A man has no children (that he knows of).

“Not that I know of,” I say, with a wink and a smile, to the hotel bartender who asked me if I had any children. Her smile tells me she’s picking up what I’m putting down, though it fades as she turns away to pour my shot and draw my beer from the tap.

Sex. That’s what I’m talking about. Having it. Having sex with so many women all over this fine land I can’t keep track of them anymore. I’d say I was a little bit like that guy Lou Bega from Mambo No. 5 but he only counts nine different ladies in that song, which, to me, is a pretty decent but not great month and a half. So I would have no clue if any of the women I’ve been with have ever conceived or given birth to a child that is biologically mine. I’ve never received a call from any of them alerting me about a possible or definite pregnancy. I’ve only ever heard the words “I’m late” from somebody who owes me money. So I don’t usually waste any time wondering “what if.”

Then again, I don’t receive many calls after the deed has been done. A few, from time to time, mostly to ask if I have seen a certain piece of jewelry they swore they had with them at the time of our meeting. “Not that I know of,” I answer them, with a wink and a smile to myself in the motel mirror.

I am, as the songs like to say, a Rolling Stone. I gather no moss and don’t get a lot of calls requesting second helpings of sex. I cater in mostly one-night stands with women I meet on the road who will never see my name pop up on their caller ID afterward. It goes both ways — or, should I say — it ghosts both ways. I’ve never heard of one specter being haunted by another, so I guess that makes it all alright.

That’s not to say there aren’t any little varmints running around out there somewhere with the same bump in their nose and twinkle in their eye as yours truly. Just that if they are, I don’t know about them, and they probably don’t know about me either. It’s better that way, for the both of us.

I wouldn’t even know what to do with a kid if I had one. Can’t even imagine it if I tried. What, would I answer their adorable little ignorant questions about life? Hold their little hands and look both ways when we cross the street? I don't have time for that, I cross streets based on instinct and haven't been pancaked flat by destiny in the form of a Dodge Charger yet. What am I supposed to watch them as they sleep and wonder what they’re dreaming about in their perfect, innocent little heads? No, thank you. Not for me. I’m quite happy doing exactly what I’m doing right now — traveling from town to town, knocking on doors, asking people if they’d like to get an estimate for new windows. I get paid if they say yes to the estimate, whether they actually buy new windows or not. It’s a pretty sweet gig.

A kid would mess that all up. I couldn’t drive for hours just to knock on a few doors to have the majority of those knocks go unanswered even though I can see there are people inside. I can see them through the windows I’m there to hopefully replace, or not, doesn’t matter to me as long as they get the estimate. I couldn’t do that because I’d have to take care of a kid. I’d have to feed them and clean them, and they’d keep me awake at night, and I’d watch them grow, and have to see them experience new things for the first time and watch their eyes fill up with wonder. How would I possibly be able to take to the road with my next batch of window estimate leads knowing I might miss the moment they try ice cream for the first time and their baby blues light up like the damn Fourth of July.

So thank you, former partners and potential mothers of my theoretical children, for protecting me from this nightmare life of fatherhood. And for protecting your/our imaginary or real children from having me as a father by either not telling them about me at all, or telling them the exact truth about who I am and what I have done. Perhaps one day, if they exist, they’ll find me and come knocking on my door for answers. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about knocking on doors it’s that most of the time, it never opens and when it does, they’re usually pretty happy with the windows they’ve already got.