My friend Tom (name changed so he doesn’t knife me in a dark alley) is a confirmed bachelor. I don’t mean in the coy, 1950’s he-likes-the-opera-but-we-don’t-talk-about-it kind of way. I mean, he’s never had a relationship that lasted longer than an episode of The Client List.

As is typical of people who don’t have to worry about what hijinks their genitalia gets into, Tom occasionally picks up random women at bars. And since he is single, and since any hookup is comprised of two adults old enough to spell the word “consenting”, this is probably none of my holier-than-thou business.

But then, there’s Lisa.

Lisa is a seemingly nice, 27-year-old girl who Tom has brought home several times. She’s cute, she’s fun, and – here comes the slightly problematic part – one could say she enjoys a festive libation, because she’s routinely, eye-crossingly HAMMERED when Tom encounters her, generally around 7pm.

“Yeah,” Tom says with a disturbing measure of either pride or laissez-faire (I’m not sure which), “I’m a Hot Mess Enabler.”

Upon arriving at Tom’s house, Lisa allows Tom to take photos of her which could most politely be described as Unfit for Facebook. And he gets her to perform acts that would make Heidi Fleiss roll over in her grave. (I know she’s not dead, but this would kill her.)  

He then holds her hair while she hurls (always an attractive quality in a booty call), and he thoughtfully forbids her to drive home, dropping her off in front of her home where she presumably “naps” with her skirt up around her head.

Exactly how starving for attention must someone be to take advantage of a girl who is so clearly FUBAR? If there is one truism in life, it’s that we all crave intimacy and companionship, even people like Tom who claim to love being a “playa”. (He’s white, which makes it worse.) And we all want to feel attractive and desired, but I’m not sure how validating it is to have someone think you’re incredibly hot when they’re seconds away from being out cold.  

Tom’s a great friend to the many people who love him. He just sucks at relationships.  He, of course, blames it on the crappy women. I blame it on the man who picks up the crappy women. As Marianne Williamson once said, “It’s not that you attract the wrong people, it’s that you give them your phone number.”

I think it’s never too late for us to discover our inner benevolence. Maybe the next time Tom picks up someone like Lisa, he’ll play Farmville with her instead of asking her to squeal like a pig. And maybe then, a nice girl can stumble across his path. A girl who doesn’t wake up in her driveway and call the police to report a stolen car.