Despite how obvious it is that a man should never ask another man on a date when neither man is gay, I guess this sort of thing happens. And the very unnaturalness of it made me not want to partake at all. That dude could have been taking me out for steaks and beers and rides in limos full of boobs and more steaks and beers and it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because I was approached in the most blunt-force-trauma-to-the-face manner possible. I was literally asked if I wanted to go out some time. I am not Molly Ringwald. You do not ask such things of me. Of anyone. It's not done.

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"If we stand just right, we can use the same urinal."

The sad part of this is that, as I said, this didn't seem sexual in any way. I don't think I was part of a secret bum-sex plot. I think I was legitimately invited out to have a beer in a friendly way, and that's why it's so dickish to write a terrified article like this after the fact. It was uncomfortable and weird, and weaseling out of it made me feel bad. Barring major pathological issues or some kind of real (which is to say not self-diagnosed) Asperger's situation, most people feel bad when they let someone else down, especially if that letdown is based entirely on your own laziness and the fact that you just can't be arsed to give a damn.

I can't say if this situation is any easier for ladyfolk -- women seem to be able to socialize easier than men. They go to the bathroom together, for God's sake. I don't want to shit as part of a team, but that's just me. However, I feel it should be a universal standard that, if you desire a friendship, you let it happen on its own, rather than ask for it. That's like asking a woman you just met for sex. It seems like a good idea if you're new to reality, but in practice, your failure rate is just going to be off the charts.

I had the fortune to be born into the black sheep part of my family, so while all my relatives were living in big fatty houses and going on yearly vacations to exotic places and driving fancy cars, my family lived in what people in Third World countries would consider a sort of roomy stink shed. We went on vacations to places like "in town" and "just outside of town," and I had my fair share of knockoff Spam sandwiches for lunch at school. Because real Spam was for people who tried too hard.

Anyway, despite our abject poverty, we were at least "real" people, in the sense that we lived in this world, while my aunts and uncles had lawn jockeys and pronounced words like "taco" as "take-o" because if there was a novel way for them to be obnoxious and out of touch, they were all over it like stink on a monkey, which they likely referred to as a grippy-fingered jungle squirrel.

Every so often, because charitable causes are trendy, the extended family would stop by with boxes or bags of used-up high society trash and/or shit Grandpa had in the basement. And the wind would pick up as they knocked on the door, as though the world were sighing, "Oh, for fuck's sake."

They'd bring things like moth-balled sweaters that were two sizes too big or too small, pink toilet paper rolls, expired couscous, and 10-watt light bulbs for specialty lamps. I can't actually think of a time when they brought over something useful, in any way, to anyone.

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Thinking of you!

Any time in your life when someone goes out of their way to give you something, part of you feels a degree of appreciation and gratitude. They didn't have to do it, it's a gesture (arguably) from the heart, and it's meant as a kindness. So when the free thing they offer you is a staggering piece of shit on a shingle, it creates a moral quandary. Do you take it to be nice? Or do you say no? I opted one day to say no.

Politely turning down someone's charity, especially when it's someone you just know feels they're really helping you out and inconveniencing themselves by offering it, is a lot like one of those naked dreams they talk about in movies, only imagine in this dream you're naked and you realize that your entire naked body is just some kind of hot power-tool-accident mess of a thing compared to everyone else's, so the entire room is just staring at you in slack-jawed amazement that you're saddled with such a lumpy, deformed Rocky Dennis gong show of a body all day, every day. It's that level of awkward humiliation when you opt to turn down a handout. On the upside, at least with my family, it ensures that they never try it again, although they will remind you of how much of an ingrate you are for the rest of your life, so that's something.

"And that's the story of my first erection. Now who wants turkey?"

Eventually, though, and this will usually happen during an extended stay, like Christmas holidays, you're going to hit a problem to which you have trouble acclimating. They sing in rounds on road trips. They're snake handlers and invite you to church. After dinner, the pants come off. Something like that.

Has this happened to everyone? Probably not. But when it does happen, if it happens, it's just the worst. In my experience, it was religion-based and uncomfortable on a spiritual level, which is a whole new kind of discomfort. Being a non-religious type, I'll happily wait quietly if your family prays before dinner, and I'll sit in your church on Sunday morning if I really, really like you for some reason, but please don't make me partake in your rituals. You go ahead and eat the body of your god if that's how your weekend plays out, I just want to sit on the back-misaligning wooden bench and read over the plan for this week's service again to see how long until I get to leave.

The moment you turn down the love of Christ in a room full of Christians who don't know you, you may as well be Jack Nicholson in The Witches of Eastwick and start barfing cherries across the congregation, because they all think you're hell borne anyway. Why'd you show up if you're not going to eat Jesus? What kind of weirdo are you? Eat that Jesus! Eat him!

Afterward you'll hear about how you embarrassed everyone and get shady eyes from the rest of Christ's chosen few as they ponder "accidentally" exposing you to holy water to see if it sears your flesh.

For those not familiar, there are a handful of rare but serious circumstances that are worth rejecting sex over. For instance, you're in a hardcore, high-schoolesque make-out phase and it comes time to disrobe and treat somebody's crotch like a face cloth, and suddenly a rich olfactory miasma of aged Asiago and despair wafts into your face like a fist stored in the bowels of hell itself. You have just been confronted by the sex that hygiene forgot and, if you have any pride left, you'll not be able to force yourself to walk down that unhandsome road.

Nothin' says romance like a mouthful of bile.

Less stomach turning but no less questionable is the partner who takes you home and exposes you to what can best be described as "psycho decor." So you have a minute while standing in their bedroom appreciating just how many swastika flags they're using as posters, or the curious array of stainless steel and leather restraints attached to the bed frame and walls, to decide that maybe sex is off the menu for tonight.

Not wanting the sex is by far the easiest part of this scenario. If you genuinely intended to have sex and the other person knew it, finding a way out of it is now like tracking a jackalope across the tundra. Yes, we live in a society where everyone can and should feel free to say no at any time, but it doesn't make it any easier in what was, until a minute of stank or insanity ago, a mutually enjoyable experience.

Your option to be honest and tell them they smell like a boxcar full of hobos that someone threw up in is always there, maybe less so an option for the people who have now chilled your soul with some terrifying personal revelation, but it's also the most awkward of all awkward options. Likely you'll just want to think of a quick lie along the lines of "Be right back, I have to vomit. You know, from dinner," or the classic "Let me call my pastor to arrange the ceremony, is next week OK?" and then extricate yourself from there. You'll feel a sense of relief when it's all over and the bullet's been dodged, but man, that time from when you discover the boner-wilting (or lady-boner-wilting) horror to the moment you're back in fresh air is just brutal. Just, so very brutal.

To clarify, yes. I smelled that smell once. I then quickly feigned diarrhea, complete with loudly dumping a cup of water into the toilet to make it seem more genuine, and went home. Score one for Mr. Clay.