On male female friendships and platonic love
This one is for the boys.
There was nothing extraordinary about our evening but on the train home I had a different pulse. A warmth being pushed through my body that distracted me from everything, even the screen in my hand.
I combed through our conversation, but we hadn’t covered anything that would leave me this agitated. I had eaten too much, though that was standard. It could be excitement for a summer that was teasing its arrival. It was the first night of the year mild enough to sit outside, dusk coating us like a blanket.
No, I thought, it’s because it was all so romantic.
We linked arms on the way. Shook hands with the waiter who asked us how we’d been. We gossiped about ex colleagues and then gossiped some more, until I laughed so hard my chair tipped. We scooped up creamy sauce with naan, then imprinted some onto our napkins. The corners of our eyes creased with how rich it was.
“You’re gorgeous,” I told him, because he is.
“So are you, Trace.”
It was all so romantic except us.
Cody* and I have known each other for nine years and our friendship started steady. Built incrementally over coffee breaks, in-jokes, Skype messages (told you it was nine years), calls, dinners, international hang outs. The bond that we have provides me with the deepest comfort.
There was nothing extraordinary about our evening, it was ordinary for us. Yet it hit differently that night because there was magic in its reliability. In the way everything unfolded as it should. We had the kind of time that would provoke my dad to put his hands behind his head, lean back and declare, life ain’t got to be complicated. Went for dinner, ate well, had a laugh, went home.
It is this lack of complication, when it’s genuine, that makes me adore the friendships I have with men. I acknowledge that Cody is beautiful. I love to see how he navigates the world from his male perspective and always strives for better. Yet between us there are no questions about what we are to each other. No prospect of our lives ever fusing. We love each other and we stay in the same lane, looking forward.
And I can fall back on Cody, just like I know I can fall back on the reliability of some of the other blokes I like to hang around with. If I was stuck at 5 in the morning, I know who to call to come get me. I know who offered to wait with me that time I was in A&E. I know who negotiated men with a van to help me move for a price so low, I could afford it. I know who’ll always be up for a beer.
It is no coincidence that I’ve been kicking about alone for some time and have found in these friendships, certain elements I might get from a partner. These are not mutually exclusive with the emotional depth, support and nuance that the gaggle of women in my life provide, but there are some things that I wouldn’t ask of them. It shames my feminism but: I know who I can contact for DIY.
There’s a dissonance between the men I become friends with and the men I get into bed with, DIY skills included. I wear lovers like oversized t-shirts, growing into them, forcing them to fit only for them to get shed with a season. They lay untouched and crumpled in a pile in my mind, an eclectic body count. Some more faded than others.
The boys often despair at my choices, giving advice that can’t be misinterpreted:
“Nah, he’s not into you.”
There are no hypotheses or perhaps. No wild scenarios that could justify behaviour that’s taken a turn, nor asking someone else to screenshot their LinkedIn page so they don’t get notified. No working groups for the drafting of WhatsApp messages.
“It sounds like he might be scared about the way he feels about you,” one of my ladies might suggest.
“You need to ditch him,” is Phil’s catchphrase.
Phil used to be my boss, and we now have the kind of relationship that his wife describes as a cross between a parent and a gay-best friend. It’s funny because it’s accurate. But placing it in different frames helps to explain what to some, might be unfeasible. Friends. Of different age and sex. I am a better person because of him, and I tell him I love him all the time.
It’s an adage that straight men and women can’t have a friendship, because one will always have an attraction to the other, might be harbouring a secret hope. I think this is entrenched in sexism. In a belief that we can’t see each other, and particularly women, beyond our physicality.
“It’s not what you expect,” Cody said, when I asked him how he felt about his female friendships, “if you meet someone of the opposite sex, you don’t immediately contextualise your interactions as mates. But when it happens, it’s always a bonus.”
Our goal-oriented culture places an emphasis on romantic love. It optimises dating through algorithms, making us feel like it’s something to be worked on, to get better at. There are already men in my life who demonstrate what love can be in a different form. That’s quietly reassuring. Replenishing. Unfussy.
Earlier this year, one of my mates video-called me from a barstool in Portugal. On screen he was blurry, and I suspect in person too.
“Where the fuck have you been?” I asked.
“I know, I know,” was the explanation I got. “It’s a bit, busy.”
“I haven’t seen you in a year,” I chided.
“I know but it’s fine,” he said without a prompt, “we’ll always be friends. You know you can always call me if you need me.”
According to the guys, it’s only as complicated as you make it.
*name changed