Friends are Friends

I wrote this last weekend, but never managed to post it.  After my words hit the page, I had a change of heart.  My female friendships aren’t any more constant.  We float in and out of our lives as time and situations allow.  We know that sometimes work and life and new boyfriends pull us away.  We are always assured, however, that we are friends forever.  I should give him no less trust and allow him no less leeway.

A friendship with a married man is a tricky situation. I put myself in his wife’s place, knowing that I would be wary, at the least, and I try to act accordingly.  I willingly take a secondary (or tertiary) standing in his life.  “If you need to step away from this friendship, I won’t be mad, I’ll understand,” I recite to him repeatedly like a mantra.

…And then he does.

…And I wonder what I have allowed.

I don’t like this.  He says it’s temporary; he’ll return.  He doesn’t tell me when or why.

I feel put away and forgotten on a shelf.  What makes him sure I’ll be here when he comes back?  Doesn’t he realize he’s irreparably changed everything?  Conversely, is it fair for me to adjust the rules now when he merely employed an option I’ve been offering consistently and readily all these years?

He must realize that this stepping back that allows him a new perspective allows me one as well.  I muse on thoughts such as, “is this healthy, is this right, is this what I want?”

Concupiscent*

Let’s face it, I need to get laid.  I need it soon…in fact, actually, I need it right now.  It’s been almost a year and I’m so randy, I’m making stupid romantic choices.  Practically exploding with desire, I’m considering sleeping with people I would never, never, never typically allow past my thighs.  As I type this, I’m simultaneously email flirting with “Dave Smith.”  Dave Smith and I didn’t end well the last time – he doesn’t deserve the time of day.  Granted, the sex was HOT, so, so HOT…wait a minute, this is what I mean!  Dave Smith = Bad Choice.  No Dave Smith, no frosted-hair Asian, no Lawyerly, no Echo (even though he IS exceedingly cute).  My pent-up hormones aren’t allowing me to think straight!

The dating profile I’d like to write:  I need a clean, normal, attractive guy between the ages of 37 and 52 for a long, sweaty night of passion so I can think with my brain again.  Multiple orgasms are required; a follow up date is not.

* I was looking up a synonym for “horny” and found “concupiscent.”  What a great word for desperate, hard-up and sexually manic. Just call me concupiscent.