Let's Be Friends
Where the opposite sex is concerned, this is no easy feat.
"I miss you so much," she says when we talk on the phone.
"Me, too," I say.
"When are we going see each other again?"
Sigh.
The woman on the line not my girlfriend. She's not even my ex-girlfriend. She's my Good Female Friend. GFF and I are close - almost sister-brother close. We're affectionate. We discuss relationship blowouts and redemptions. We meet for drinks. Sometimes we hold hands, walking that line between "I feel close to you" and "What if?"
Had circumstances been different (mainly, if I had met her before she met her current mate), we might be lovers. Sometimes, when I see GFF, in my fantasy world I'm tempted to make a pass at her. And an irrational jealousy crops up when I know she's visiting her long-term, long-distance love.
As a 41-year-old still figuring out this being-single thing, I have not mastered the high-wire act of staying friends with females. Historically, it's been a snag in my other relationships. How to be intimate without succumbing to crushes, footsie under the table, or e-mail innuendo promising worse? Faced with forging platonic bonds, I have behaved confusedly. Or you could say badly. Severing all contact - or rather, the furious female cutting me off - has sometimes been the solution. Like a child, perhaps I just need attention. Affirmation that I'm attractive. To feel the electricity of call and response. But do I need to see every new woman as a potential date, or can I turn off the flirt in me? I'm learning the hard way, one wrecked friendship at a time.
Not long ago, I spent some serious time with a recent transplant to Boston: movies, dinners, late nights. Were we dating or becoming friends? Was she even unattached? Hard to tell. After a few of these vague outings, I walked her home. My instinct told me to keep her in the friend category. But at her doorstep, my libido had other ideas.
"So . . ." I said. I met her eyes. Meaningful pause. Then I went in for the kill.
She ducked, weaved.
I kissed her ear. "Aha, I see. . . . You're . . . I was . . . Sorry." Next scene: a long, cold walk home. Fade to black.
Is my signal receptor that dead? I push it, court too hard, and end up faking out no one but myself.
In another episode, with a singer I'd met, we'd promptly become physical. I tried to move her from potentially serious to casual sexual partner (women aren't so into casual), then all the way around the corner to friend. Later, GFF status secure, she invited me to visit. Like an idiot, I sent a thinly veiled "So, where do I sleep?" e-mail. More like a flare gun than invisible ink. Now we don't speak.
Though my desire to be desired clearly overrides my common sense, I finally realized I can draw lines. I do have conscious choices: Either pursue a woman as a love interest or keep her as a confidante. Once I've been clear with her and myself about which way it's going to go - buddy or bed-buddy - it's a heckuva lot less stressful. Plus, I've increased my pool of potential friends by roughly half the population. Which is great, because it turns out I'm really into women.
One surprise: Even after a gaffe or a one-night stand, I've discovered, a friendship can be salvaged. To illustrate my new shift from flirty to friendly, let me tell you about an artist whom I met at a party. We'd also done the "missed signal" dance at her doorstep (apparently my specialty). We'd stayed up for tea past the last T. We actually shared a bed and survived a 2 a.m. groping that fortunately went nowhere. What had possessed me to cross that line and sabotage a friendship that was on a track to be non-amorous but fun? Idiot. After a tough talk, we decided we liked each other too much not to be pals.
The artist still invites me over for tea. At the door, she and I kiss, briefly, sometimes even on the lips. When I walk home, I'm confident our intentions are purely platonic. Well, in my mind, at least. Who knows what she's thinking.
Ethan Gilsdorf, a writer, poet, and teacher, lives in Somerville. Send comments to coupling@globe.com. 