'Mr Sex': What to do when someone you've been besotted with for ages starts going out with someone else and you just want to scream "NO! NOOOOOOOOOO!"

We’ve been here before, oh so many times; you meet someone. You get on. Famously. Really famously. You start knocking about. You fall for them. You subtly (or not, as the case may be) let them know. Nothing happens, but you have this lingering feeling that it might. You still carry on seeing each other, and talk for hours about anything and everything. Nothing happens, but that’s OK, because you’re playing the long game. You tell your mates in moments of weakness. They tell their mates, some of whom are mates of her mates. You carry on seeing each other. You get to know each other better. Nothing happens. You tell your mates even more in greater detail in more alcoholic moments of weakness. You get absolutely locked into this other person, scrabbling around for opportunities to meet up and chances to impress upon them now absolutely mint you are. You develop full-blown Frienditis. And still, nothing happens.

And then, something does happen. They start going out with someone else, leaving you feeling like shit on a stick. What do you do? Well, if you’re like me (who happens to be the King of this particular situation), you do two things;

1) You inwardly scream “NOOOOOOOOO! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT FOR, YOU SUCKY MARE? YOU COULD HAVE BEEN MRS FUCKING SEEEEEEXXXX!!!”

2) You immediately fix the fuck up and look bastard well sharp.

Because although the natural reaction is to go all Emo and have a good mornge because someone’s inadvertently ripped your heart out and is currently wiping their arse with it, there’s a far greater emergency; preventing yourself from feeling any more of a twat than you already do. You think trying to snare someone is a bastard of a job? Try putting the brakes on your ardour. It’s like trying to pedal a penny-farthing backwards. That’s being towed by four rampaging elephants. On ice.

Whatever you do, you can’t win – but you can not lose. Here’s how I deal with it whenever the bouncers at Club Meaningful Relationship tell me my shoes are too casual, and they don’t like my face, and point me towards the Bus Shelter of Unrequited Love.

Now then; when shit like this happens, there’s two natural inclinations. The first one is to throw a massive sulk and blank said person. Which is a wrong ‘un: you’ll only prove they were right to cock their nose up at you in the first place, and I’ve lost more than one extremely brilliant friend this way. The second one is to go the other way entirely; to make out everything is cool, you’re completely alright about it, and nothing has changed. That’s even more of a wrong ‘un – you’ve still got a mard-on while they’re feeling massively brilliant about themselves, meaning that the balance of power (which was pretty skewed in their favour in the first place) is off the chart. Not only that, but you’ll be bending over backwards for them when you get the slightest hint that their new relationship might not be as brilliant as it seemed (been there, done that too – it’s fucking horrible).

First off, you take yourself out of the situation completely until you’re ready to deal with them again, because if you don’t, it’s gonna be an absolute train-wreck. Either you’re going to see them in the pub and be compelled to ease out of the place without anyone noticing (which’ll make everyone notice), or they’re going to come over and commence a conversation that’ll be as awkward as fuck. Not to mention everyone who knows about the situation will want to make sure you’re alright, which is the absolute last thing you want.

The only sane thing to do, I find, is to get away from the horrible soap opera that your life has become as soon as you can. I find sitting at home in my mankiest, ripped-at-the-crotch-so-my-bollocks-hang-out-like-clackers jeans and cramming takeaway curry into my maw whilst simultaneously playing Mario Kart, screaming “FUCK OFF AHT ME WAY, LUIGI!” and shouting along to this makes things better. You may want to try something different. It won’t be as good as my way, though.

When you’ve got all that out of your system, you’re ready to move on to phase two; re-establishing the relationship in light of the new situation, without making yourself look a total bell-end. This is a tricky one, because if they were worthy of your attention in the first place, they’re going to be as nervous about it as you are about letting you down, and worried that you were only being a decent human being because you were trying to get their knickers off. I find that smiling and nodding at them in the pub is a good start, followed by running off like a bastard.

