What I’m really thinking: Your new female friend
I love you, but I’m not going to sleep with you
January, Bloomsbury, 2017
“You are so-” He puts his palms on either side of his drink. “So different. It’s so refreshing to hang out with a girl who is just so herself.”
Pleasedon’tflirtwithmepleasedon’tflirtwithmepleasedon’tpleasepleaseplease
“You have no idea how many girls just won’t talk about politics or science or shit because they think guys will judge them for that. Especially pretty ones,” he continues.
Fuck
I laugh hurriedly, hoping to get away from a cage of compliments that might drag this casual milkshake into date territory. He pauses. “I like you.”
“I like you too!” I trill, a little too loudly. “As a friend of course. Because as I said earlier (18 times, you bastard), I don’t want a relationship.” I avoid eye contact, not pausing to breathe. “So what do you think about Bannon? He’s the real evil, behind all the blonde hair and brash faux pas, isn’t he?”
I jabber on, without pausing to breathe, hoping to reel his interest away from the fact I am new female fresh meat. He looks awkward, embarrassed, but politely responds to my panicking, political monologue. His friend comes in later, and gapes at me like a trout, lips parted. “Who’s this?” He asks.
“A friend!” I shriek, grinning like I’ve just ingested strong nerve poison. “Just a friend!” My new male friend puts his arm around my shoulder in a way that suggests we are fucking like rabbits, but haven’t taken the step to set a date for the wedding. I resist the urge to stamp on his foot. “This is Madelaine. She’s at UCL too. BSc, right babe?” He says in a way which confirms my place as trophy geek girlfriend.
Don’t, I want to hiss. Don’t make me your thing. Don’t make me the dolly you show off to your friends, the one who proves your social status. Don’t try and mould me into the cute little accessory you collect outside my department on your motorbike in front of your sad act virgin gang. Don’t you dare try to sleep with me. I liked you. I trusted you.
“I’ll pay,” I say sharply as the waiter comes to the table. “No, it’s fine. It’s not like this was a date.” He tries to hug me goodbye a bit too long around the waist and I have to push him off. I ignored him for ages after that.
I know it was an over reaction.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a heterosexual guy will be in want of some sexy time with girls. It’s not criminal to crush on me. I’m not saying that’s sexist or offensive. I’ve crushed on guys who haven’t fancied me before (Year 9, 2010, I am so, so sorry, D) and I accept that’s a normal thing to happen in a mixed sex environment.
But it upsets me when I feel I have a strong platonic connection with a guy and, almost without fail, he refuses to let me be a friend because of his trouser emotions. No matter how many times I say no, reject compliments, insist on boundaries and deny dates, they keep on trying. The weird thing? This kind of insults me. I don’t see it as flattering. It means I’m not good enough for you to keep in your life if I’m not flat on my back.
Am I not funny enough to keep you entertained without your hands on my body?
Am I not smart enough to engage with you even when we aren’t in bed together?
Am I not kind enough to listen to you and care without being your sexual partner?
Am I not enough? Am I just a dolly, skin deep, malfunctional because my legs won’t open?
I want to be your friend. I want to wander around town with you arguing about how house prices are enslaving the working class. I want to eat pizza with you in the park and sneer at politicians we disagree with. I want to call you up and laugh for ages about that comedy show we both like. I want to go ice skating with you and pour hot chocolate down my scarf by accident. I want to take stupid selfies with you with ridiculous filters. I want to read books with you in Caffe Nero and exchange passages and ideas until we understand the lecture. I want to write that screenplay with you that will come to nothing. Let’s go on holiday to Nice again and burn our feet on the hot stones and jump shrieking into the water. Let’s get lost in the forest at Thetford and spend hours just talking with no wifi.
But please, please, don’t fuck me. I want to be something to you without my body.
