These words, we have almost all heard them before. In our lives, in the lives of our friends and how many times in fiction…
Photo by Taylor Smith on Unsplash
He didn’t say it that way, but that’s how I understood it.
This is not the first time I’ve heard these words, and it probably won’t be the last. However, this is the first time that they really make sense.
Usually, it’s when a guy doesn’t want to make a commitment, doesn’t want to try, that he ends up saying this phrase. He’s probably hoping that we’ll settle for this fake friendship for as long as it takes to appease us. But giving friendship to those who want love is like giving bread to those who are thirsty.
So yes, generally when I am fed this sentence, I swallow my saliva, I brandish too late a pride that I had probably abandoned for too long, and I decline this friendship. I have friends, thank you very much.
This is a little different. Because we were friends before, we were friends during and we will be friends after. So yes, I understand that you prefer us to stay friends.
In fact, I was fine being your friend, before anything happened. Except that sex came into the picture… and you know my weakness for this sporty activity in duo (or more, for the high level sportsmen ^^)…
To keep a little bit of anonymity, we will call him El Frustrator. You will soon understand this nice nickname.
The sex finally came out of nowhere. I’d never considered him anything more than a friend until things got out of hand.
Objectively, he’s cute, he has charm, but I just wasn’t seeing it. For me, he was a cultured, crazy, funny guy with whom I spent great weekends with friends, with whom I liked to chat and have fun. Nothing more.
To be honest, he’s not my type at all. I like lumberjack men, broad-shouldered, tall, hairy (but not too much ^^), a little bit of beard doesn’t hurt. I like to feel small, small, shrimpy in a man’s arms.
Whereas El Frustrator is a twig, muscular without a doubt, but drier than a pot of almonds. His size is almost half of mine. Not great for my little fatty complexes.
I like better looking men, but less intelligent. Usually, I avoid intellectuals, preferring them to be more handsome, or more practical. In short, I like to be the more cultured of the two. That I am admired for my intellect, and that I admire him for his body… Fair enough. With El Frustrator, I feel like I have the culture of a second year of kindergarten…
So nothing, Nada, incompatibility of principle.
Not a sign of ambiguity, until a famous birthday. Too much alcohol, shameless snogging, hugs that are a little more than friendly and the doubt that settles in… Finally, wouldn’t this guy bring out more in me than friendship? Wouldn’t I be feeling a stronger and stronger desire for him ?
We write to each other, we look for each other, we avoid each other. I realize that I have been a bit deceitful. We return to a simple friendship, with however this small curiosity aroused. The kisses were nice, I’ll be curious to know what the rest of it holds… And you know me, curiosity is one of my biggest flaws.
Here I am, telling myself that nothing will happen, and that in the end, it’s not so bad. We’re friends, and a friend is more valuable than a potential fuck.
Until the day when… A move in, some jokes, an all-round kindness, and way too many beers (especially those at 9°), and we find ourselves alone in my new apartment. It’s 3am, everyone is gone, and he’s still there.
Is he thinking what I’m thinking? Why hasn’t he left yet?
The atmosphere is charged with sexual tension. There’s no doubt about it. If our hormones were visible to the naked eye, they would be dancing all around us, undeniably drawing us together. He breaks the silence that has suddenly settled.
“What are we doing?” he asks confused, a strange glint in his eye. I move closer, and our lips seem to throw themselves on each other. “Let’s make out, of course…” my thoughts throw at me, which I leave unsaid.
Tongues intertwine, clothes fly, and bodies begin to unite. My hunch was right, Mister had many hidden talents. He is gentle, attentive, he touches in the right places.
My bed could not have imagined a better opening. Well, it’s official, I just slept with my first mate. It’s a first. With strangers, already done, with friends of friends, already done, with future booty calls, already done. With a friend, never. It’s already too late to know if it was a bad idea.
The discovery of his naked body is a novelty for me too. It doesn’t look like the bodies that usually populate my nights. However, his body has a form of beauty that does not leave me indifferent. Me who thought I was lost, feeling like a pumpkin sleeping with a carrot, I find my marks. I forget my reflexes to create new ones. It’s quite nice.
We separate in the morning. I don’t really know where I stand anymore. What did we do? And a little voice grows inside me… I want to do it again.
The highway of desire
The next day, it is the New Year. We celebrate it together. The very first minutes are a bit awkward, but friendship takes over. We mix with the other guests, but as the glasses are emptied, I feel my desire growing. I want to sleep with him again this night, and others.
Ignoring all discretion, I kiss him on the dance floor. The call is made. I will get my way.
The night is sweet, the morning is even sweeter. My pleasure is reinvented under his fingers. I feel good finally in his less robust arms, I take my place. We laugh, we joke, and we leave each other.
I can’t wait to do it again.
It’s a good time this January, I see a lot of my improv buddies, and therefore I see a lot of El Frustrator. Every weekend night is an opportunity to end up in each other’s bed.
The romps follow one another, each time they are a way for me to explore another phase of my desire. And the addiction begins a little. Sexual addiction, emotional addiction or just the beginning of feelings, I don’t know. I just know that any excuse is good to try to get back to him.
