amorous involvement or expectation to perform. I’m talking about literal, physical pressure. Most men, at the end of a night of sleeping (or not sleeping as the case may be), really have to fart. I don’t know what the exact mechanics of the internal plumbing are, but if sixteen years of Catholic school taught me nothing else it’s that one doesn’t fart around girls they’re not familiar with. Especially if you’re spooning with them in the nude. As a result, once the morning rolls around, the not-solid, not-liquid exit hatch has formed quite a queue. Actually, you can probably drop the “non-solid” part from the previous sentence (if you’re lucky, the “non-liquid” part will stay there, but if you’re not – or if you did something stupid like eat Little Caesar’s last night, go ahead and drop that, too).

If you’re in a stable, happy relationship, this scenario isn’t much of a problem. You can simply excuse yourself to the lavatory and pretend like you’re taking an especially long time to brush your teeth. feign taking a shower, or simply offer up the indelicate “I have diarrhea.” Your girlfriend has been with you for a while, she can fend for herself and hang out with your roommates for a half hour. In the world of one-night stands, however, the same etiquette is simply not acceptable. To ask a poor girl to introduce herself to your morning-wood sporting roommate while she's in her cocktail dress from the night before is simply inhumane. The girl knows she's not a skank. Your roommate knows she's not a skank (MS Word's spellchecker officially does not recognize the word skank), but the situation throws that suggestion out there obtrusively nevertheless. It'd be like meeting the father of a girl you knocked up in high school. You know you're not a total slimeball. He knows you're probably not a total slimeball. Permeating the air, however is the inescapable reality that at one point you were up to your johnson in his daughter (“johnson” also does not register with Mr. Spellcheck. What the fuck?).

Your hands are completely tied. You can't just ask the girl to leave, however. That's what a dickhead would do. The poor young lady likely wants to part ways just as much as you do, but doing so would be a tacit admission that the only reason you two spent any time together was for sex.

The main point I am driving at here is that for all the lamentation that exists over the shackling of Relationship Man to a solitary sexual partner, the alternatives, broadly speaking (read: speaking of broads) are not necessarily any more attractive. Clearly there are more concrete manifestations of the “Jumping the Shark” of male promiscuity than those directly relating to impending intestinal requirements, but seven paragraphs on how bad it feels to really hurt someone's feelings isn't really what the D10 is all about now is it?

The fact remains that the Bachelor's love of his 'hood (meaning 'Bachelorhood,' not 'manhood,' although bachelors give love to the latter almost as eagerly as the former) is a phenomenon not so easily explained. What are the underlying causes? Well, to discover the answer to that query, dear reader, you will have to check back in later on in the week for the second (and final?) installment of On Bachelorhood.

Until then ---- stay single.