I have not written much about the female friend. She was first and foremost a friend. And so I felt uncomfortable writing about our relationship. However, as the title of this post suggests, even that friendship is over. This is about her.
It was my own fault. I was the one who initiated it. About two and a half years ago, she and I were drinking and chatting in a pub. Moving onto the whiskeys signalled the snap in my brain. It happens sometimes. I don’t know why, but my blood races, my heart pounds and all I want is to be fucked, or in this case fingered. I remember thinking, as I spoke to her, ‘this is not what I really think, why am I saying this?’. I told her I liked her, that I found her interesting, attractive and wondered what she thought about me. It was suggestive enough for her to get the gist of what I was saying and she was ‘flattered’ by my advance. There was no fingering that night and I awoke to a terrible hangover and regret for what I had said.
Since then we have had a couple of encounters when, again after numerous drinks, the conversation turns to our ‘relationship’. There has been one kiss, which was not at all one I would like to repeat. Perhaps I am not attracted to women. Or more to the point, I am simply not attracted to her. She is not my ‘type’, if I had one.
One thing I have learned during these close encounters with her, is how tedious women can be about relationships. It is all so serious, so emotional. Whenever I found myself in earnest conversations with her, in which she raised concerns about my marriage and how she was ‘there’ for me if I needed her, I kept thinking: ‘and all this because I just wanted to be fingered’. Christ. What happened to easy talk and loose sex?
Back in the summer, she was round for dinner with another friend. We drank a lot and chatted late into the evening. At one point I caught her eye and she mouthed ‘I love you’ to me. My stomach lurched and I felt slightly sick (a sure sign that there is no attraction, I think). That was the last time I had seen her until November when I met her and the tall guy for dinner and drinks.
I purposely arranged to meet both of them, so I would not have to:
1) sleep with the tall guy, who, although a good kisser, just ain’t that good in bed
2) have long, meaningful conversations with her about our supposed relationship
The tactic worked to some extent. The tall guy could only grope and kiss me when she went to the bathroom and she didn’t find the opportunity to ‘talk’ alone with me. After dinner we trawled the cocktail bars in Soho. A lot was drunk. We finally parted company with the tall guy and she and I shared a taxi home. There was a long (and rather tedious) conversation about our last encounter and how she had spotted my recoil from her ‘I love you’ words. When I got out of the taxi, she stepped out too, to continue the conversation. All I wanted was to go to bed. I was drunk and tired and had had enough of all this ‘analysis’. But she went on and on, until she said she could not cope with seeing me, even as a friend. It was too upsetting for her. Or at least, it was something like that.
I am surprised at how I responded – tears (I was tired and emotional, aka drunk). But inside I was happy. Happy, that by ‘breaking up’ with me, I no longer had to deal with her conversations, insinuations and expectations. Happy, that I could shake off that little mistake I had made two and half years ago. She was the one who wanted me out of her life. And so I would oblige. The tears were there to make her feel good, to mask my relief.
I walked back home, feeling elated. When I got back, I told my husband (having woken him whilst drunkenly getting changed) that we should have a child together. It felt right. Then.
The next day, I received a text from her. She regretted what she had said and wanted to ‘keep me in her life’. I am not sure I want to. Things felt so simple that night she ‘broke up’. The irony of course is, there was nothing to ‘break up’. Just a friendship.