Disguises to pick up will lead to a romp on the couch on a Sunday afternoon.
I’d like to see him more, share sensual moments, more and friendship moments more. I already knew him, but I discover even more, his humor, his coldness in the morning, his habits, his culture, his independence…
The birth of El frustrator.
There had to be some problems. Until now, we were seeing each other and I felt a certain reciprocity in our physical, conversational and textual exchanges.
Then one Wednesday night at the show, I isolate him near the bar’s bathroom, and I kiss him. For me, it’s a game and a way to tell him that tonight, if he wants, I’m his.
He runs away, he runs away from the kisses and he runs away on his bike, explaining to me that tonight, no. No, there will be no more than these stolen kisses.
I pedal in his wake, I want to know why. Why does he leave me here in the middle of Paris, with my unfulfilled desire? I push him in his tracks, he gives the beginning of an answer. Faced with his honesty, I end up going home empty-handed.
El frustrator 1 – Libido 0.
Doubt is installed, will we sleep together again. On Saturday, the doubts are lifted. Everything is fine.
Everything is normalized, the case is going on. And I appreciate more and more his company. Friends, buddies outside the room, and lovers at night. Everyone knows, some are heavy, but we find our account there.
Until the day when… An improvised weekday dinner at his place. This slight awkwardness of being at the table, sober, telling each other our lives. An atmosphere of date, a certain uneasiness too, fortunately the humor saves it all. And that the glances end up igniting and the bodies by finding themselves.
The next day, a clarification seems necessary. He does not want to be in a couple, the evening of the day before made him perceive a potential misunderstanding between us.
No, I didn’t want to be in a couple either. Besides, I don’t even know what a couple is. My stories never got past that stage.
No, what I wanted was to continue to enjoy, without taking too much head and to continue to be honest, if our desires evolved.
I finally convinced him. And the business goes on.
I walk on eggshells, I refocus the debate on sex, I write less. In short, I protect myself, we sail in troubled waters, and I try to delay the moment when I will no longer have the cherry on the cake of our friendship.
If on the weekends, El Frustrator is corruptible, and we live sweet intimate moments, during the week, El Frustrator is straight in his boots. No sex. No madness with our bodies on weekdays.
It doesn’t get any better
The frustration is at its peak every Tuesday. Then I get used to it.
Only the night of my birthday is one night too many. Hurt, frustrated, I go home with a ball in my stomach. He could have offered me his body for my birthday all the same!
El frustrator 2 – Libido 0
The following Wednesday, show, alcohol and festive atmosphere will be right of El Frustrator. It is him who pulls me in the wings to kiss me. The game is won. I am surprised. Pride should push me to refuse. I am unable to do so. How good it is!
Libido 1 – El Frustrator 2
It didn’t take two weeks for El Frustrator to get back on track. A show, a nice complicity, an evening that goes on for a long time, glances in the corner, and foot under the table. I thought that the trick was done. I walk him back to his bike. “What do we do now?” “You go home, and I’ll go home.”.
And a right uppercut to El Frustrator, I’m down. My ego is in pieces. I go home empty-handed, angry and frustrated, determined to ignore him from now on.
El Frustrator 3 – Libido 1
You can imagine that the anger is quickly over, and that my resolutions to make him languish in his turn are gone…
Here it is again. I ended up not expecting anything from Tuesday night or Wednesday. My libido made up its mind. The weekend or nothing.
Then the coldness started to show its face. Warm in groups, warm in the evening, and even warm in the morning for petting. But once we got out of bed, the El Frustrator ice cube took its place. Face closed, my jokes didn’t seem to make him laugh anymore, I felt like I was too much.
I too am cold in the morning… when I prefer to be alone.
So when Monday the text came. When he honestly told me he wanted to stop, I understood. I was expecting it. I just wanted to put it off a little longer.
I would have liked to have experienced more sweet nights, more complicit looks, more early morning raving. Yes, I would have liked to still desire this body out of my standards, to observe his little buttocks under the shower, to cuddle him sometimes against his will.
No, I am not devastated. Yes, we will continue to be friends. No, I really didn’t see myself in a relationship with him. And yes, surely some feelings were starting to get in the way on my side.
It could have ended there. It was supposed to end there.
But the buried hope, the uncontrollable libido and maybe the little crisis of the thirties decided otherwise.
I had promised not to publish this text at the time. I wouldn’t advertise it, but I refuse to veto it. Writing is my way of exorcising, and for once, I’m going to choose myself over a man’s misplaced pride.
So it’s been two and a half weeks that we’ve been holding on, that the ambiguous gestures had almost disappeared, that the looks were less and less embarrassed and that our friendship was trying to go back on its way quietly.
Until one evening when we had too much to drink, when we went to a Velib station isolated from the group and when I suddenly felt like it. Here I am, rolling a huge spade over him. He doesn’t fight, and gives me back my kiss.
At this moment, I don’t even look for something else, the kiss is enough for me. It lasts a few minutes, before we leave each other, pedaling into the wind.
