Part 4: Coming to a crossroads
(You may be looking for Part 1, Part 2, or Part 3)

I. The Most Sarcastic I’ve Ever Been Toward Another Human Being

Joan began asking me to Skype with her again. I agreed, if I got to see her naked as well. She countered that she let me see her when we’d Skyped years earlier, and that even though it was dark and she definitely wasn’t naked, I got to see what she generously described as “glimpses”. She asked if I was “still not satisfied”.

I couldn’t help it. The needle on the smart-ass gauge went into the red. “Oh yeahhhhhh,” I typed. “Having to crane my neck to see you in the dark is so fucking satisfying! I was totally turned on by the reflection of light on your glasses. Fuuuuuuck, let’s do it again right now! Still not satisfied? Who would be, short of someone with a darkness fetish?” She took offense at my tone. I told her that “Still not satisfied” usually follows something like, “I got naked, I let you watch me masturbate with a vibrator AND my fingers, and I talked dirty and let you look at my tits while you jerked off”. But hints of her face in the dark, which I couldn’t really even see because of the angle of my laptop screen? I think I can get off without that questionable “stimulation”, thanks. By that point I was already feeling like things were far too one-sided. I was kind of done.

But then she invited me out to lunch after we’d each picked up our kids from school that day. I wasn’t eager to see her, not just because I’d grown tired of her incessant notions of entitlement (and trust me, that’s exactly what it was), but also because I had a ton of shit to do around the house that afternoon. But I relented, because frankly it’s rare that someone invites me out to lunch. I like conversing with an adult who isn’t one of my child’s teachers or a fellow parent from her school. And while I shouldn’t have expected conversation given the events of our visit to their house, I was hopeful.

Before we signed off, she told me to be subtle with any flirting or innuendo, because her daughter is intelligent and would likely notice. I suppose it was the assumption that I would flirt openly with her while my own daughter was present that I found most maddening. I’ve never been one to behave in an overtly sexual fashion in front of my daughter, mainly because I would have turned into a pillar of salt had my parents behaved that way in front of me. While Jill and I have no problem showing affection or even giving ourselves “alone time” behind our closed bedroom door, that’s a far cry from making fuck-me eyes to a woman who is not my wife. Our daughter can learn about the ins and outs (no pun intended) of human sexuality at the appropriate time. But for now I don’t mind if she thinks that Mommy and Daddy are strictly vanilla.

Once I’d picked my daughter up from preschool and told her that we were going to lunch with the girl who’d played with her the previous Saturday night, Joan messaged me: “Don’t be surprised if I touch your cock with my foot at the table.” Suddenly I was beyond wary. I was, for lack of a better expression, totally weirded out. It just didn’t feel right, in part because she’d told me at most an hour before to keep things on the down-low but was now planning to clumsily grope me under the table, in the process likely kicking my child and possibly hers as well. It didn’t help that she was ostensibly doing this behind her husband’s back, and thought that Jill was also in the dark. Had I not already told my daughter about our lunch plans I would have bailed.

II. The Most Awkward Lunch in Human History

We went to the restaurant where Joan had asked us to meet and held a booth while we waited for her and her daughter to arrive. When they showed up Joan gave me a mumbled hello and walked right up to the counter to order their lunch. No catching up, no small talk, no anything. If I wasn’t expecting her, I might not have even noticed that they’d walked in. And I was going to offer to pay for their lunch, because that’s the kind of friend I am.

As we ate, Joan didn’t speak much. She made awkward “How’s school” type chit-chat with my daughter, though none with me. That suited me fine; I sat as far from her as I possibly could lest she try to put her foot in my lap. She avoided eye contact, and while I didn’t avert my eyes from hers I definitely wasn’t about to make the aforementioned fuck-me eyes at her. At times I did attempt to shatter the relative silence, such as by mentioning that my daughter was really excited about having lunch with Joan’s. To this, Joan reacted in mock offense, turned to my daughter, and asked, “What? You weren’t excited to see me too?” She regarded Joan with cocked head and furrowed brow, the way a dog might regard a new type of food in its bowl. I would not have been surprised if she replied to Joan’s inquiry with an incredulous “I don’t even know your name.”

And that’s when it occurred to me: Joan and I have been friends for more than two decades. How is it that I have never noticed how completely abrasive she is? Case in point: Partway through the meal she began leaning over and whispering to her daughter. It was very clear that she was whispering about us. I had no idea what might have been so urgent that Joan needed to bring it to her daughter’s attention right then and there; perhaps I had food in my teeth. Perhaps my hair was messy. Perhaps my daughter had a booger hanging out of her nose. (Hey, it happens.)

