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John vs. Mary
(Or What’s the Deal with Men and Sex?)

Bernie Silver

    John was assistant manager of propaganda, otherwise known as public relations, at Chippy, Inc., a Silicon Valley—you guessed it—chip manufacturer. Mary was secretary to the propaganda manager, John’s boss. John joined the company a decade ago, straight out of college. Mary came aboard last year, straight out of a divorce. About a month after her arrival John began pestering—some might call it begging—Mary to go out with him. She resisted until, battle weary, she surrendered. John and Mary enjoyed a relatively congenial dinner at a mid-priced restaurant, then John drove Mary to the home of which she was sole owner thanks to the divorce settlement. Somewhat warily, Mary invited John in for a nightcap. They sat on the couch with their whiskey-and-sodas, not too close and yet not too far apart. After several minutes of idle conversation John scooched closer. Soon he transferred his drink to his right hand and placed his left on Mary’s right knee. Her brow creased but she offered no resistance, which John interpreted as permission to climb higher, which he did. In return Mary, almost playfully, slapped John’s hand away, then tugged her dress down to its previous nadir just above her knees, while at the same time increasing the distance between her and John. Lastly, she scowled.
    “Men,” Mary said, the scowl still in place.
    “What about us?” John asked offhandedly.
    “You’re all alike.”
    John’s turn to scowl. “C’mon, you know better’n that.”
    “I do, huh?”
    “Yeah, you do.” John sipped his drink. “Now I’ll admit that, anatomically, we’re all pretty much the same. For example, we all have a—”
    “Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m getting at.” Mary also took a taste. “You’ve all got one, and that’s what you think with.”
    “Oh come on. Certainly a smart woman like you doesn’t subscribe to that nonsense.”
    “It’s not nonsense. Of course, a smart man like you realizes I don’t mean that men literally think with their peckers. What I’m saying is that when it comes to sex, they park their brains and put their most prized possession in gear.”
    “And what the hell does that mean?”
    “Okay, I can see you’re not big on metaphors, so let me put it another way.” Mary paused to swallow more of her drink. “It means men are interested in one thing and one thing only, especially on a date.”
    Mary smiled, or sneered. John wasn’t sure which. Still he risked widening the rift between them despite its possible effect on his objective for the evening. “Any other cliches you’d care to throw my way?” He followed this with a definite smirk.
    “No, that one’ll do for now,” Mary said. “And before you dismiss out of hand what I just said, don’t forget that, shopworn though they may be, many cliches are statements of fact.”
    “And what about statements that aren’t factual, and yet get repeated ad infinitum. I believe they’re called myths.”
    “Call it what you will, what I said is true.”
    Girding his loins, John put his drink down on the coffee table fronting the couch. “The hell it’s true, not even close. We men are interested in quite a few things besides sex, like our work, the stock market, sports, good food, and not least of all, tying one on . . . couldn’t resist that last one. And it almost goes without saying that married men are interested in their families. Plus . . . plus . . .”
    “Don’t strain yourself, you’ll get a hernia.” Mary also set her drink down. “But again, you’re missing the point. The number one thing on men’s minds is—guess what?”
    “I suppose you’re gonna say sex.”
    “I’m going to say it because it’s true.”
    “No, it’s not. It’s a myth.”
    “No it isn’t. It’s the truth.”
    John shook his head, and rather vigorously at that. “No way is it—”
    “Okay, okay. Let’s call off the tennis match and get down to cases.” Mary started to cross her legs, but then thought better of the idea. “What’re you thinking about right now, this very minute?” she asked.
    John shrugged. “Nothing in particular. No wait, I’m listening to you, so I’m thinking about what you’re saying.”
    “Bull. Setting aside the fact that a few minutes ago your hand crawled halfway up my leg, you’ve been staring at my tits throughout this conversation. Now tell me you’re not thinking about sex.”
