Not sleeping with Akilah

Do you want to sleep with me? she asked.

It's the usual woman-question, of course, even if it is usually framed differently, such as "what do you want from me?" or "who am I to you?", or some other the like. Its point is not to put us men on defense by brutally exposing our embarrassing, duplicitously veiled, filthy carnal intents -- even if it is bound to feel that way to us folks -- because, in fact, women don't really mind sleeping with us, and sometimes actually want to anyway, regardless of our answer.

The question is really about everything else: how much do I invest fin this, what more can I expect from you beyond x, etc.

Etc.

Old hat.

*

Now, some men would probably lie here. But I don't: years of practice have given me the opportunity to develop an established formula for answering the question and it almost always works: no love and no marriage, darling, but friendship forever, yes, willingly, till death to us part, etc.

(Besides, I do not lie in these matters... for the simple reason that to lie would be a sign of weakness; a condescension of power to the person lied-to; invariably, people lie out of fear, and, I suppose, I am either not especially fearful or too proud to admit/recognize my own fear).

In any case, what I say is no lie because I always mean it. (Like Genji, I mean to, and do, take care of my women).

Most women accept this line, though many, perhaps most, only on the face of it, hoping, perhaps not consciously, in time to turn no love into love after all.

Duplicitously, that is.

Etc.

Etc.

No matter.

*

No matter because -- because the way the question was asked set me on another train of thought altogether, and it is my topic here.

For indeed --

-- indeed

-- indeed

-- indeed

-- do I want to sleep with her?

...

Hmmm...

I suppose the answer could be yes -- she's good looking; and, being temperamental and adventurous, probably would not be a disappointment in bed.

Besides, why would a man say "no" to a woman he genuinely likes and whose company he enjoys this much? Friendship and sex slip into each other for men without mutating; I suppose that was the nature of the Greek gymnasium homosexuality. (We're friends, well, yes, we do, er..., but no, we are not gay, etc.)

(Not that I would know the first thing about it; I have never played team sports; aged 9 and 10 I played with girls, earning from the boys the jeering title of "women's king" -- I wonder if those boys have had since then the chance to -- er -- realize that we pick up no girls in the rugby field).

All true, old man, but -- a man of Zobenigo's age is not the sexual omnivore he once was.

(If ever he was? Even aged twenty-two Zobenigo turned down so called opportunities on various grounds -- honor, self-respect, etc., thinking beforehand, with hesitation, is not a new development to him at all; and perhaps is an evolved mechanism, as it has its genetic uses: do not risk an encounter whose potential genetic benefits are low -- i.e. do not sleep with women who are not at least close to being your equal and therefore a good genetic bet).

So, old man, indeed, do I want to sleep with her?

*

Until she asked the question, it did not really exist in my mind: I merely enjoyed being in her company. If I gave the possibility any thought, it was always brief: a remote possibility, too remote to entertain. It might happen, yes, I thought, but there was no plan to make it happen.

If it does, I thought, it will; but if it does not, well, no amount of planning will make the least bit of a difference.

*

Yet, I answered her -- somewhat sheepishly perhaps -- "yes, I would like to".

Without much conviction, I am afraid -- and mainly because it seemed too rude to say something like "I am not sure"...

You see...

I was too afraid to offend.

"There is no greater sin, says Zorba the Greek, than when a woman calls a man to bed and he does not come".

And in Wharton's Reef, the well-bred, virtuous heroine resents that her suitor does not try to take advantage of her. "Who am I to him?", she asks herself, thinking that somehow she must be to him less than the women he has actually pressed himself upon; and her pride is wounded as a result of his demurrement to make an assault on her honor; and all the while, of course, he thinks the precise opposite -- that she is more to him than all the women he has ever slept with and that -- precisely -- is why he does not press himself upon her.

Weird... Do we -- men and women -- really have this thing on backwards and upside down? Is it the women who want to get laid and us, chickens, who look for relationships?

*

Now, Akilah is certainly my equal; her genes are as good as mine (if not better). The benefits and risks of a coitus are therefore, genetically speaking, in favor of my DNA. The risks are small -- she's probably healthy, her husband is probably not dangerous, she has money of her own; and the potential payoff is phenomenal: there are her beautiful, sensitive, intelligent boys to prove what her womb can do.

That is not the issue, then.

The issue is -- well -- for one...

age?

Fifteen years ago I would have enthusiastically gone to bed with her. But today I am riven by doubts.

Such as: would she be good in bed?

I mean, would it be hedonistically worth it? or would I discover seven -- or thirteen -- or thirty -- minutes into the act that I would rather not, after all? For, although I firmly hold (as a sort of feminist) that a woman's performance in bed is a function of the man's skill at leading her where he wants her, half the women in the world aren't... trainable, it seems.

This gives a whole new meaning to the old Polish saying -- dating back to our horseback days -- "if you fall off a horse, make sure it's a white one".

(A moment of reflection here on the duties placed upon us by our glorious past
and our more than glorious ancestors: noblesse oblige).

*

Further, and more importantly:

Am I exposing myself to the usual unpleasantness which inevitably follows any (relatively short, in my opinion) sequence of sexual encounters -- that I do not live up to, or have commitment issues, or do lot long sufficiently ardently, or do not call often enough, or do not write, etc., nor otherwise wither while she is absent, thinking about her all the time, and such.

And: we are such good friends; and we talk so well -- six hours at the last meeting -- six hours, now -- what is up with that? -- would I really want to ruin that? It seems so much easier to continue being friends, no?

It is so dangerous to play with that fiery stuff -- a danger younger men have not had the chance to learn. The danger that -- it is never free.

So, why not have a bottle of Borba D.O.C. 2008 instead? The pleasure is perhaps not as great as good sex, true, but the downside is minimal: a little headache in the wee hours.

The risk-return odds are just better stacked.