THE FAIRER SEX

Short Stories on Male Privilege

No. 1

Wined and Dined

Being female in this world means having been robbed of the

potential for human choice by men who love to hate us.

 - Andrea Dworkin

Geoff and I discuss dating protocol regularly; and last week we trespassed on the subject of 'who pays'. He made what is very probably the most cynical statement I've ever heard.

'It is plainly evident', he said, 'that men and women are everywhere equal, until that is the waiter brings the bill. It is just at that brief moment, when spondulicks are required, that men and women are strangely no longer equal. But the moment is brief; for full equality is re-established once the man re-pockets his wallet. Similarly, my wife and I are entirely equal. It is only when petrol must be put into our car, or a garage service is required, that the two of us are briefly unequal. But, once I've paid the garage bill, full equality is again restored.'

We agreed, however, that money on dates was a minefield. Some ladies reject a man who splits the bill; others reject him for not splitting it. Clairvoyance is required to negotiate these situations.

A couple of personal experiences came to mind. There was live music in a pub just off Oxford Street, for which there was an entrance fee, and, without consulting my date, I paid for the both of us. On learning this, the lady was clearly irritated; and, despite the purely nominal amount, she insisted on reimbursing me. This behaviour eliminates those brief moments of inequality, when the man's wallet is required, but not the lady's purse. Possibly, however, the lady feared I saw my purchase as an investment for which I would expect some return. But I've never seen dates that way, and I've nothing but contempt for the men who do.

On another occasion, I dined expensively with a lady barrister. The waiter, abiding by that custom of brief inequality, handed me the bill, not the lady. Yet, when I took out my credit card, the lady barrister proffered two twenty-pound notes neatly folded within her hands, and which she'd been holding in readiness, secreted from my view. 'I don't have to pay', she said. 'Oh, that's good of you, thank you', I said, taking the money. The phrase 'I don't have to pay' continued puzzling me for twenty-four hours. Initially I thought it meant: 'It's not my responsibility to help you out; but I'll help you out anyway.' Eventually, however, I concluded she'd been fearful of hurting my feelings. You see, when the lady proffers money, the man might take the gesture amiss, as if suggesting he's unequal to the outlay. Nothing developed from this date, however, notwithstanding two hours of flirtatious conversation. The proffered money was perhaps a test, and I failed by accepting it.

If the lady has been well-brought-up, Cheltenham Ladies College and all that, she will, using her well-trained sense of etiquette, telegraph her payment protocol: when the gentleman asks for the bill, she will promptly discover a need to 'powder her nose'. And off she goes to fulfil her euphemism. It is then the gentleman's responsibility to complete the payment prior to the lady's return, so that she need not witness the tawdry but brief transaction, in which men and women are strangely unequal.

Last year I dined at Kettner's in Soho with a lady who'd 'right-swiped' me, if I may use that vulgar parlance.

The two of us followed the maître d' to our table; the pianist nodding his 'hello' as we passed him. He was playing 'The Very Thought of You'.

There were table cloths, rare nowadays except in the more exclusive eateries. We studied the mirrors, some of them losing their silver through senescence. Gilt curlicues festooned the walls. Candelabras lighted the tables.

'This tuna is the juiciest I've ever known' she said.

The waiter stepped forward - smiling an indulgent or complicit smile, sensing, as waiters so often do, that this was our first date - refilling our glasses while holding the bottle by its base, an awkward method, but oddly elegant.

The lady surprised me mid-sirloin.

'What should we do with the bill?' she said.

She was not, then, one of those powder-the-nose ladies. As I say, some ladies reject a man who splits the bill; others if he pays the whole. (The third possibility curiously never seems to arise). This is a sexual poker-game. She might pay half without demur, but reject the man for not paying all. Or she might let the man pay all, then reject him for not paying half.

Fortunately I had just read Honey Money - The Power of Erotic Capital, by Catherine Hakim, the British sociologist; and so I was well-armed. No longer need I second-guess the lady's payment policy. Rather, my approach was soundly based on human psychology.

And so I replied to her question with: 'The man should pay. The whole amount. Always.'

She smiled, and said: 'Some women wouldn't like that.'

