Darkness is falling as Blake Irons enters the bar, quite prepared to feel disgusted as in this small town women have access to all bars.
This ought to be the time when a man can tuck a few drinks away in quiet reflection without being hassled or having high-pitched laughter raping his ear channels.
Blake is a thinking man, so does not come to such conclusions lightly or with bias. With sensitivity, he is aware that people may not share his preferences and opinions.
Some women, for example, will quite likely be inherently unhappy that the town's watering holes exclusively provide mixed sex drinking. It stands to reason that not all females will enjoy raucous male laughter or having to avert eyes from men returning from the restroom still groping with their zip.
The funny thing is that it's the pitch of laugher that gets to Blake. The deeper laughter of males presents him with less bother than female frenzy; it's as if his head divides the sound waves, allowing them to substantially pass his ears and drift on harmlessly.
Feminine laughter, however, has a cutting edge to it and the impact behaviour is different, in his experience. Sound waves of feminine laughter seem to collide with his head, reform in their invisible composition to then drive into his ears like a rabbit down a burrow.
This presents a problem at the best of times, but with alcohol passing over the lipstick the problem is magnified – often, substantially.
Oh Blake, you poor miserable bastard! Why don't you stay at home and wallow in self-pity in an atmosphere of perfect peace, he chides, being really hard on himself. That could insignificantly make the world a better place; bar patrons of both sexes will benefit by the absence of your presence.
Good thinking; not Noble Prize winning quality but bound to appease.
Home hiatus presents a problem: his home does not possess a good range of pressurised bulk beers. It's one of life's joys to enter a bar (devoid of women including behind the bar) and to hear a deep voice male say invitingly: "Your preference is our pleasure, sir" or similar verbal caressing.
"I'll have a pint of Dick's Dark Ale, thank you."
"Coming right up, sir. It's pouring with a lovely head on the finish this evening, sir."
"Ooooh. I wait in anticipatory ecstasy."
Contrast that to this bar, women all over the place, not a corner free. Yes there is, around the far end of the bar – a good two metres of elbow room.
Blake sits down and catches the eye of the barman, who lifts his little finger on making eye contact, signalling that Blake is his next pour. But up struts a saucy little number who simpers, "Yes dear?"
"A Dick's Dark Ale if you have it, please."
"Charlie," she screeches, do we have Dick's."
Half the bar slips into deep silence, waiting for Charlie's response."
"No Sue, it's the Opposition's brew."
Robust conversation resumes, these regulars assured that the Opposition hasn't managed to get a toe through the door.
"Sorry, sir. Tap water, gin or a suck on the nipple," giggles Sue, enormously proud of her wit.
"A suck of the nipple please," Blake says straight-faced.
"Charlie – we've got a right one here," screams Sue, looking at Blake nervously.
"Come on Sue, lighten up," says barman Charlie, putting the baseball bat back under the bar.
"This poor guy is in remission – he's been here almost ten minutes surrounded by all this beer but still hasn't got one in his mitt."
Only a male barperson is capable of making a clinical diagnosis with such profound professionalism.
The barman looks at Blake: "Sir, for you I would recommend Harbour Lights Double Malt – a really lovely drop that will put more tickle on your lips than Sue's pussy."
"What was that?" screams Sue, the sound waves assaulting Blake's ears like a hot meat probe passing through butter.
"I said a really lovely drop that will put more tickle on his lips than Sue's kitty."
"Oh, you had me going for a moment. I thought you were referring to my pussy."
The bar erupts into laughter and Sue swishes her hair back, really impressed by her wit.
