Reading Time: 3 minutes
[Note to social justice advocates: this is satire;
keep your sense of humor handy.]
The Scene: my living room.
The Situation: I’m 30 years old again, but time-transported to today’s world. A first-time date with an attractive young woman has progressed to the point of passionate physical interaction. It’s “decision time.”
She: What are you waiting for?
Me: “Waiting for?” What do you mean?
She: Are we going to bed or not?
Me: Is it up to me?
She: Well, it’s usually the guy who makes the first move.
Me: I have a new policy now. What with all the accusations of sexual assault and sexual misconduct, I never make the first move. I’ve heard of so many guys getting into trouble by making the wrong assumptions.
She: So, what are you expecting me to do?
Me: I need your clear and unequivocal consent to engage in sexual activity.
She: Oh, for . . .! All right, I hereby consent to engage in sexual activity with you.
Me: Do you give me permission to touch you in an intimate way—without reservation, and without coercion, intimidation, or manipulation?
She: Yes, yes yes—my God, is this a legal agreement?
Me: Actually, yes. As a single male, I have a responsibility to make sure that I have informed consent before I proceed.
She: OK, you have my informed consent. Now, shall we head to the bedroom, before I get completely out of the mood?
Me: Sure, but there are a few little things we need to take care of first.
She: What “things?”
Me: Well, have a look at this document, please.
She: What is this? It says, “Pre-Coital Agreement.” What the hell is a pre-coital agreement?
Me: It’s just a simple document that confirms our agreement to engage in sexual activity. It’s pretty self-explanatory.
She: It’s seven pages long.
She: [Reads aloud] Let’s see, “We agree to . . .”—there’s a whole list of sexual activities and procedures. I’m supposed to check off the ones I want to do?
Me: If you don’t mind.
She: There are 34 of them.
Me: Be sure to check everything you think you might want. It can’t be changed once we get started.
She: [Reads aloud] “Twelve optional positions. With or without condom? Creams, lotions, and lubricants? Electronic devices? Spanking?! Bondage?! Midgets?! Animals?!” What the hell . . .?
Me: It’s just to prevent any misunderstanding.
She: I’ll just check the “Basic Plan.” “Three positions, oral sex, frontal penetration, up to two repetitions.” How’s that?
Me: Sure, whatever you prefer is good with me. Do you want the one-time option, or the recurring plan?
She: I’ll go with the one-time option; I’m not sure I could live through this again.
Me: [Reviews the form] OK, everything looks fine. Don’t sign it yet.
She: [Gazes at me with a look of mixed confusion and consternation]. OK, now shall we get on with it?
Me: Now, I just need to plug this thing in . . .
She: What’s that gadget?
Me: It’s a Breathalyzer, to measure your blood alcohol concentration.
She: Is that necessary?
Me: Sorry, but it really is. It protects me from any allegations that you were intoxicated and unable to give informed consent. Would you please exhale into this mouthpiece? Thanks.
She: Jeez—this is getting weird.
Me: OK, your blood alcohol level is within the sober range. Perfect. Now . . .
She: Are we done with the legal formalities? I’m not sure I’m in the mood to go through with this by now. We’d better get things started, or . . .
Me: Now we just have to take the agreement over to the FedEx store and have it notarized.
She: Get it notarized?! Are you crazy? It’s after midnight. All of those places are closed. What planet are you on?
Me: I know one that’s open 24 hours. Or, we could go tomorrow and continue our date tomorrow evening.
She: Look, this whole thing is creeping me out. Let’s call a halt and just watch a movie.
Me: OK, that’s fine. This is a . . .
She: What’s that piece of paper? Another agreement?
Me: It just specifies the kind of movies you’re willing to watch—whether they contain explicit sexual content or not.
She: [Picks up sweater and purse] Look, I’m outta here. Thanks for the nice dinner. I’ll be going now. Good night.
Me: Don’t you want to stay for dessert . . .?