    “I . . . I . . . I haven’t been staring at them. I’ve just, you know, glanced at ‘em once in a while.”
    “Once in a while? You haven’t taken your eyes off my boobs all evening.”
    “You’re exaggerating.”
    “Not by much.”
    “They’re very nice, by the way.”
    “Don’t change the subject.”
    “And what exactly would that be?”
    “Don’t play dumb with me. You know damn well what the topic of this conversation is.”
    “Oh, right. Your stupid claim that men think with their weenies.”
    “Metaphorically speaking.
    “Right, metaphorically speaking.
    “And my claim isn’t stupid, nor is it false. You gaping at my chest all night only proves my point.”
    “Seriously? All that proves, really, is I admire a good rack.”
    Mary winced, then informed John, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
    “That’s where you’re wrong—again. It usually gets me anywhere I want to go.”
    “No doubt, if by that you mean into bed with airheads who fall for that kind of crap. Which brings us back to the subject at hand.”
    “Which is . . . refresh my memory.”
    “Which is that most men are obsessed with sex, which causes them to think with their peters instead of their brains.”
    “I still say that’s horse manure. We’re not obsessed with sex. We’re just very fond of it. And so are women, by the way, which you can’t possibly deny.”
    “And I don’t. Sure we women like sex, but we’re not consumed by it the way men are.”
    “Oh for God’s sake, how do you even know that men are, as you put it, consumed with sex? You a mindreader or something?”
    “It doesn’t take a mindreader to know that men have sex on the brain. It just takes observation.”
    “Oh? And what exactly have you observed?”
    “Well, you asked so I’ll tell you. I’ve observed that men lie, cheat and practically steal to get a woman into bed. And I’ve observed that most porn-site visitors and so-called adult-store customers are men. Plus I’ve observed that it’s mainly men who patronize sex peddlers, aka prostitutes, both male and female. This tells me men are so obsessed with sex they’re even willing to pay for it if their other ploys fail.”
    John shook his head, not quite as vigorously as last time, then began to respond. He got as far as “But” before Mary held up a hand signaling him to stop. “Hold on, I’m not finished,” she informed him. “Of course, I’ve also observed men’s wandering eyes—you know what I’m taking about. When they’re not getting their rocks off in bed men openly gawk at women’s body parts, such as their butts, even when their wives or girlfriends are present. And needless to say, but for the record, men are forever ogling women’s . . . ahem . . . racks.”
    “Now are you finished?”
    “Almost. I’ve saved the best part for last. I know that some men like to play with dolls, meaning blow-up sex dolls that come equipped with female genitalia, which if you ask me is beyond creepy. How do I know this about men? Some of them have confessed their . . . shall we say . . . affairs to me, and without any coaxing on my part.” After a brief pause, Mary said, “Now I’m finished.”
    John quaffed more whiskey while pondering her words, then offered a rejoinder. “Well, as I said, men are fond of sex, maybe a little more than women are. And as for the eyeballing, we guys are visual people, so we like to scope out works of art—such as women.”
    “Oh puh-leeze.”
    “Do you deny it, that men appreciate works of art? Or don’t you think women qualify?”
    “What I think is, you’re full of it.”
    “Hmmm. Seems to me we’ve reached an impasse.”
    “It certainly looks that way.”
    “Well, now that that’s over with, I don’t suppose there’s any chance . . .
    I mean, I know this is only our first date but—”
    “Are you kidding me? After the discussion we just had? Now I’m thinking you’re right after all. Men don’t have sex on the brain, because in order to have sex on the brain you have to have a brain. But maybe that’s unfair. Maybe it’s only you who’s brainless, not your entire gender. But thanks for the stimulating evening.” Mary stood, as did John, though he did so with some hesitation. “Now beat it,” Mary said. “And I don’t mean that thing you’re so proud of.”
    At first John looked perplexed, but then caught her meaning and did as requested.
    Meaning he departed.

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