Then, you pick up the conversation at a later date, but subtly omitting displays of outright affection. No more kisses at the ends of e-mails, overtly smoochy hugs at the end of face-to-face contact, or engineering chance meetings that end at your or their house at 3am. Most importantly, you quietly refrain from offering your services every five minutes, especially when they haven’t really asked for them. Basically, you make clear that you’re going to remain a faithful friend, but you’re nobody’s bitch – and you have to keep a bit of distance from now on so you can move on, whilst not getting in the way of their new thing. But without saying it, obviously, because that’s a bit of a mental thing to come out with.

When all this is established, you can move on to stage three; the rest of your life. At some point – fuck knows when, but it’ll happen – you’ll be able to talk openly and have a laugh about it, and it’ll happen so naturally that you need no coaching from me, and you’ll be proper mates again.

(You may have noticed that I’ve left out a very important part of the equation – the other person. I can’t really offer much advice here, because if you’re anything like me, you’re never going to be able to like the cunt, no matter how decent and undeserving of ire they are. When you’re really into someone, they could be going out with Jesus, and you’re still going to be muttering “Look at that fucking beardy twat, going around like he thinks he’s summat” to yourself. Best thing to do is be polite without getting involved).

Of course, you could circumnavigate all of this mither by simply saying ; “Look, I think you’re fucking ace. I’ll never stop wanting to be your friend. I didn't want to fall for you and risk fucking up a brilliant friendship, but I'm only human. I’m very sure I’ll be an absolute mard-arse in your presence at the moment, so I’m hibernating for a bit. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to pretend to be someone in a cut-off denim jacket, a large nappy and a mushroomy hat, and throw shells at Luigi for a bit. Because that bastard has had it coming to him for too long now."

But who'd be so gormless as to do that?

Dave: Sleazing the Moment

It’s that When Harry Met Sally moment (no, the other one), your attractive female friend has recently been dumped and looks to you for comforting words and a shoulder to cry on. As the alcohol flows, she opens up to you. Tales of regret. How to ease her pain she’s slept with a couple of his friends and couple of their friends too yet, aside from a moment’s satisfaction she feels even colder and more lonely for having done so. Emotion runs high; honesty pours out. It was just sex, and never any good because it was for the wrong reasons (you need reasons?). And between hiccups and teary smiles she holds you tightly, showering you with compliments (for the first time since you’ve known her).

Even without having listened to her confessions, you know the flirting is born from misery and the fact she can no longer see straight. And if you’re truly honest with yourself, the vulnerability may even act as a stimulus, however ashamed you are to admit it. On the one hand it’s your responsibility to restrain yourself for the sake of not only your friendship but for the altruistic feeling of really caring for this person. On the other you get to shag a really hot woman, without the burden of having to impress.

But a tidal wave of questions crashes around your head. Would she regret the encounter? Possibly. Despite initiating the proceedings would she consider that you took advantage of her? Probably. Or ironically, should you do the gentlemanly thing and get her home safely with what’s left of her virtue intact, might the feeling of rejection be too much for her to bear coming from somebody she knows and trusts? Typically.

Do you seize the moment, accepting her advances at face value, pleading ignorance of valour and foresight? Would it not be incredibly patronising to presume you know what’s best for her? And are you desperately trying to convince yourself that there’ll only be a positive outcome from boning your dejected comatose companion?

The greatest quandary is dealing with perceiving yourself as the sleazy shyster you’ve warned all your female friends, your sister, and ten year old niece about. What’s worse? That your melancholy friend may view you thusly or to see yourself in such a light? Though in terms of rationalising the situation, would it be even worse to pass up what could be a one off opportunity? I suppose the answer depends upon the length of the dry patch you’re having. A nice clinical conclusion to a moral dilemma.

Dave: Women can be so tactless

I’d like to revisit the age-old classic theme of frienditis.

It seems an unfortunate yet simple state of affairs - and it’s easy to put it down to her plainly not fancying you. To her you lack that spark so often associated with the mystery of a stranger. Then inevitably she gets to know the stranger a little and forms a new friendship thus ready to cast her eye over to the next mystery man. Doesn’t that sound scarily reminiscent of the clichéd roving-eyed male – a brush we’ve been tarnished by ever so unfairly?

