Any man who’s ever escorted more than one woman at a time to a night club knows it’s not such a cakewalk: the other men don’t like it. All but the biggest jerks will leave you alone if you’re with one woman, but any additional ones will provoke general masculine resentment. A few nights ago I went with three girls to a club; two were acquaintances and the third was a good friend of mine. My friend and I didn’t like the place, and all of us decided to leave; we were only going to stay long enough to see if another friend of my friend was there.

But soon after we got inside, a guy came over to where we were standing by the bar and bulldogged his way into our conversation. Squat and powerful, he was aggressively cheerful. Immediately after introducing himself to me as a long lost buddy—Fletcher or something was his name—he began talking to the girls, asking their names.

They demurred until he cajoled them, "come on, I’m not going to bite, what’s your name?" It would have been overtly hostile if he hadn’t continued displaying a shark-like grin throughout.

They didn’t seem very eager to give out any information, but finally gave their names and then looked over their shoulders as if to order drinks.

"I’d abort this one, Fletcher, it doesn’t look like it’s working out for you," I said, also smiling, though the corners of my lips were getting weary. I’m open to bribes and if he had gotten things off to a good start by buying us all drinks I might have been in a more forbearing mood—though I guess the ladies wouldn’t have been as favorably impressed.

He didn’t appear to hear me, but instead suggested that two of the ladies—now resolutely ignoring him—might enjoy contact with each other, more intimate and physically close than that of ordinary friendship.

I explained that that was really enough of that.

"You don’t know who you’re talking to, you could get killed."

"I’m sure you could kill me, but I’m still not going to let you bother my friends."

He looked nonplused for a moment, and then became almost apologetic to me: "you’re a good guy."

"I know."

"You know? Ha, I like a guy with confidence."

Fortunately it was soon determined that the friend of my friend was not in the place, so we left for a bar before Fletcher had time to get buddy-buddy with me.

In this not very serious case I don’t have to spell out why Fletcher threatened me. But even when fighting is not a reasonable option for men, say in an office, there’s a subtext of violence playing beneath the surface of a reasonable sounding argument. There’s less likely to be the hysterical screaming that characterizes arguments between men and women or, to a lesser extent, between women and women, but the danger feels real. I remember a polite conversation I had with a colleague concerning my "problem" with him not doing his work and expecting me to cover for him. During our exchange my heart couldn’t have been racing harder than if after hours of being crouched behind a bush waiting for a man-eating tiger, the m. e. tiger had suddenly tapped me on the shoulder. Men aren’t as likely to shout at each other, because shouts turn to blows.

Men still like violence, they just don’t like to be directly involved. Since the Superbowl is coming up again, I’m sure you can pick any number of suitable metaphors comparing football with war. And don’t forget video games.

I’m sorry I can’t speak about tension between women and women, but one rule of this column has been to only talk about what I’ve seen. I’ve certainly heard a lot of complaints from women about other women, but few actual arguments—perhaps the parties involved don’t want men fantasizing about cat fights.

In arguments between men and women, women get away with a lot more, because unless they’re talking to a brute, they don’t have to worry about getting hit. Men fear trouble from women, especially the loud, screaming variety. The most ruthless or self-absorbed women become immediately hysterical at the slightest pretense. They enjoy many victories in the short run, but as a long-term strategy, becoming hysterical is self-defeating: never tolerating a disagreeable word means never growing up until it’s too late.

The most serious fights are between lovers. I’ve seen the posters on the subway about men beating women every 12 seconds too, and certainly anyone who hits someone weaker than himself is a disgusting bully; but I don’t have personal knowledge of any wife/girlfriend beaters. The only cases of significant-other-beating I’m aware of have the man on the receiving end. One friend of mine—this was immediately after a teapot went whistling by his head—even called the cops on his girlfriend.

Some would argue that the thread of violence is so intricately woven into the fabric of love that the latter can not be separated from the former without ripping the whole cloth asunder. But not me. I think people just have to learn how to communicate better.