The friend. It might sound like a boring topic for this column, but in reality it’s one of the most stressful ways to have sex – inside your own friend circle. I would say just don’t do it, but that is a thing far, far easier said than done.
I still remember the first time we met – our eyes locked over the corpse of another friend, passed out under the table in Mirch, and that was it. Best friends forever – when you both rescue someone from a person on the other crew throwing up in their sink (and a really unhygienic sexual mistake) on the same night, you know that you have something special. A common thread, a connection of minds, a lot of free time over the summer and too much snapchat.
Fast forward several months, and we’re having drunken sex in a bed with a squeaky mattress, and then again to the next few weeks which is a stressful blur of “does-helike-me”s, “what-does-this-mean”s and quite of lot of, “Fuck fuck fuck is that it fuck he’s my friend fuuuuuck I’m confused.”
What’s the strategy? Well. There’s the always-popular British classic – that of complete and total ignorance. All knowledge of the event is denied and on the surface, everything is fine until a few weeks later, when you feel as though you can no longer trust your best friend with any emotions and you turn up on their doorstep in the middle of the night, in an intricate full-body-paint bop costume which leaves little blue puddles of tears on their sheets.
If you don’t think that you can stand the weeks of tension, of dragging it out and of being constantly uncertain of what to do, you could try and get all the unresolved feelings out in the open – a task easier said than done as your confusion at the situation will result in so many change-of-hearts that you will break down crying in their presence far, far more than just once.
Or you could try the more obvious route and simply avoid them for months on end until you run into them in Park End, then simply look at each other and collapse into giggles. Sorted.
