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Why do men may for sex? Why do you go to a burger joint? Surely, it’s not for the food nor the ambiance. People line up because of the convenience and ease. No fuss. No mess, you can even forego manners. Same with sex! Men sometimes want to be able to toss some cash on the counter and get the Big Burger—skipping the dinner, the uncertainty, the foreplay, the giving and the sharing, and especially the pillow talk. Sometimes they just want to have their fill, then go home.

Women don’t do that, you may insist. It’s a question of scruples, really. Sex doesn’t come by easy, so men can stick their jerkies into anything remotely tight and yielding—their fisted hands, an inflatable sex doll, a pound of ground beef, a hole in the dirt. Women don’t have to do that. When their kitties start itching for some Meow Mix, all they have to do is solicit a man. Any man. No matter how freakin’ freaky a woman looks there’ll always be dozens of men smiling eagerly and undoing their flies. Men don’t have that security, so they become neurotic and out go the scruples. It’s like not knowing where your next meal is coming from—the hunger pangs become exaggerated and any food tastes damn good. What else makes them so willing to trade case for come?

He’s Ego-testical. While a woman will most likely enjoy the entire act—everything from foreplay to pillow talk—all he can think about is himself, and getting where he wants to be. He’ll twist you, pull you and hold your legs down and lie, “I’m almost there!” just to reach ground zero. Sadly, men can’t be as Zen about the sex act as women. Paranoid about blue-balls, unsure about how much longer his getting-laid-luck will hold out, sex to him is a destination, not a journey. He pays for sex so he’ll be the king of rocking rolls, the duke of sperm and the center of the universe ‘til his cash runs out and he has to skulk home just to get pussy-whipped by his partner.

He’s a Lazy-boner. If a man could sit back and watch a movie while getting his corn buttered and his nacho cheesed, he’d become a regular Roger Ebert. There’s no pretzel logic there for the male. Why work for it if it’s handed to you? Screw the flowers. Screw the dinner. Screw the foreplay. Screw the woman! He pays for sex so he’ll get serviced while he waits, sort of like Mr. Quickie.

He’s into Fantasma-orgasms. Rare is the man who can talk his partner into having threesomes, calling him “Daddy” or strapping on a big black dildo and hot-rodding his Hershey Highway. How to enact his far-out fantasies? Dish out the pera. With enough money, you can pick four girls from a wide variety of fruit flavors, name them whatever you like and choreograph your perfect fantasy. Like a modern-day Caligula, you can while away the evening with naked girls dancing on tabletops. How many wives or girlfriends would do that for their men?

How deep is his lust. When a thirsty dying man in a desert finally finds his oasis tucked lushly between a pair of rolling dunes, he wants to drink his fill with at least three gulps. But what if his partner is tired after Round One? In a capitalist society, you get what you pay for. If you want loving long time, and you’ve got the moola for the moogie, then you go, boy.

We were perplexed when Hugh Grant paid Divine Brown when he already had his Hurley to ride. Perhaps he was lazy and didn’t want to wine and dine Liz. Perhaps Divine made like Star Trek and went places where Liz never went before. Perhaps he had a fantasy involving a Nubian Princess. Perhaps once that night with Liz wasn’t enough to quench his thirsty hippo.

Men can always go home for some good ol’ home-cookin’. But once in a while they will go to the fastfood joint, where they can have it quick and easy where they can have it their way.