I was having a drink with a female friend of mine last night. This woman is magnificent. The aristocratic chime of her voice, her wonderfully positive outlook, her beautiful uplifting smile, and fuck me, what a figure. As per bloody usual, she reveals to me the string of disastrous dates she’d recently embarked upon.

The psychotically besotted guy who texts her eight times a day after one date. The charmless man utterly devoid of charisma and even the most basic conversational skills. The older man, possessive, money-oriented and extraordinarily boorish. The list went on like a particularly sexually-biased episode of Sex And The City (er, apparently). None of the potential suitors held a glimmer of sexual intrigue for her.

What struck me, having heard her distinct dismissal of any attraction be it in terms of physicality, sexuality or personality – two of them she admitted to not even liking, was when she confessed to have slept with all of them. Again, she recounted the disappointment of all the encounters (including an erectile disfunction scenario), as if it came as a shock.

Naturally, once the entertaining tales of failed dates had come to a close, the only thing I could focus on was the fact that people my striking companion neither fancied nor liked were getting to screw her.

And here was I. Chopped Liver. Forever fantasising about the curves of her body pressing tentatively against me. Here was I, offering an interested ear, making her laugh, sharing snippets of intimate information. Ultimately doomed to receive a ‘sweet’ kiss on the cheek at the evening’s end, and to go back to my bed to indulge in brutal self-abandon.

The question is do I mention my desires? Not necessarily in graphic detail. And risk receiving the response already clearly laid out on the table. Or may I be pleasantly surprised? Well, in my experience, any surprise is a rare bird in this all too often predictable world.

'Mr Sex': Frienditis, Part 2

I want to go back, if that’s cool with you, to a statement Sam made on Monday;

I find that men are afraid of making the first move with women, they are scared of even thinking about having sex with the women they fancy - because they are worried about coming across as a sleazy bastard.

When I read this, I went far beyond the ear-burning stage. My entire face caught fire. I’d like our male readers to check the following situation and tell me if I’m talking bollocks or not…

There’s this girl who, at various points throughout your life, absolutely beguiles you. You could be 14, or 19, or 27, or 39 – it doesn’t matter. And it’s not the same girl, either; it’s someone in your English class at school, or someone behind the till at Tesco. That girl at college or uni who just grew on you, and think no-one else has clocked her. The mate of a mate. The girl who you see at the bus stop every morning. The woman you always see with her mates in the same pub on the same night. And she’s attainable as well; as far as you know, she’s not attached to anyone.

And she doesn’t even know it, but she absolutely runs your life.

You wake up in the morning, and your first thought is; Yessss. I’m going to see her today. You get ready for work in total preparation for the moment you see her, from what you’re going to wear, what facet of your life you’re going to talk up in order to impress her, down to what tune you want to be listening to on your iPod when you see her. Every song you hear on the radio seems to be about you and her, even when your hand slips and the Bangladeshi station comes on. Every time you see her, your stomach lurches, you sit bolt upright, and you have a sucky grin on your face like Maggie Simpson whenever The Happy Elves come on the telly.

After you’ve made some kind of contact – whether verbally, visually or even (if you’re dead lucky) physically, you think about nothing else for the rest of the day. Then you think about what she’s doing at that moment. You think about conversations yet to be had. You wonder about where she lives, and what her parents are like. You think about what her hand would feel like in yours.

And then, when you’re lying in bed, when there's no-one about and and the lights are out, you wank yourself bandy over some woman who used to work at your old place, who you didn’t particularly like much, let alone fancy.

Now, I’m guessing that any woman reading this will snort with disbelief at that statement (and I really don’t know how many men will agree with me either, to be honest), but trust me; in my case, it’s true. Depressingly, horribly, morbidly true. If I fancy a woman, I cannot bring myself to wonder what she would be like in the sack, no matter how sexy she is, how flirtatious she's been, or even if we’ve already done something mildly intimate (In fact, it’s even worse now; all female friends are out of the equation too). But when it comes to rubbish exes who didn’t give it up and then pissed off to give it to someone else, or women from my past who I hardly said two words to, fucking hell – we’re at it hammer and tong all the bastard time.

