Free Of Snakes Sex Playing in the Rain, Random Thou by Clay Reynolds

They’re athletic, of course, and, on the whole, I think they’re in great shape and work as hard as any professional sports competitor. They also play for pretty good money. But there’s just something about “playing” in tailored slacks, saddle oxfords, and a cashmere sweater that doesn’t evoke images of blood, sweat, and raw manliness of genuine sport. As a rule, golfers just don’t need a ten-gallon tub of Gatorade strapped to their carts. A cold six-pack will do nicely.
    But there is a machismo about golf, and has nothing to do with the game itself. Primarily, playing a round of golf gives men the chance, as I say, to be male. That is, it gives them a chance to smoke, gamble, swear, scratch, pass gas, throw temper tantrums, be obscene, piss in the bushes, tell dirty sexist jokes, and, not incidentally, drink beer and ogle the girls. In other words, it gives them a chance generally to be their natural selves without fear of being closely observed, overheard, or censured—especially by women. Once they are safely out of the house and onto the fairway, they needn’t worry about some sensitive feminine consciousness responding to what they say or do, and they can look forward to nearly four hours of absolute freedom from political correctness, politeness, tact, and diplomacy. Ironically, they find freedom of self-expression in a game that is, perhaps, governed by one of the strictest codes of etiquette known in modern sports.
    Of course, most of these same advantages can be found in the average tavern, pool hall, or honkey-tonk—and in some bowling alleys, doubtless. But on the golf course there is at least the suggestion of wholesome surroundings and positive activity as well as the ambiance of middle-class prestige; and it’s unlikely that any man’s significant female other can find much to object to in her guy’s whiling away a summer afternoon surrounded by the pastoral beauty of a golf course, even if it was formerly a cow pasture, landfill, or unclaimed swamp, and even if there are girls to ogle.
    Moreover, unlike fishing or hunting or any other traditionally “male-bonding activity,” there’s little danger of drowning or an accidental shooting or of the poor slob getting lucky and bringing home some ugly, bloody, semi-edible dead animal or slimy, nearly spoiled fish for his wife to try to convert into a meal, so he can brag to his buddies. Recalling near birdies and almost eagles seem a good deal more inviting as cocktail party fare than another rehash of “the big one that got away,” or “the twelve-point buck” that was just out of range. And however expensive golf may be to play, it’s still cheaper than a bass boat or a collection of rods and reels, shotguns and rifles, deer leases and duck blinds, and all the other do-dads, gimcracks, and geegaws required by those other sports.
    There’s also little risk in golf of sprained ankles, torn ligaments, thrown backs, concussions, or other debilitating injuries commonly associated with team sports. Unless one trips over the cart path on the way to the beverage cart, a golf injury is highly unlikely.
    Finally, of course, there is the issue of proximity. Golf courses are conveniently nearby anyone’s home, and a daily round still leaves time for household chores and a family dinner. There’s no packing of trucks, trailers, and RVs; no tune-up of outboards or charging of batteries; no propane, flashlights, suitcases, duffle bags, or tackle boxes. Just a bag of clubs, a case of balls, and, of course, a six-pack of beer. Plus, nobody’s worn out after a round of golf. In fact, unless it’s extremely warm, few golfers ever break a sweat until they start ogling the girls.
    There are, doubtlessly, similar appeals found by female players, but I would not hazard even a hint of a guess as to what it might be, except to say, that most women probably relish the notion of being out in the fresh air, away from the job, home, kids, and getting some