Oops. It’s hard to start a healthy and frank friendship after such a kiss. The desire I was trying hard to suppress is reborn.
I try to forget the gymnastics of our lips, to erase from my memory his body against mine, but you can imagine, I can’t.
Two weeks later, we all get together for a weekend in a big house. We decide to sleep between girls, yet I do not put my suitcase in any room. Missed act or premeditated, I don’t even know myself.
The evening is weird on my side, the first night is a Dark Mymy night. I ruminate my celibacy and the incapacity of men to love me… I whine, I go to take a bath and finally I start again.
All the beginning of the evening, I avoid it. But in this very early hour, the alcohol makes its effect. We are only 4.
I take advantage of his presence on the sofa to snuggle up to him. I had missed it. We fall asleep. When we wake up, I pull him towards the bedroom.
Yes I want him, yes I would dream of him inside me. But no, I try to keep my promise. I even put myself in pyjamas. It’s a waste, bodies call each other and it’s so good!
The weekend ends without more trouble, a few more hugs, some petting, but I don’t want to rush him.
Maybe I have the right to a second chance… I might as well take it.
The week after, I think about it, I know that the Saturday night at his place will be a test. Will I succeed? Will I succeed in leaving before the end, in not imposing myself, in not creating more “accidents”.
Nope, as a sign of the destiny, my period is interrupted for one evening. Too bad, we only have one life.
I stay until the end, I want to talk, I want to know. Of course, I want him, and if nothing happened, I would be in a state of frustration again.
But here I am, I think that above all, I stayed to talk to him, and to feed myself a little bit more of his tenderness.
The discussion is finally brief, none of us dares to say what he has on the heart. The one being afraid of the rejection, the other being afraid of the suffering of the first.
The language of the bodies is so much simpler, and it is them which end up having the last word. Ouch, I love it too much to be indifferent.
Not clear with myself
A breakfast for both of us, and we leave each other. I still have no idea what’s going on in his mind. Anyway, back to square one. I’m not frustrated, but I’m not any further ahead.
And then, life goes on, we don’t talk about it, we don’t have an opportunity, we are just friends. Except in my little mind, he’s out of his box and striding towards another box where feelings are running rampant. Too late.
I have no idea what I want from him, or from myself. Not a “marital” relationship as he liked to say, but not a relationship based solely on sex.
And the problem with not being clear with yourself is that you are bound to go straight into the wall.
So, yesterday when I was at the bar, I found myself a little bit jealous of one of my colleagues. Ouch, I knew I was on a slippery slope. This is neither what I wanted nor what he wanted.
And at the same time, I can’t control this throat that is being used, my pupils that are looking for him across the room, my hand that is resting on his back.
The evening ends, he doesn’t drink as much as he did a month before, he’s careful as if wary of the panther attack in the dark.
I have not drunk enough to attack, but enough to start a discussion. This discussion, I need it, I know. But I dread it. So I push him, I push him to reject me, I push him to have to tell me: “It’s over. Nope no feeling on his side”.
Yes it stings, oh yes, it makes me sad. I overwhelm him with words, but I can’t manage to tell him my biggest questions and to tell him face to face what I really think.
He takes me one last time in his arms, I make the moment last. I take advantage to squeeze him one last time between my fingers, to press his skin, to smell his smell. And I leave him, he leaves on his bike, I leave on the other, without turning around. Farewell.
My apartment is not very close. It is at least 45 minutes away by foot. Too bad, I need to walk, to talk, I need to evacuate.
The tears don’t come, but the words do. I start a series of vocals for my Marvellous, then I switch. The one I really want to talk to is him.
20 minutes of vocals later, I have the semblance of a written answer. I listen to my diatribe again, I don’t want to change anything. I’m drunk, but sincere, sad but not whiny, negative and deeply positive at times… Me what.
Fatigue and alcohol have taken over my sadness. The tears did not flow. Sleep is light, and it’s barely 5:30 when I wake up.
Thoughts dance in my mind, ability to fall back asleep: 0.
So I write, I write and I let out my anger, my sadness and this feeling of uncontrollable injustice.
It hasn’t even been 24 hours, but I already feel grown up from this story.
So yes, I still hurt. And I’m going to avoid his red hair for a while, just so I don’t wake up the beast of illusions, desire and hope. I’m not going to stare at the box of cookies when I’m not allowed to touch them.
I will disappear for a while, for a few weeks. And come back when I’ve found a nice chocolate éclair that will satisfy my sweet tooth.
But I am grown up. First of all, because thanks to him, my vision of desire, of the masculine, of the feminine, of this imperialism of size has changed. Because for once, I fell in love with a brain.
And above all, it is the first time that I seek this discussion. It’s the first time I’ve broken my shell of desire and futility to show my true feelings. Yes, for the first time, I’m putting a relationship that wasn’t a relationship at risk, to assert myself, and preserve myself.
For the first time, I express not what the other person wants to hear, but what my heart has to say.
Yes, rejection stings. But I’ll get over it, and I hope to learn from it in the future.
Thank you Marvelous and Bitchveillantes for being there, your words have given even more relief to what I just went through!
And thank you eclipses!