Men at the Maddy—zoologist’s favourite species of Toronto

In the marooned and untamed land of 14 Madison Avenue lies the hotspot of Earth’s most fascinating yet under-recorded species—Toronto men. But here is what is most enthralling. Our team of fantastic zoologists at The Strand were able to study a very specific sub-species of Toronto men, the kind that worships the dogma that they are the apex predator of the Madison ecosystem and that the women talking to them are genuinely into them and definitely not giving them fake numbers. 

These creatures, often found in crowds of Adidas sneakers and pungent Dior Sauvage cologne, frequent the drinking well of Corona pints and tequila shots in order to seek their next female conquest. It is mating season at the Maddy, and the boys are ready to get their rocks off. 

Allow us to set the scene

The clock strikes 10 on a Friday night, and already the creatures have begun to trickle into the sacred mating ground. They have a long night ahead of them and they know it. It took minutes of preparation to put on a semi-clean shirt rather than the pasta-stained hoodie they had been wearing for the whole week and perhaps even brushing their teeth to ensure optimal pleasure for the female species when his tongue is exploring the crevices of her mouth not even her orthodontists can reach.

They will also check their bank account balance to ensure they have about $20 to spare as, in their tradition, purchasing a drink for their female counterparts is a sign of respect. And by respect, our zoologists want us to clarify that it means they believe the women are attractive enough to bed for 32 seconds. ¹Rest assured, our top-of-the-field scientists have conducted multiple studies to which the aggregated data shows that 32 seconds is, in fact, the average length of the reproductive tango of a Maddy man. ²

When interviewing a Maddy man, he responded to the data provided above with “It’s short and sweet. Just like all good things in life.” The Strand is hesitant to agree.

Prior to entering the hallowed grounds before them, these creatures engage in preliminary social acts while forming a line. In the winter months, the men can be seen with their hands hidden in their pockets, spouting phrases like “I’m not cold” as their clouds of breath fill the evening air. Once they reach the end of their queue, they present identification cards for inspection. Observers may notice beads of sweat forming as some of these so-called men defend their listed age as valid before strangers who likely do not care at all. Their final entry challenge is to stand absolutely still and project heterosexuality as another man pats down their bodies for any mysterious bulges. If successful, they gain entry to their habitat of desire. 

As they prowl through the Victorian architecture that creates the perfect maze for a night of chaos and regrets, their eyes sharpen to lock in on their target. At first, they are picky, with not-so-subtle murmurs of “She’s mid, bro” echoing the hallways of the tipsy-turvy house. To the eyes of a typical observer, however, these silly creatures may be the “mid” ones themselves. But, of course, that is up to the readers’ discretion. 

The mating ritual begins

Once a potential female is spotted, the men are quick to begin their trusty³ mating routine. It goes like this:

• First, he will stare at her from across the bar. Hard. Hoping that even for a glimpse their eyes will meet. Even if it is met by accident, he will take it as a sign from nature to approach her. 
• Second, as he walks towards her, he will lip sync to whatever song is blasting through the speakers—probably Drake or The Weeknd, or something. He will make sure to hold his drink, most likely a yeasty pint as a display of testosterone, in his left hand. This is to ensure his right hand is free to flick up and down to the beat of the song. Works like a charm. ⁴
• Third, as he is right in front of the female target, he will fully just speak the lyrics into her face and pull some self-aware post-ironic expression to suggest that he is not like other guys. Go, jester, go! 
• Fourth, he will ask her if she goes to UofT, and what her programs are, and then pretend to be curious about what she learns in class. ‘You are so right about the proto-feminist undercurrent in Mary Wollstonecraft’s texts and how they still acutely speak to our fourth-wave feminist movement of the twenty-first century!’ He might throw in a joke here and there about dropping out of college because the semester is getting tough—but everyone makes that joke so she only pretends to laugh. He will not ask her how old she is, for he does not care. 
• Fifth, if all goes to plan, he will lead her through the crowds, towards the drinking well, and buy her a drink. Something cheap—a mojito maybe, but most likely just a shot of something to be the most economical. Men at the Maddy are pragmatic creatures.

Through the data set provided to The Strand, studies show that a shot of pure liquor is purchased for the female about 78 percent of the time—to which just under 40 percent of the time, not even a lime is present. The bartender, guardian of the drinking well, hates their job. 

Winners and losers of the wild

The male remains optimistic—all is going according to nature’s plan. Unbeknownst to him, however, the female does not plan on going home with him. She never did. She does not even care who his favourite philosopher is—it’s Camus, why is it always Camus? Seriously, why? Do men only know Camus? She takes the shot anyway since there is no reason to turn down a free drink, gritting her teeth not from the fiery aftertaste of liquor but from his unending spiel about Sisyphus. Just as men at the Maddy are economical, so are the women. Yet, the former does not know about the latter despite centuries of evolution and cross-sex interaction.

