One theory states that all we're really made up of are billions of pushy DNA molecules that fill up our flesh vessels and make us do their bidding. All these guys want is to inhabit as many living things as they can. The more sex you have, the more chance they have. I like this theory, because it means it's my DNA that keeps choosing to date assholes, not me.
This rich, reproductive pageant unfurled before my very eyes last week when I accompanied a few horny young men to the Noc Noc on Haight.
DNA had compelled their flesh vessels to hurl themselves to the densest population of bars in one city block in San Francisco, so as to better increase their chances of encountering a female of the species. The Noc Noc is near the Toronado, the Mad Dog in the Fog, the Peacock Lounge, and several other spots. Alas, at the beginning of the night, the guys were stuck with me.
"She was wearing one of those tight sweaters like they do ...," said Hanz to Franz, discussing a bartender he had enjoyed watching the previous evening. (OK, yeah, I changed a few names here so as to save certain people named Hanz a little face.) Franz joined in with his assessment. Then Hanz gave us a rundown of all the women he works with in his new job, from the comeliest to the fugliest, not to mention the cute one with the good personality. "I'm a sucker for that kind of girl," he added, taking a drink of his beer.
To all you women out there who wonder about such things, it is indeed true that men talk exclusively about girls. I, for one, was shocked to find this out. I mean, what about sports? Or farts? Nope, it's chicks, punctuated with the occasional Family Guy reference, although within these confines there is room for some differentiation. Depending on the fellow, the talk can range from tender discussions of a girl's blush all the way to beaver hunt recaps. On this evening, in a place with an interior that looks like a cave and an almost constant Billy Childish soundtrack, the line of conversation stuck mainly to the prospective apprehension of booty.
As the night stretched out before us, Hanz continued to talk about girls and how he was going to get one. I marveled at his DNA. Underneath all those clothes buzzed a veritable Santa's Village of gene codes, with various cells receiving and packaging proteins and then shipping them off with little bows down to his nutsack. Nucleic acids held semaphores at each turn of his nervous system, with all roads leading to his dick. These bastards were organized, determined to spread their code. If Bush has Karl Rove's brain, then Hanz has Karl Rove's dick.
The bar began to fill up, which isn't hard at the Noc Noc because it's little and cozy. Two blond members of the female species made themselves known, and all of a sudden the fellas I was with -- they who had talked of nothing but getting some -- inexplicably turned into simpering, limp-dicked Poindexters. Their posture changed into something like a sixth-grader's waiting outside the principal's office, and they began sipping their beers as if they were drinking a hot beverage après ski. I could see inside Hanz's body immediately. A Level Four Emergency was put out by his pituitary gland, and testosterone reinforcements were deployed with orders to head straight to that part of his brain that controls confidence and self-esteem. Alas, it was no use. Like most of us, Hanz's DNA did not provide his flesh vessel with an abundance of self-assurance. Luckily medical science has found a cure for such circumstances: beer.
Hanz and friends would need a few more before their bravado arrived, and so it was decided to go to Amber, which has a large selection of beautiful women and men, plus nice bartenders and good music -- a cocktail of DNA and chance.
I suppose when it comes down to it, girls thrive under the same circumstances; we just mask our lust better. We have to, or you fuckers will call us cheap, easy sluts with an open-cooch policy. (My e-mail address can be found at the end of the column.)
We had intended to go barhopping, but truly, though I do enjoy these fellas, I didn't feel like being a cock block all night long. And by the way, who decided to slip in a Coldplay record at the Noc Noc? I'm sorry, but that band is the Bruce Hornsby of the new millennium, and I will have none of it.
We exited, and, out in the crisp Lower Haight air, Hanz was laughing about some chick he had met at some point in his life. "Carry on, carry on," said his DNA, suddenly a fat British constable trying to direct traffic. "Step lively." The guys scooted down the street and into the next bar on their list. As for me, my gene pool directed me homeward. I needed my beauty sleep.
Postscript: Young Hanz indeed got lucky that night. As the clock reached its ebb, his genetic material was really getting antsy, and a 40-ish drunken babe who had just returned from a funeral earlier that day seemed as good a host as any. Apparently she slathered his Karl Rove in olive oil before fellating him, taking this whole "cooking with nucleotides" image just a little too far.