'Yes, I know. But probably they wouldn't be a very good match, so it doesn't bother me too much. The custom of the man paying is commonly thought to have emerged at a time when women earned nothing. That explanation is wrong. All relations between men and women boil down to a single and inescapable biological difference: men can father a hundred children; but women cannot have a hundred babies. Consequently if a man chooses a poor female partner, he can try again with another one readily enough; but if a woman chooses a poor male partner, she's already wasted on him a significant fraction of her reproductive life. Women, therefore, are a lot choosier than men - they must be; this behaviour is entirely instinctive. The upshot is this. If you show a man ten women he might meet, then he'll probably select seven or eight. If you show a woman ten men she might meet, then she'll probably select just one or two. This differential renders the whole process unequal. It also gives women all the power - if any man insists on paying half, then plenty of other men will be prepared to pay the whole.'

'Feminists say that bills must be split right down the middle.'

'Yes. Feminists claim that men have all the power; but in this case women have it. Feminists, in effect, insist that women renounce their power - by paying half. This is feminism working against women's interests. Feminism also works against female instinct - that's why when women insist on paying half, they feel uncomfortable about it and can't explain why.'

The lady leaned back and breathed deeply.

'I've never heard it argued like that, she said.

'It's like a see-saw', I said. I held my hands up, each of them bent at the knuckles, making angles of ninety degrees. 'Imagine you've got two people of different weight, sitting on a see-saw. What kind of equality do you want? Do you want an equality in which both persons are at identical distances from the fulcrum? If so, the see-saw cannot balance.' I moved my right hand down. 'Or do you want an equality in which the see-saw balances? If so, the two people cannot sit at identical distances from the fulcrum'. I moved my right hand up. 'What feminists want, is a third equality in which both persons sit at identical distances from the fulcrum, yet the see-saw still balances. But that type of equality simply does not exist.'

This date went so well that I went home in high spirits - mostly.

What surprised me, was the speed with which the lady turned and disappeared down the steps into Charing Cross. No lingering, as if some amorous gesture, however slight, would be in order. But I quickly realised my error. I had paid and enjoyed the lady's company; the lady had, I hope, enjoyed my company, and yet paid nothing. The lady's company, alone, was her contribution to the evening. The see-saw balanced.

After three days I sent a playful text, asking how she was doing. This did not, however, solicit a reply.

The next day I sent a second text, asking if all was okay. This also drew no response.

By the sixth day I was feeling a little irritable.

I called, and got her voicemail.

'Hi, its Peter here, erm, I said. 'I thought I'd call just to see, erm, how you're getting on. I guess you're busy at work. No worries.'

This message also drew no response.

After this, I thought it wise to leave her alone for two days rather than one.

I called again on day nine. She answered.

'Yes. What is it?' she said tersely. 'I've been busy and you keep bothering me.'

'Well, erm, you seemed to like Kettner's, but I wondered if you'd like to try another restaurant.'

'Well I don't know about that', she said. 'I'll have to think about it.'

This reply was not reassuring. No means no; but 'I'll have to think about it', means 'get lost'.

'There's Saturday coming', I ventured.

'No, that's not possible. I've no idea when I'll be available. It might be next week or it might be next month or it might be never.'

She hung up.

'Bollocks', I said.

This conversation took place at work, and Geoff overheard it.

'A frosting?' he said.

'Yeah.'

'Well if you really will go chasing after women', he said. 'It's so time consuming. And a recipe for frustration. I've got male friends who think that the juice just ain't worth the squeeze - Men Go Their Own Way, and all that. Women are the gatekeepers to the amorous alleyway; this means men get rejected by women far, far more often than women get rejected by men. I think that many women simply have no idea of just how often men get rejected. Some women let you down nicely of course; but others are so rude and thoughtless about it. Ruthless, even. You have to take it on the chin, old fruit.'

'I really, really thought we had something', I said, shaking my head slowly.

'Cherchez la Femme!' he said. 'Allez! Allez!'

My life returned to normal, and in a few more days I'd forgotten about the lady entirely.

Then one afternoon my mobile rang.

'Hi!', said the lady, rendering her monosyllable with pronounced glissando. 'We've not spoken for a while. I wondered how you're getting on. I had such a nice time dining with you at Kettner's.'

'I thought - '

'Yes, I'm sorry I was short with you. I was really, really busy and under pressure at work. I've fulfilled a difficult deadline, and now I have some time.'

We arranged another date; I hung up, feeling the situation had assumed an unreal character.

