Floating in the Friend Zone

 

I float.

I have always kinda floated.

Sometimes in a good way, head in the clouds, free from attachments, wandering but not lost.

Sometimes in a bad way, head in the stormclouds, not feeling attached to anything, really lost.

I went to public school with the same 30 odd kids from grade 2 to 8^th.
There was a girl/group of girls who made me feel like I was always jockeying for a position on the bottom of the totem pole of coolness.

The only way to maintain a space was to be cruel to the other girls down there with me.

I had a chance to apologize to one of those girls and I took it. The Queen of the Wasps? I won’t stoop to even swat at her.

Moving onto high school, I floated. Never permanently affixed to one group or another. Lonely.
There was an entire hive of Waspy Women drones. Making me miserable …barely worth mentioning.
Except to say, I highly value the group of friends I have now. Those who have seen me at my shiniest and dirtiest and just love me as is.

It is with this in mind, and a long history of feeling ostracized, that there is something I cannot abide.

This ‘let me out of the friend-zone’ bullshit when it comes to my man-friends.

My friend-zone is a sacred space, Shangri-fucking-La. Being my friend comes with sooooo many benefits, just not that one.

“Girls are not machines that you put kindness coins into until sex falls out.” Sylvia Plath

Except I am that girl, I am that machine. I love sex. I am also kindness personified and respond awfully well to it.
It’s one of my favorite aphrodisiacs. Strong hands, good sweat and kindness.

What gets my back up 10 ways from Sunday is when one of my man-friends decides he has put enough coins in and that it’s time to take it to the next level. So wait. This entire time you saw me as a life support system for my vagina? You were on some long-term payment plan for sex? That I have no value to you other than providing a warm safe place to stick your cock?

Fuck you. Not literally.

This begs the question…have we met?

I am the Statue of Liberty when it comes to sex. Monstrous, monumental and well lit, VERY liberated. Hard to miss really.

If I want to fuck someone, I ask in a way that won’t make you feel like a walking dildo.
Unless I fuck you on the first date, which means I have no interest in sticking around, which I will say, out loud. I use my fucking words.

I cut through coyness with a machete. I don’t do subtle, I am both crass and honest.

I am also the Statue of Liberty when it comes to my friends, bring me your poor and downtrodden, welcome to the land of plenty.

Trading that in for some (admittedly epic) sex, makes everything temporary. Makes me disposable. Don’t do that. It hurts me.

That being said. I have a few man-friends who politely remind me they want in my pants. There is a way of going about things that sounds a lot like this. “Yes, I am attracted to you, yes I would fuck you if you asked me to, but I want you in my life regardless because you are the sum of all of your parts, not just that one.”