However, I know it was none of those three things, not that it would have justified her behavior. We hadn’t yet begun to eat. My hair looked great. My daughter had blown her nose. But whatever it was, they were just whispering back and forth like we were strangers sitting across from them on the subway, not friends whom they’d invited to have lunch with them. Which is not to say that I advocate whispering in an obvious fashion about strangers on the subway. That kind of thing can get you killed.

After a couple instances of them whispering to each other, my daughter called them out on it. That’s right, my pre-K-age child has better table etiquette than both of them. She asked me why they were whispering, and I said – quite loudly – that I didn’t know, and that it must have been something they didn’t want us to hear. But that didn’t satisfy my little girl.

Tiring of their company, I planted the seeds of our departure before we’d even finished eating. I told her that I had a lot to do at home, plus groceries to pick up. Once lunch was finished, however, Joan asked my daughter if she wanted to go play at a nearby park. She didn’t ask me. She asked my daughter. This is something I absolutely fucking hate, something that raises the hairs on the back of my neck and quite literally (okay, figuratively) makes me see red. It doesn’t matter whether it’s someone at a store trying to sell something directly to my child, or a well-meaning relative not bothering to check with me before asking if she’d like some candy. If you’re looking to make me dislike you, circumvent my wife and I.

It was a soul-crushing afternoon, simply put. It occurred to me that my daughter and I might as well have been sitting at a different table. I couldn’t even fathom why she might have invited us to lunch in the first place. To her credit, she didn’t make any attempts at flirting or playing footsie or whatever, though I’m sure my body language demonstrated that I didn’t want that.  However, she didn’t do much else either. She had the demeanor of a lobotomized squirrel. I had to hurry to get my grocery shopping done and clean the house given the almost two hours that I’d lost.

III. Wherein I Analyze the Situation and Wonder if I’m an Entitled Misogynist

So how had I never noticed just how little Joan and I had in common, and for that matter how much I disliked being around her? Or how annoying and irritating I found her? Because other friends, both male and female, came to this conclusion long ago. That’s not to say that she doesn’t have friends, but presumably they’re as abrasive as she is. But why had I never really noticed in twenty-five years? Well, for one thing I was always attracted to her, so it made sense that I was thinking with the little head. But there’s more to it than that.

Since that brief period when she was separated and we had our ongoing thing, I’d joined Twitter and found a vast sea of women looking to flirt, talk dirty, share casual nudity, Skype, or whatever else have you. These women were better at it than Joan was, and much more confident in themselves without the obvious, clumsy need for validation with which Joan led much like some might lead with a seductive bat of the eyelashes or a clever joke.

At the risk of sounding incredibly shallow, I realized that I didn’t really need her anymore. I didn’t need her to flirt with, anyway, and at the risk of sounding even worse, she didn’t have anything else to offer. I realize that sounds horrible and entitled, but it’s true: We don’t like the same kind of entertainment. We come from vastly different backgrounds. Her daughter is years older than my own, so we can’t even connect the way two parents of similarly-aged children might.  To be absolutely honest, she isn’t a very nice person.  She never was.

Simply put, without the need or desire to flirt with her, I could see that Joan held very little appeal. However, this revelation was not without its drawbacks, as in its wake I felt horrible about myself for a number of reasons. For one thing, I felt like I would have put up with her rudeness and the fact that we have little in common if she was, for instance, regularly sending me naked pictures or taking off her clothes on Skype. Yes, I realize that makes me sound like a pig. The thing is, though, if there was something to justify our friendship – a mutual love of some television series or movie, a similar background, substantive shared life experience, or even an enjoyment of each other’s company – it would be a different story. Still, I felt like a terrible person for even coming to this conclusion. Maybe that’s why I didn’t allow it to occur to me sooner.

For whatever reason, that night she asked me if I wanted to Skype with her. She said she’d let me see her face, with the lights on. I declined as I needed to get to bed. Then I muted her IM notifications. I didn’t feel like telling her off; I’m allergic to drama, and at any rate while I might find her abrasive and rude, she hadn’t done anything that warranted me scorching the earth in dealing with her. I figured if she texted me to ask why I wasn’t replying to her instant messages I could say that I wasn’t getting my notifications. Technically, that was true.

I didn’t like the idea of avoiding her and then prevaricating about why I hadn’t replied; that’s something I never do. I believe in addressing a situation responsibly. But would it have been better to tell her that she’s not someone with whom I enjoy flirting? That I don’t get what I need or even want from our interactions? That I have instant access to myriad women far sexier, more confident, more interesting and more open to suggestion, and though I’ve met less than one percent of them we’ve connected far better than she and I ever will?

What I told her earlier was true: I value honesty above all else. I hope that my frank discussion of sexuality and my acerbic sense of humor have made that apparent by now. But considering her at times severe lack of self esteem and need for validation, I suspect honesty is too cruel. I have absolutely no desire to hurt her feelings.