This time I took her to Rules in Covent Garden.

We met upstairs in the cocktail lounge, and seated ourselves among the plush-red cushions. I had a Manhattan; she had a Vieux Carré.

Half an hour later we descended to the restaurant, the waiter carrying our unfinished drinks on a silver tray.

We sat in a corner and studied the oil paintings; hunting scenes, all in gilt frames. Portraits of worthies of old. A Renaissance man stared down at us.

The extensive upholstery in Rules absorbs sound; the restaurant is so quiet and restful.

We both chose game - else, why go to Rules?

I gave chase to my wild boar; she bagged her grouse.

'You really know how to wine and dine a girl', she said, placing her cutlery on an empty plate.

I finished my meal with Eton mess; she with an Irish coffee, but with brandy rather than whisky.

Another good date: we laughed and flirted for nearly two hours.

This time I was prepared for our parting. I'd reflected on the efficacy of taking her hand, briefly that is, as we walked along St Martin's Lane. But I feared giving the impression that I expected anything extra. I had paid the bill; she had given me her company. The see-saw was again balanced.

The next day I sent her a text, saying what a wonderful time I had had. This drew no response, and so the second day I followed up, suggesting she was too busy to have replied to my first message. This, again, drew no reply. My voicemail, simmering with irritation, brought no reply. My second voicemail, again, fell down a well of infinite depth.

She answered on my third attempt.

'What do you want?', she asked sharply.

'Well, I thought that, erm . .'

'You keep bothering me.'

'I left a couple of voicemails - '

'I didn't reply because I didn't want to.'

'Erm, well - '

'I daresay we'll see each other again sometime, but I've plenty on at the moment.'

With that, she hung up.

I scratched my head and frowned.

'Is it that your screwy dame?' asked Geoff. 'You should leave her alone - she's screwy.'

'I was initially reluctant to award her that adjective, but now it seems remarkably apposite.'

After a couple of weeks I had again forgotten her.

Then one afternoon my mobile rang.

'Hi!', said the lady, rendering her monosyllable with pronounced glissando. 'We've not spoken for a while. I wondered how you're getting on. I had such a nice time dining with you at Rules.'

We arranged another date, this time at Simson's on the Strand. When I put down the phone, Geoff asked me again if it was the screwy dame.

'Incredulous is rather a weak word for how I feel at the moment', I said, holding my head.

'I've had plenty of frostings from women in my time, he said. 'But I've never had freeze-thaw action. You need to be careful. Freeze-thaw action can break rocks. Think what it's doing to your head.'

At Simpson's the lady's gaze wandered among the wainscoting, the deep-red seating, the white tablecloths and the chandeliers.

We sat in a booth.

It was silver service; the waiter in that deft manner, using fork and spoon in one hand, dispensed the broccoli, the baby carrots, the Dauphinoise potatoes. Another sirloin for me; a lemon sole for the lady.

When the waiter took the dessert things away, he asked if there was anything else. 'I'll have a bourbon, any one will do', I said, 'and madam will have a Cognac.'

She smiled at me, and placed her hand briefly on mine. This evening was the one. The amorous alleyway beckoned.

Our imbibing now complete, I turned and asked the waiter for the bill, at which point the lady suddenly discovered a need to powder her nose.

She left her phone on the table. I therefore sent her a playful text, saying 'missing you already'; at which the phone's screen promptly lit up. Curious, I picked up the phone. It displayed an odd caller-ID. What it said was this: 'Peter- Free Food.'

I went into her contacts list, and scrolled down. What I found was this:

Alan - Free Food

George - Free Food

John - Free Food

Peter - Free Food

Thomas - Free Food

Timothy - Free Food

I then edited my own description, changing it from 'Peter - Free Food' to 'Peter - Gullible Fuckwit'.

Saying nothing of this I paid the bill, and we left the restaurant.

As we parted, she mentioned the Dorchester. Some of her friends had recommended the restaurant.'

'Well, I don't know', I said. 'I wouldn't want to bother you. And I'm kind of busy.'

No longer any need for a kiss: her astonished expression was sufficient to balance the see-saw.

On the train home that evening, I sent her a text. 'Just remember, women have all the power - they should use it responsibly.'

She texted back: 'Sexist Fuckwit!'

(c) Cufwulf

Cufwulf@aol.com