I’m wiping down the bar just before close, ready for this twelve hour shift to end already. There are still a few stragglers left: a couple of lottery players, a smoker on the back porch, and a shaggy guy my age at the bar watching me in that way that makes me roll my eyes and gag a little. I traipse back to the kitchen and take my time washing the night’s dishes. Hopefully he finishes his beer and leaves before I am done back here.
No such luck. When I go back out front one of the lottery players is gone, and from the video feed it looks like the smoker is too, but Shaggy’s still here, past last call, his beer glass clearly empty. I start flicking off the neons. Most people get the hint at that point. The last lottery player leaves.
“Alright buddy, time to go,” I say when it’s obvious he hasn’t figured it out.
“Yeah I know,” he sighs. “I just wanted to ask you something.”
Ugh. I know what’s coming. Every female bartender knows what’s coming. Probably every female everywhere knows what’s coming . . .
“Can I take you out sometime?”
I just stare at him. Blank. Poker face.
“A couple drinks or something?”
“I gotta lock up so if you could leave now that would be great.”
“So is that a no?”
“Uh, yeah that’s definitely a no.”
“C’mon, what do you have to lose?”
If I wasn’t somewhat homicidal myself I might think my life, I could lose my life. I pay attention to the headlines. I read Jezebel. I know the risk women take when they go out with strange men. Any men really. Plenty of predators are already familiar with their victims.
But no, that wouldn’t be a fair answer because, let’s be quite honest, I wouldn’t hesitate to shank this guy with his own screwdriver if I needed to. Besides, it isn’t fear at all that motivates me to reject Shaggy. Instead it’s a been there done that, learned my lesson too many times kind of thing. You see, no matter how cute this boy may be with his hair hanging in his bright blue eyes, no matter how good he may or may not be in bed, no matter how convincing he is that that isn’t or is all he wants depending on what I want, it’s still the same old, same old. Tired. Game.
And more than anything guess what? I don’t owe this guy an explanation! He is not entitled to a date with me UNLESS I can come up with an explanation that meets whatever his litmus test is for a reasonable reason to reject him.
“Bye,” I wave, not bothering to fake a smile.
“Really?” he whines. “You really won’t even give me a shot?’
Since when did this shit become a negotiation? Since when did “No” come to mean badger me until I say yes to shut you up? “Good. Bye.”
I’m pretty sure I hear him mutter “Bitch” under his breath as he stomps away. Then, after he opens the door to leave, he turns back to me and says, loud and clear, “You’re a fucking man hater.”
Oh wow. Oh wow oh wow oh wow. I laugh. I laugh so hard I almost cry. He said man-hater like it’s MY fault HE is a douchebag.
And that, my friends, is exactly why I don’t date men.
Ok, for now. I have. I may in the future. I’d rather not but needs are needs and I’m like a nympho trying to walk in asexual shoes.
You see, it’s not the sex I hate. And, despite recent accusations, I don’t actually hate men. Like most women, I’m just sick of the bullshit. Sick of the joblessness; sick of the thirty-somethings living at home with Mommy; sick of female best friends not so secretly in love with him (or him with her); sick of guys inviting us out only to think that it means either A. we’re going Dutch or B. if they pay we better put out (which even if I wanted to the fuck if I’m going to feel obligated); sick of booty calls who play mind games and make love when they’re supposed to fuck; sick of cheaters; sick of guys so addicted to their video games that we are forced to cheat; sick of messy motherfuckers who expect us to clean up after them; sick of bringing home half the income and doing all the housework; sick, sick, sick . . .
And that, my friends, is why I need a Sex Robot.
A whaaaat? A sex robot!
Ok, ok, it’s not a real thing. Yet! But come on, if there was ever a good use for artificial intelligence this is it! And come on ladies, admit it, we’d get a lot more done if we weren’t so frustrated, if we didn’t waste so much time on men who either can’t perform or break our hearts without a second thought. We could even, dare I say, finally take over the world?
Imagine it. All the sex you want without any of that bullshit. No losers to wade through. No bitches to compete with. No egos to stroke. No dirty boxers to pick up off the floor.
No diseases to worry about.
And you could custom order him. No more trying to determine if those are pecs or man boobs under baggy t-shirts. No more trying to guess the size of his penis by how big his hands and feet are.
No more settling.
Exactly what you want. In a box. There when you need him, put away in the closet when you don’t. He’ll never embarrass you in public with his flatulent outbursts or try to sleep with your friends. If you want to make love, he’ll make love to you. If you want to fuck, he’ll fuck.
He’ll learn what you like. He’ll learn where to pump, where to rub, where to swivel. He’ll learn how. What. When. When you want multiples and when you want simultaneous orgasms.
And if even robot sex is too monogamous? Change his face. Change his body. Change his dick. Interchangeable parts would still be cheaper than date night outfits, blowouts, and manicures after all. Mix it up every night of the week. Every hour of the day if you need.
Give us sex robots. Because relationships are overrated. And booty calls are complicated.
Sex robots. So we can get off and focus on the things that matter.
Dive Bar Blues Tales 
