Which brings us to tennis. (Bet you didn't see that coming.)
Men think of sex the way they think of tennis. Suppose I want to work off some energy. I call my buddy Ralph, and we meet at the courts, and have a good time for a few sets -- sweat and grunt, twist our ankles, fall down and break things, and end up in a mild coma.
When we're through, he doesn't want me to marry him. When in fact I don't, he doesn't feel exploited. In fact, he feels deeply relieved.
That's how men look at sex. A man genuinely doesn't understand why he can't say to the young lady in the next cubicle, "Hey, Jane, what say we go to my place at lunch for a roll in the hay?" ("Fred -- you've got hay at your place?") He may like Jane, think she's bright and fun, have no slight desire to exploit, use, or degrade her. They may have been friends for years. But if he made what would seem to him a perfectly reasonable suggestion, she would explode and file at least a dozen lawsuits.
Yet he knows that she isn't opposed to sex, and isn't opposed to him. If he took her to three movies, so that the whiff of commitment hung heavy in the air, like methane over a summer swamp, she'd be worried if he didn't make the suggestion. So why not . . . ?
He doesn't get it.