In order to remain a bachelor, one must make certain that your woman does not move in. As soon as she moves in and stays for longer than the weekend she has dwelling rights. One extended holiday weekend in the sack with her can turn you into a guest in your own place without the legal right to tell her to leave. Depending on your municipality, it will take you anywhere between 30 and 90 days to put her out. When I lived with Ajay, I had a female roommate who was the land lady to assure that I would not be swayed by a really nice Sunday night into waking up in domestic bondage.

Ajay to the rescue, “Later girlfriend—I’m sure James can’t wait to see you again!”

Now that I rent a room from a softheaded white man who has a hard time standing up to women, I must have my own guarantor of autonomy.

My current policy is that no woman may spend the night, and that, if a lady requests my companionship in the biblical sense, that such contact must occur at her place, or on neutral ground, like at Nasty Nick’s apartment over top of the Linwood Inn.

However, I have been known to occasionally slip up, to forget the discipline of steel. I try not to be too hard on myself for giving into a woman’s request to come home with me. After all, Samson occasionally gets a hair cut! In case of such forgivable lapses in will power, I hit upon the perfect solution when I moved out of Ajay’s without a bed, intent on sleeping on the hardwood floor, at the old plantation house.

Ajay did ask me to take the old futon mattress with me, as my man-whoring had basically turned it into a lopsided sack. So, ironically, the mattress that supported my objectification at the hands of various unscrupulous manizers, could now serve as babe repellent.

Sol had left this room in such a filthy state that it took my sister, Terry and I 40 hours to clean it and move in. Eventually, my books stacked, the futon mattress on the floor in the corner between the end table and the dresser—on the cold outside northern wall—Terry laid down to rest while I hooked up my computer. When it came time for her to rise, she groaned, reached out for the oak end table and pushed up as if she was rising from a DDT demonstration at a pro wrestling camp. She then said to me, “I pity the poor woman you bring over here. Getting out of this thing is torture! Besides, it’s right on the floor, spiders will be crawling over you in your sleep. This would be like camping out!”

I said, “Thanks, Siss.”

“Thanks for what—I’m not buying you a new mattress.”

“Thanks for the tip about the spiders. I’ll make sure I put that in the, ‘Hit the road Babe’ brochure.”

“You know, I can’t believe that my brother is such a total bastard! If you ever bring a nice girl out to my place I’ll make certain to tell her what she’s getting herself into.”

“Would you, really, do that for me?”

That’s when I ate a pretty stiff right straight to the chest.

You get the idea, man. Make your man cave as female unfriendly as possible—and if she brings over some giant pillow, make sure you spill beer on it and tell her the washer is broken—so you can roll over for a snooze to the sweet music of her car engine coming to life and the squeak of her tires taking her away, to the land of bitches who don’t stay!