Single in the City: Just Friends
by Esther Zinn
May 31, 2011
In some unwritten, immutable law of lesbian physics, in the rare event I meet someone I feel compatible and have fun with, we have a great time for like a month, then we’re “just friends” as usual.

I’ve received feedback from friends that I’m “too nice” and for this reason, I become boring. It’s true, I don’t enjoy games and I don’t have a deceptive or mysterious bone in my body, which makes dating me pretty predictable. At 10pm on a Saturday night, I will not be cheating on anyone; I will be at home drinking herbal tea and watching Netflix.

I read “Manhood 101 which is a guide on how to get women during the holiday season, which poses the theory that all women like, even crave misogynistic behavior on an unconscious level, so the only way to keep a woman is to alternate pleasure and pain and never act as though you’re interested or invested. I didn’t listen to “Manhood 101 and perhaps because of this, once again, I have failed.

The end of my adventure with Jersey Laura came abruptly, when I received the “just friends” speech because she didn’t want a relationship that I never suggested and had “no romantic feelings for me” which was great to hear 2 weeks before V-Day. Ironically, not even twenty minutes had passed before two of my exes, (friends) sent me long emails saying they didn’t want me to be sad, thought I was a great person and that I would not be alone forever. A third, the opportunist, even started sexting me. Thanks guys, but I look about as forward to receiving those “you’re a wonderful person” emails as one looks forward to getting 803 coupons from Bed Bath and Beyond in the mail. However, I won’t look askance at the sexting, so please feel free to keep ‘em coming.

I dealt with my heartache via retail therapy, going shopping in Soho and trying on 6 semi-identical tops that all reflected my mood (black, black, black, grey, dark grey, and blue.) Then I called my mother for advice. Historically, my mom generally says something that makes me feel worse, not better, in my times of need, but I gave it a go anyway (and was mocked by my younger sister later for my poor decision making.)

“Honey, don’t be sad,” she said.

“Why not? I…thought maybe this year I’d have a valentine… since nobody has romantic feelings for me, maybe I’ll NEVER have a valentine!” I wailed.

“Well, I saw this great article on Psychology Today that said being rejected is good for you!”

“Good for me?” I asked, sniffling.

“Yes! It says that getting rejected builds character, and the more you’re rejected, the more you end up benefiting from it! So look forward to being rejected many more times in the future!”

“Baah! Whaaa haaa haaaaah. Aaaaaah…” I howled, blowing my nose into a tissue.

“Oh– Esther don’t cry. Where’s your cat? I’m sure she doesn’t want you to be sad.”

“Well, she’s too busy eating her kibble in the kitchen. She’s not even in the same room!

The cat doesn’t care AT ALL! Aaaaah…”

“Oh gosh. I said that all wrong. That’s not what I meant at all. What I meant to say is that people who fear opening their hearts suffer a worse fate than getting rejected. They might not know true sadness, but they’ll never know true happiness either. And in the long run, because you take risks…you’re the one that’s free.”

Her words stayed with me as I roamed the village searching for love in bars for the 1,000th time and only found a woman who said I was “beautiful” and then slapped my ass, which lacked a certain sincerity. I almost wanted to ask for her number, but I knew if I did, she would just tell me that I’m a “wonderful person” and then ask if she could be my friend within the next two to four weeks, and I didn’t need another platonic BFF to go purse shopping and get manipedis with for the one millionth time. So I finished my cosmo and left the bar.

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