So what’s that all about? Well, you tell me. Is it the Madonna/Whore complex? There’s an element of that, I’m sure; that hoary old attitude still exists. Is it because certain men enjoy the anticipation and open-endedness of a potential relationship that hasn’t happened yet (and might never will) and want to avoid the thought of bringing it to a conclusion with a sexual liaison that she might be disappointed by? Could be.

I think it comes down to this; for years and years and years and years and years, we’ve been bombarded with the bullshit notion that women don’t really like sex, and – despite all the evidence to the contrary, which practically grows by the day - it’s still seen as something you have to cajole, flatter, and con a woman into. And that attitude takes a long time to get over, no matter now many Ann Summers there are on the high street.

And the upshot of this is that whenever certain men come across a woman who they know they’re falling for, they automatically feel like they have an LCD screen on their head that is spelling out their every thought. They want her to read; ‘HEY! I’M ACE, ME, AND DEAD INTERESTING, I'M NOT LIKE THOSE OTHER TOSSERS, HONEST, AND WE SHOULD KNOCK ABOUT WITH EACH OTHER, YOU KNOW’. And the last thing they want her to read is ‘NARRRGH! I WANT FUCK, WOMAN’. They’re so geared towards convincing a woman that they’re not trying to get into her pants that they almost always succeed.

Cruellest of all, some of us even con ourselves out of getting into an imaginary pair.

'Mr Sex': Frienditis

Well, I think Sam’s last post has provided me with a week’s worth of stuff to get off my chest, and we may as well start from Ground Zero. The fact is that when Sam broke down the basics of Frienditis, my ears started burning, and I type this with lumps of molten tab-hole dripping down my face. So let us go back, back, back to the early 90s. Margaret Thatcher was out of power. Saddam Hussein was still managing to cling on to his. People were having a dalliance with flared jeans. More importantly, I was 22, at Uni, and still a virgin. Which was the main reason I went to Uni, really.

There was a particular girl there who I became very fast friends with. We were always knocking on each other’s door in halls, spinning a £1.15 pint out in the SU, talking about where we came from and what we wanted to do with our lives. About a month into our friendship, at about 3am, I was awoken by a hammering on my door. It was her. She’d been out on the mash. “Let us in, then”, she said. Before I knew it, or had time to put on anything more substantial than a very ratty pair of boxers, she was fully-clothed, in my very tiny university-regulation single bed, beckoning me in. Crikey.

“You should have been out with us, it was ace. Come here. Cuddle up to me. Don’t want to sleep alone” she said, before turning over, thrusting her arse into my groin, and falling asleep. I spent the rest of the night lying awake, with my arm going number and number, in a catatonic state of shock, concentrating every erg of brain-power into avoiding any semblance of an erection (the fact that she was still wearing sequinned hot-pants long before Kylie did helped, though. It was like having a hedgehog in me lap)

And that, my friends, was my first contact with Frenditis. But definitely not the last.

Here’s the thing; I truly believe when it comes down to it, there are not that many psychological differences between men and women, but when it comes to ideal partners, we differ strongly. Women tend to prefer a man who comes in from nowhere and can show her a different perspective on life (notice how I’m fighting to avoid the term ‘sweep her off her feet’ here, in case I instantly transform into Barbara Cartland). Men, on the other hand, tend to want a friend they can fuck. To the male mind, it makes perfect sense, mainly because we're less inclined to compromise and change our behaviour. If you’re already friends with someone, they already know what you’re like and what you get up to, and they already tolerate it, we assume. And no-one ever becomes friends with someone they’re not attracted to in some way, no matter what sex they are. But when the friend happens to possess the set of genitals you want to get involved with, that’s when the trouble starts.

Over the next few months, we slept together on numerous occasions. After I told her of my aversion to sequins, she started stripping down to her underwear, and I developed the erection-avoiding skills of a Zen Master. Was she being a prick-teaser? No - she had already categorised me as a friend, the window of possibility had been shut a long time ago, and if what she did with other friends was sleep with them when she didn’t want to be on her own, then she was gonna sleep with me.

So was I being an idiot for assuming that she was doing this because she wanted to grind me into the bed at some point? Maybe, but how was I to know? All I could see was that a) she liked me, b) if she was sleeping with me, she must really like me, c) the only thing that’s stopping her from declaring her lust for me was that it was my job to do that, but d) I’m scared to, in case she falls out with me.

