It wasn’t the kind of place where you’d order wine.  The antler chandelier, stuffed buffalo head, and mammoth posters of Texas facilitated the “if you were to die and come back as any animal, what would you be?” questions.  Mostly people want to come back as acceptably lazy (a New York City dog or a bear who hibernates or eats fresh fish all day), or as scavengers (like an eagle, even though they hate birds  “But an eagle would be cool”).  Peanut shells notwithstanding, it was a Jack and Ginger night at Rodeo Bar with the co-workers, a.k.a., “a night of drinking Armageddon.”

“Yeah, man, I love this place.  This should be our new Thursday night place.  There are no good bars like this near our office.”

“Wait, this is the good bar?”  Clearly I didn’t get the memo. 

Here’s what I did get: involved in a heated discussion about the crap we take, or refuse to take, in a relationship.  No, I mean literally.

Some have said seex is the thermometer of a relationship; it can tell you all you need to know about the success of how the relationship is going at any particular time.  For others, it’s not seex; it’s shite.  Not what they’ll put up with, but actually taking one. 

Some people can’t poop in public, not even in a work bathroom.  They would sooner go home or borrow keys to a close friend’s apartment than drop a deuce at the workplace.  Even in the Hamptons, I’ve had girlfriends who would sooner hold it in all weekend than poop in the house.  They didn’t only need a cigarette and cup of coffee to stimulate the action, but they needed total privacy.  Now, sure, we’d all like a little privacy.  I’m not talking about things like a closed door or an upturned radio station.  Some women can’t poop if they even think someone thinks they might be “making.” Now, with these women, you can really see how invested and taken they are with a guy if she’s willing to do the deed in the same apartment as her man.  It’s a barometer.

Granted, I’m not one of these women; I could go anywhere.  I’m also not the type to leave it in the bowl to boast (ahem, when my sister was younger, she once took a Polaroid of her BM and mailed it to our father with a note, ‘can you believe how big that is?  Aren’t you proud?")  I straddle the two extremes, but admittedly, it’s quite unpleasant when someone at work decides to do her makeup in the bathroom mirror while I’m in excruciating pain from the mistake of a sandwich a co-worker toted to my desk

And here’s where the co-worker banter begins:

“Wait, so we’re getting all hot and you’re a minute or two from coming, and then I feel the grumble.  ‘I’m sorry baby, I just gotta go.’ Then what?” Chris and I tend to discuss these types of things often.
“Then, I’d rub one out and put on a movie.”
“But when I came out of the bathroom would you still be naked?”
“Yes, but I’d be under the covers.”
“And would there be any chance of resuming things?”
“No.  I’d be watching Notting Hill by then.”
“But what if I told you to wait and not come until I was out of the bathroom?”
“That would be hot.”
“I think so.”
“You really don’t care if a guy craps in your bathroom, given that it’s in your bedroom and only like 4 feet from your vagina?”

See, that’s the thing.  I really don’t care; that’s why they’ve got matches and DVD remotes with volume controls.  Now flip and reverse it.  Men don’t like to think of woman as human; I don’t care what they say.  I’m certainly not implying they think of us a superheroes with red hanging capes making soft snapping sounds behind us as we run to procreate their seed—that’s a Wonder Woman fantasy, that much they will admit.  I’m talking human as in err.

For simple beginners, they certainly don’t care to know about our mortality, and their eyes roll with the first mention of some internal clock.  Reproduce this baby he thinks as he grabs hold of his balls.  “Yes, idiot, that’s the point.”  He genuinely doesn’t want to know the first thing about a woman’s well running dry—actually, neither do I. But, don’t even mention K-anything unless an ass is involved.  Astroglide is one thing, but bring anything “warming” or with the word “jelly,” to the bedroom, and suddenly, you’re dating a fifth grade Dungeons and Dragons freak who giggles when he thinks he might see a hard nipple under a school girl sweater. 

Ah, and then there’s the whole deal with farts and poop.  Let’s just get it out there.  Men don’t want to know about “wind” or “turds.”  They prefer to think of a woman as all pink.  You know, her asshole is a small pomegranate seed–sweet, lickable, and lovely.  It’s, quite simply, the look of an envelope sealed with a pink lipstick kiss. S.W.A.K.

He grimaces when his mental color wheel rolls from pink to brown upon her mention of a stomachache.  He prefers vomit to ‘rhea any day of the week.  “Fine, want me to hold your hair back?  Sure I know that will score me some bonus points… let it all out baby.  Don’t you cry.  I’m here for you.”  It’s nearly a nursery rhyme right up there with Grimm’s.  But even with the thought of a woman “making,” he’s suddenly disgusted, as if a wart-ridden toad were just thrust into his mouth whole. 

If you’re a woman, and with a guy who prefers a Pink Lady to a Sandra “D,” you just have to suck it up.  I don’t mean hold it in; I mean, just get over it.  Let it splash, all nasty; tell him to turn up the radio and not hate you in the morning.  There’s no way to get out of this unless you pick a fight just so he’ll leave… but then you might have lost him for good.  I suppose you can always seal the deal with a kiss and hope he can get over it.