In the male’s mind, this is it. The prime moment to close the deal. He knows he has one shot to get this right or he will lose it all. He pulls her body closer to himself, the stink of gin on his breath, and is about to propose the most important question of the night—“Your place or my place?” Struck by the anticipation of the loins, he feels as if he is at the summit of a precipice, with all the world’s beauties to behold, but one false move could leave him clawing at the hanging straws of the cliff’s edge, thousands of meters above sea level.

But the impulsion of the male species overwhelms his reason. A pair of legs in a short skirt walks past him and he cannot help but oggle at them. Yet, just that split second is enough for him to negate all his rewards for the night. Sensing that the uncouth terrain of Madison is getting busier and the crowd is beginning to push like waves during an angry storm, she glances around looking for an escape route before he returns from his trance to pop the question. In a sequence of quick-fire decision-making and a demonstration of impressive athleticism, she dives into the sea of patrons, ensuring to swim (well, walk) fast. Her fast legs are a result of centuries of adaptive evolution to run away from men at the Maddy. 

Having looked away for just a split second, he loses her to the crowd, never to be seen again. It is a rookie mistake of nature to get distracted at the climax of the mating ritual, for the female targets easily outsmart the male. Like Sisyphus, his task of finding a female mate for the night feels just like rolling a boulder up the hill for eternity.

“What about all the fun we had discussing The Myth of Sisyphus?” he decries to himself. “I noticed that I did all the talking but I thought it was because she liked hearing me talk!” “I thought she liked Murakami just like me, we had so much in common,” he continues in his head. “Her tits were looking back at me, I swear.” That final line he accidentally says out loud. 

Never give up—survival of the fittest

Male creatures of this captivating species have a biological tendency to be sore losers, therefore, he will repeat this mating ritual about seven times through the night. In some encounters, he will pretend to care about Taylor Swift and the Barbie movie—two cultural cornerstones of the female species that are venerated and deeply respected. But even those are cheap tricks that even the most naive of the female species will not fall for. Nobody’s favourite Taylor Swift song is “Shake It Off” or “Blank Space.” And, no, it is generally agreed among the female sex that there are bigger fish to fry than Margot Robbie not getting nominated for Best Actress at the Oscars. People are dying, Jacob.⁵

Seeing his failed attempts to seduce his previous targets from the female species, the men can be seen on the hunt once again,  moving through the different habitats within the Maddy. Some tend to prefer the semi-outdoor patios, with all the joys of January chill, but the layout confusion of a mirror maze proves to be a challenge for some of the creatures to find their way there. Others flock around a pool table to demonstrate an image of athletic prowess. Ah, he misses again! Good thing no creature of the female species was looking to begin with.

In another sub-group, they are awaited by another man who plays the piano. This landscape is commonly home to the communal singing of Billy Joel, mixed with more contemporary music selections (at which point many of the men appear to lose interest). While some enjoy this calmer playing ground, others prefer to cram themselves in as if sardines on the dance floor. This tactic provides ample opportunity for the Maddy man to ‘accidentally’ bump into nearby females, and begin his mating routine. For some reason, all attendees perform joy at the idea of jumping up and down in a singular location while fighting off the shifting wave of bodies. Some scientists liken this to a peacock’s dance, however, our zoologists at The Strand would like to point out that it is not nearly as seductive. It is quite difficult to watch, in fact.

As the bartender calls out that it is closing time, the disappointed males flee the scene, humiliated by his own hopes of recounting his epic late-night tales to his bros the next afternoon and for the following years. He gives it one final shot as he walks out to the mostly empty street on Madison, asking for the mobile number of the female sex. Having just witnessed him vomit on the sidewalk from one too many bad gin and tonics, she politely declines and tells him to wipe the muck from his face. All prospects of seeking a mate have been officially dashed to dust. It is a tragic reminder that the wilderness at no. 14 takes no prisoners.

Madison is a cruel and unrelenting Goddess. 

1. 31.58 seconds, to be precise. We rounded up to be generous. ↩︎
2. See footnote 1 ↩︎
3. The success rate of the sexual encounters of a Maddy Man averages to about 8  percent, according to our data. ↩︎
4. Charm is used quite generously here. Our lawyers are making us say this. ↩︎
5. A riveting study conducted by our zoologists estimates that 46 percent of all Maddy Men in our data set are named Jacob, Jake, or Jeremy ↩︎