I logged out of my personal Skype account on my tablet and logged back into my secret account that only certain of our online friends know about. It wasn’t like Jill would have necessarily wanted me Skyping with her, now that I think about it. And at any rate, she wasn’t going to get naked. And I’m not judging her for that. Not everyone is an exhibitionist. Some people just like to watch. But I like visual stimulation. Without the possibility of any I didn’t really feel the need to stick around. And that’s part of why I felt so lousy about all of this. Did my friendship with her really hinge on the chance of seeing her naked? Is there really nothing else there? If so, what does that say about me? Am I really that shallow? I wouldn’t have thought so.

Again, I’m not one to feel entitled to see a woman naked. I enjoy seeing women naked, of course, but I know it’s not my right, and that no woman should let a man see her that way out of a sense of pressure or obligation. Thus I considered that my depression may have been to blame. It seemed unlikely, but I had no logical explanation for the whirl of different feelings and emotions that surrounded Joan since dinner at her house. One minute I found her attractive. The next she’s annoying and rude. Then I’m attracted again, but aware that we’re never going to fuck and I’m okay with that. Then she says something ridiculous that completely turns me off. Case in point, one day I told her that I wanted to fuck her, and she was flattered and aroused. Then I clarified that since it’s outside her relationship boundaries I was content with it just being a fantasy. To which she replied, “Oh, so you don’t want to fuck me now?”

Chatting with Joan could go from sexy to paranoid to really strange and incongruous, then back, in a matter of seconds. The incongruity I could understand, to an extent, even if it was as jarring as all hell. Not everyone is comfortable talking dirty, especially to someone who isn’t a regular, ongoing partner. People are turned on by different things, and it may take time to develop a rhythm. Still, the incongruity went beyond stumbling over her words or saying things that may have been sexy to her husband but weren’t sexy to me. I can’t describe it, really. Suffice it to say that it may have been easy for Joan to turn me on, but it was also easy for her to inadvertently (or perhaps deliberately) turn me off.

Her paranoia was the worst, though. I understand that she enjoyed chatting with me because it was a clandestine thrill she could keep from her husband. Clearly, sneaking around was a big part of the turn-on. However, I again got the sense that she felt awful about what she was doing. I knew she’d never tell me as much, of course. And her old issues were unfortunately still prevalent. When she asked to see me naked on Skype, I told her she’d have to reciprocate. She refused, and said she didn’t trust me enough, that I’d have to put myself in more of a vulnerable position if I wanted to see her naked.  I’m not one for lying down on railroad tracks, so I changed the subject.

IV. You Know What? Fuck it. I’m Not Giving Up That Easily

I spent a few hours that night soul-searching. Actually I don’t know what soul-searching is, exactly, but it seems an apt descriptor for what I was doing. I considered that the problems I was having with Joan’s and my friendship may have been entirely my fault. Perhaps my expectations had gotten out of hand. The next day was Friday, and I texted to ask her to lunch, just the two of us. I don’t know what she might have been expecting, though I note that she didn’t try and tease me with the promise of any under-the table shenanigans. I was glad.

I told her that I felt bad that our friendship seemed to have been reduced to the sexual aspect and nothing else, though I didn’t mention that I had brought it up because the sexual aspect was suddenly so unsatisfying. She was surprised and said she didn’t realize. She also made a point of mentioning that she wouldn’t have been upset if that were true, but in her opinion there was more than that. I pointed out that we almost never hang out, that our dinner at their place the week before was the first time we’ve seen them socially in a year. That when she IMs or texts for whatever reason there really isn’t any small talk or catching up, that she’s always very brusque and businesslike. Even friends who I see more often ask how I’m doing when they drop a line.

She said she wanted to change that and asked if Jill and I would like to get dinner and drinks that night. We were able to get a babysitter, as were Joan and Danny, so we decided where we’d meet and what time. Before we parted company, I apologized again. Joan brushed it off and apologized if she had done anything to make it seem like there was nothing to our friendship but the sexual component. I didn’t remind her of the multiple unanswered invites to dinner at our place; I know they’re a busy family, and she probably wouldn’t have remembered anyway.

I did, however, mention the whispering at the table. I told her it really bothered me. I found it rude, and while not exactly out of character I had to get it off of my chest. She apologized for it. She didn’t tell me what she and her daughter had been whispering about, or why she felt the need to do it in the first place, but whatever. I accepted her apology. Suddenly I didn’t feel nervous or wary about seeing her socially. At the very least I felt certain that with her husband and my wife both present, she wouldn’t be groping my cock under the table.

Coming up next: Part 5 (Implosion)