Is U.S. Vice-President Mike Pence sexually uncontrollable, a servant of his loins? Or does his proximity render Republican women liquid with desire, unable to eat food, or even order it, in a sit-down situation with starter, main, beverage and dessert?

There are many possible explanations for Pence’s refusal to dine alone with women other than his wife Karen, or to attend events without her where liquor is going to be served. He revealed this policy as a congressman in 2002, and the Washington Post reminded the world of it this week, burying the lede in a story about how the Pences have twin treadmills and a private landline for just the two of them. The antique phone is red.

The man can’t be left alone with women other than Karen. He needs a chaperone. Did Karen demand it? Did he? Is it something we said?

Few would describe Mike Pence as irresistible sex bait, mainly because he’s a guy who can only be imagined clothed. I mean, those never-nude suits for Indiana winters with the over-padded shoulders and the high-waisted pleated pants? Karen dresses him to repel, I understand that, but there’s really no need.

But perhaps I am wrong. The guy is so anti-sex that it’s kind of sexy, which make him pro-sex. “The more you prohibit yourself from male-female friendships, the more sexually charged the world outside your marriage starts to seem,” wrote The Guardian’s wise Oliver Burkeman.

Pence is at sea. He may well think women are licking their lips suggestively rather than going after some errant cheese dressing. He might think their eyes are running over his body like a car.

So a woman facing Pence over dinner wouldn’t have to lure him. She’d just say, “Let’s go to my room.” She’d have asked hotel housekeeping for special sheets in navy blue.

For Mike Pence is the whitest man alive. Trump chose him for his hair, thinking it looked vice-presidential, but I think he looks like the Man from Glad, or a Q-tip. Is he a whited sepulchre, a pillar of salt? He’s not a tall drink of water like Eddie Redmayne, he’s a tall glass of male milk.

Put Pence on white sheets and he’d vanish. Mike, where are you? Say something.

It may be that Karen and Mike are a fulfilled couple — which would bode well because politicians puffy with sexual happiness don’t punish the world around them — but Pence calls Karen “mother.” Something tells me they think sex is for child-seeding.

If it is, you’re doing it wrong. But that’s just me. See, I eat with guys all the time. Feminism will triumph if men and women work together, I often say. You can see people’s eyes glaze over, but it’s true.

I like men. I share the foods with them while sipping from a beaker full of the warm South, or whatever the house white is that day. Lunch rolls along. Sometimes they tuck my napkin into the collar of my blouse when I eat fried chicken, but that’s more proactive than sexy.

Then when talk turns to business — newspaper digital ad sales, or tariffs, or Trump’s possible pee ‘n’ prostitutes party in Moscow — I lose my appetite. Sometimes the guy finishes off my plate or takes my meal home in a doggy bag for his wife. Would that be okay with Pence?

With this doctrine, no-comestibles Pence has extended the already vast social minefield for co-workers. Writer/actor Rob Delaney asked Twitter for advice. “Woman in elevator was eating chips. Did I just have private lunch with her?? I burned my penis on office kettle to be safe.”

Maybe Pence is right. Maybe women in the company of men can’t control their lust. As Canadian journalist Leah McLaren — for reasons best known to herself — wrote recently in a column about her nipple and a stranger’s baby, maybe Karen imagines that Washington lunches suddenly turn spicy.

“’C’mon lady,” said his eyes. And I suddenly knew what he wanted. And I of course wanted to give him what he wanted. The only problem was, I had no milk. But would it be so bad, I wondered, if I just tried it out — just for a minute — just to see what it felt like [to eat lunch with Mike Pence]?’”

This won’t happen. We used to think the photos of Trump signing directives surrounded by Pence and an army of men were taken artlessly. But what if they were deliberate? Women have cooties, we don’t like them, they’re banned from the clubhouse.

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But say Pence stops at a roadhouse and gets a taste of mingling with skirts. It takes hold. He’s caught ordering room service. There are mismatched socks, slammed doors, hurt feelings, and then there are videos. He resigns, God abandons him, Pence moves back to Indianapolis under a cloud.

But Karen will still be by his side, talking on the red phone, both so tight “you can’t get a dime between them,” as a staffer describes them. They will eat the food of godliness, and order seconds.

hmallick@thestar.ca