And this went on for ages, to the point where I might as well have glued fur to my entire body, put on a bowtie, and propped myself up on a pillow. And not just with her, either – I was a serial teddy-bear. I don’t like to brag, but I relentlessly Teddied it about on campus with a chain of female friends, even managing a threesome with two girls who took it in turns to say how nice it was to sleep with a bloke who wasn’t trying to fuck them, as I lay on the bed with my plastic nose, stitched-up mouth and mentally-shrivelled todger, as I inwardly screamed; “BUT I DOOOOO WANT TO FUCK YOUUUUUUUU! AARRRRRGHHHHH! PLEASE TAKE MY VIRGINITY AWWAAAAAAAYYYYY!”

Eventually, matters came to a head. We went out, got drunk, I confessed I was mad about her, and we went back to mine and had a 3-second snog. Then I lunged at her tits (yes, I was that classy in those days) and it was Game Over. Next day, brief chat, sorry about last night, yeah, I really like you too but I don’t feel that way about you, might be best not to see each other for a bit. Thanks to me, that ‘bit’ became 17 years, because to most men, the only cure for Frienditis is not to be friends anymore.

I learned a very important lesson that night. But it took me years to actually understand it. Nowadays, I have far more female friends than male ones, and I like living in a world where men can actually do that. Obviously, I still find them attractive, but when I do, I let them know as early as possible, so as to get all the baggage and the rubbish out of the way. And if they ever do end up in my bed, I tiptoe off to the sofa.

'Sam': A Modern Man Plague

There is a silent plague affecting modern man - frienditis, or put another way, a lack of masculinity. Did you know that if you are under 30 you are four times more likely to be 'just friends' with a woman than men of the past?

.

One of my past clients is a typical sufferer. He is attractive, he is successful, he has loads of friends, particularly loads of female friends. And get this, there was one of his friends that had the hots for. She even slept in the same bed with him. For over and year. And nothing happened. Here is a great bloke, on the surface he has everything a woman could want, but just couldn't get the women he wanted.

This is incredibly common. I find that men are afraid of making the first move with women, they are scared of even thinking about having sex with the women they fancy - because they are worried about coming across as a sleazy bastard.

He, and many many other men, are a casualty of the war that Feminism quite rightly waged against male chauvinist pigs and for equality. Women are quite right to demand equal pay, equal rights, equal opportunities, and they still don't get it - 96% of company directors are still men, and women still on average get paid less than man. Often a lot less.

The problem is that the baby got thrown out with the bathwater. The reason - in most people's minds masculine man = male chauvinist pig.

These are two completely different things, you can be a masculine man and still respect women. You can still take the lead, love sex and be able to kick the shit out of a mugger and treat your woman as an equal. In fact, you might find women love you for it.

So what is a masculine man? In my books:

• He is able to physically handle himself
  
• He is willing to take the lead and make strong decisions
  
• And most of all he is comfortable with sex and being sexual

As opposed to the Male Chauvinist Pig who:

• thinks women should stick to their traditional roles
  
• treats women as sex objects to be used and thrown away
  
• is just one of the old-fashioned bastards who treats women badly

Now they key issue here is that women love masculine men. They love having a man who can make decisions, who can make the first move, and who as well as making love, can give them a good hard shagging!

And why is it that the bad boys continue to get the girls? That's because pretty much all male chauvinist pigs are masculine. But unfortunately too many modern men have chucked their masculinity out the door.

Quick guide to becoming more masculine:

• Take up Krav Maga - in one afternoon you'll learn how to take out a mugger in seconds flat
  
  
• Realise it's OK to take the lead and be the hunter
  
  
• When you are with a woman you fancy think sex. Think what you want to do with her. Imagine it in detail. Enjoy yourself.
  
  
• And most importantly, realise that you can be masculine without being a male chauvinist pig

Phew, that was all a bit serious. If you fancy a fun take on this topic, check out this video on frienditis. What do you think? Are you a sufferer? Do you have any funny stories? Do you have mates who suffer frienditis?