CBMused

Reading some ‘relationship’ advice sites*, we live in a sad world where opposite sex friendships equate with emotional infidelity. Simply stated, men and women in relationships cannot enjoy non-sexual friendships because they’re deemed to be emotionally cheating on their partner.

Throughout my adult years, I have had friends of the opposite gender. I befriended males easily and I was often told that I had a fresh and direct and approach to life that didn’t leave them guessing. Some of these friendships were on an intimate level; others were mere companionship over a bite to eat, or a movie or socialising in a small group.

Enter a relationship or a partner on the scene, and according to some sites, I should sever communication with male friends and spend little or no time with colleagues. Sound advice when I work in a male-dominated industry doused with egos and testosterone and thrives on developing contacts.

According to one site, emotional cheating occurs when you discuss your partner and your relationship with your “opposite sex friend”, sharing your fears, hopes, and dreams. Isn’t that what a friendship is about? All of a sudden, conversations such as “Jonathan and I are getting engaged/thinking of buying a house/doing up the backyard/travelling to Antarctica but he doesn’t want a short engagement/he’s not convinced it’s the right time/he’s not a handyman/he hates the cold” are deemed to be labelled an infidelity.

There are the times when you need a close and trusted male friend to slap you around when you’re about to make the wrong decision, to warn of you of pitfalls of your impending actions, to offer you the other gender’s perspective, to make you understand your partner even more, to offer a sounding board of ideas, to tell you how to configure your new firewall or even give you advice on how to decorate a room.

Apparently, I am a cheater. And I have cheated on my partner with my gay friend.

While I do not refute the existence and dangers of some emotional attachments, the arguments presented in those sites do not lend any credibility to a sensitive subject and how to effectively prevent it. Advice such as avoid friendships with members of the opposite sex is as convincing as sexual abstinence is for eradicating world hunger.

With the apparent gender-bias in phrases such as sharing hopes and dreams, I cannot help but think this scare tactic is more targeted at women. Maybe a more valid option would be to send women back where they belong. To the home. To provide no distraction for the men folk while they perform their important bread winning duties. And maybe that would free up the women from any emotional infidelities so they could indulge in sexual liaisons with the plumber or electrician. There is no flaw in either logic, is there?

Now if only I could figure out how to tell my gay friend we had a sordid affair.

* Citations are used in this post but not linked.

Or… What Went Through My Mind Last Week

1. Spending the week in pain is not my idea of fun, nor does it lend itself to inspiration.
2. My online absence needed an excuse when I haven’t felt the inclination to comment, return visits and reply to emails and prompts in a timely manner. Pain does that to a person.
3. I wrote four posts and deleted them. If I don’t have anything interesting to say, I may as well say nothing.
4. With the temps soaring unexpectedly on the weekend, the beach was a display of winter excesses and culinary indulgences on pasty white palettes of skin.
5. But not you, shirtless hunk, in the shorts that show the brand of underwear, posing in the distance with your mates, move a little closer, will you? Ah… that’s better.
6. There are way too many girls who dress slutty and skanky on a Saturday night while the guys look grubby and throw on any old T over a pair of old jeans.
7. Honey, strutting down the road in a tight dress that barely covers your arse and perched on stilettos when you’re a size 16+ is not a good look. And neither are you with the stick figure and boob spillage top as you gulp your beer from a bottle as you head towards WKPUV (well-known pick up venue).
8. Does the premise of sex make people blind?
9. To the seagull that left a deposit on my hat and towel, I swear I’ll get you next time.
10. One person’s rubbish is another’s treasure. To the persons who picked up so much stuff, I hope it serves you well. If you picked it up to sell it or for your garage sale, screw you. I hope it falls apart.
11. People are weird. Why take a TV’s remote control and electrical cord and not take the TV?
12. With Mini Me recalled for manufacturer faults, I doubt I’ll even get to bond with it.
13. I’ve watched birds have sex. Twice. In one week. Am I now a voyeur?
14. I’m contemplating taking a break from commenting since I seem to be in another space. Not even this one. 
15. “Now that you have him, do you still need me?” His face showed genuine concern. I did my utmost to reassure him. A wonderful dialogue ensued.
16. Now I’m thinking about Him. It’s probably a good thing.
17. I should remember not to purr next time the masseur is working the knots and stress out of my tight muscles.
18. It will be a miracle if I end up publishing this post and not deleting it.
19. Sometimes I can be too nice for my own good. So glad he declined the option I offered and took the one I wanted.
20. Watching rivulets of rain against the window pane on a Sunday morning…
21. Why have I been given the most delicate feet that blister too easily? Ouchies. As if I needed more pain.
22. 20 hours is too long to wait for a text message that was sent with a question, “Pizza tomorrow night?” when the response was “can’t, we’re going to the movies”.
23. If I take a break from commenting and you still see me on your sitemeter, don’t hate me. I still love you.
24. Wayfarers. Aviator-style sunglasses. Cats eyes glasses. Floral dresses. Half moon belts. Tights. And they say the 80s were bad. What next? Big shoulder pads and big hair? Count me in.
25. Fours seasons rolled into one weekend. Bliss.
26. “If you only knew…” Vicious Streak.
27. Mind gone blank.

