Follow the Herd

I think St. Valentine's Day is a day with immense untapped potential. If you're in a relationship, shortly before VD ("shortly before VD" -- that would be a good time to stop and think, by any interpretation) you should decide, "Is spending VD with this person (that should almost be, "Is getting VD from this person ...") something that I think will be wonderful?" And if the answer is, "No," you should break up. Yes, you should break up. Now, maybe if you're going on your 20th wedding anniversary and your seven kids are still in school, an exception could be made. But if you're just in the "seeing where this goes" phase, which is where VD is most important ("most often contracted?" No, that would be in the "getting to know you" phase, wouldn't it?), you really should be looking forward to VD (insert joke here) or you should bail out.

Okay, well, big deal, right? Where's the "immense, untapped potential?" Gather 'round, campers; Uncle Rope has a story to tell.

Two VDs ago (insert joke here; and last VD I was attached to the wrong person and what I'd hoped and planned to be a fantastic time was instead flat) I went out with a group of male friends for dinner and drinking. Actually it was the day before VD (insert joke here), but clearly VD was the important matter (insert joke here).

So at dinner, one of my very good friends and fellow deviants gave me a Valentine's Day gift: three pairs of sexy women's underwear (I'm male, if you hadn't checked my profile, and I have the penis to prove it; and I'm not a cross-dresser -- probably the least glimpse at how I normally dress would convince anyone that, as little thought as I give to my wardrobe, no way could gender identity enter into it) from Victoria's Secret (apparently they conveniently have a "3 for $10" sale on such items throughout the month of January) in a nice box wrapped by a big silk ribbon with a bow.

Okay, so, "Ha ha, very funny," and I set the box aside. And then after dinner we all went to our regular bar, which is one of the grimier establishments in a rather trendy area, and whose clientele is normally older guys (among whom I choose not to number myself, although my attitude on this is possibly not universal) and young punks with lots of tattoos and body piercings. On this night, however, there were quite a few hot young women, including a couple groups of them.

After a few drinks, I decided that it was time to inventory the panties I'd been given. So out came the box, and I began inspecting the individual items for any technological innovations that may have occurred since the last time I actually had the opportunity to handle women's underwear.

And this was when it started to get surreal. An obscenely young, obscenely beautiful woman came up to me and said, "Excuse me -- why are you looking at women's underwear?"

I was pretty much taken at unawares by this, so I fumbled a few things about how a dear friend had given them to me as a gift, etc., etc., until finally I recovered my footing and went into Full Bullshit Mode (FBM™). For the rest of that evening, I was the world's greatest underwear salesman. Oh, the nonsense I was spewing -- did you know the bow in the front is actually a safety feature? I presented that young woman with a pair of the underwear, as I did to the two other women -- each more obscenely young and obscenely beautiful than the one before her -- who followed her, with helpful comments about which pair seemed most to fit each one's style.

And when the underwear was all gone, the most obscenely young, most obscenely beautiful woman in the whole bar complained that she hadn't gotten a pair, so I, chivalrously, presented the broad silk ribbon and bow around her fair neck.

Now, I was just having fun that night, and I must give kudos to my friends who were good enough to retreat to the degree that they did not feel morally compelled to shout, "Stay away from this man! He's EVIL!" as they later recounted to me was their inclination to do. But these were women at the age at which Mother Nature has conspired over millenia to give them the look that says, "Bring me a wildebeast flank and mount me like a stallion." And maybe there was something to my age in the equation, too: I'm probably at an age that gives me the look that, for a man, says, "I know the ways of hunting the wildebeast; let me mount you like a stallion and you shall dine nightly on wildebeast flank!" as opposed to the look of younger men, which says, "I can outrun any man, but damn those wildebeast are fast!" Anyway, this was the most prime hook-up field I have ever in my life seen.

And it makes a lot of sense: we have this very powerful, Hallmark-sponsored notion of what VD is supposed to be like (insert joke here), and the accompanying feeling of missplacement for those who do not have that experience. Single women are already, by the events just recounted, doing the reasonable thing: going out and making themselves available. What must follow is for single men to follow the herd, as evolution ought well to have trained us to do, and reward these women to the best of our ability for making themselves available. And when that dynamic is well established, attached people will more readily be able to weigh what they expect of their current lovers against the possibilities of the year's most prime night for hunting.

Absolutely true story, by the way.