He walks into the room and everything stops. The hostess greets him with a flamboyant “Hullo Dahling!” and kisses both cheeks. The ones on his face. At least that’s where your mind has wandered, where your thoughts were heading. Immediately you sense your body stiffen. You’re standing more upright. Your posture emphasises the curve of your breasts and the outline of your hips and thighs. You suck your tummy in. And hold it. Unconsciously. Until your cheeks start to tingle and you think about exhaling.

He works the space like a professional on stage, moving around the art gallery admiring the hostess’s work. While you admire the work of art before you. That sculpted body. That chiselled face. The warmth in those ice blue orbs. The biceps that bulge from beneath his fitted white T-shirt. The bulge. Yeah… And the cute tight pinchable ass. The kind you would hold on to while… Stop it. Your body is betraying you.

You turn your back and remember to breathe. And you smile wickedly to yourself as a flash fantasy paints the high ceiling, above your head, like a spectacular bolt of lightening. You capture the moment and bottle it. Ethereal. Ephemeral. Ensnared.

You sip your red wine and look away. You can’t let him know. Your body shouldn’t be a transparent canvas for your wanton thoughts. You’ll savour these in the quietude of the night, when your mind wanders off with the possibilities. Later. After the moment has passed. After you’ve seared his image in your memory, after the instant animal attraction has passed. Later. Much later. When you’re lying in bed in the dark, eyes wide open fixated on the ceiling, working that piece of art.

A feeling of hushed serenity washes over tepid sand, neither ebbing nor flowing with the jaded tide. A veneer of high cloud shields the sun from its golden rays, casting a uniform light over the vast oceanic vista; no shadows, forms or silhouettes are laid in its path. A seagull hovers over jagged edges of rock then settles on the slippery moss.

The scent of the sea floats in the whispering breeze, intermingled with the mangled seaweed washed up on the shore. The golden sphere orbits ever so slow before it retreats behind geometric rooftops.

Not long ago, a fierce and spectacular storm advanced from the horizon, eroding the outline, shifting sand and dunes, altering the smooth curve of the seascape. Gusty winds battered its coast then in the break of a yawning dawn brought bursts of vibrancy, heat and colour.

Hushed. Lulled. Muted.

Quietude. Peacefulness. Acceptance.

It bores me to tears.

From my travels:

“Eww… that’s disgusting!” she said in a sharp voice that caught my attention.
“Ugh… dreadful. Tasteless,” he replied with equal repugnance.
“I wouldn’t eat there! Dreadful.”

I looked at them both expecting an elderly couple expressing their distaste at the sign advertising a café only to find an ordinary looking couple in their twenties.

And I wanted to slap a sense of humour into both of them.

Ah… to me a man!