When I was a younger male, I considered myself rather respectable with the opposite sex. Firstly, being able to talk to females as if they were normal everyday people with emotions, desires and passions unlike my fellow penis wearing peers, who believed women/girls were an unusual species and should be very wary of. Being entirely unwary of the female kind I began to gather a rapport, but mostly failed to push passed best buds to the intimate relationship platform. This did not really bother me too much, but the rushing of hormones and trying rigorously to thrust my crouch into anything mildly warm human or not, started to become problematic.
I was still a man child unfathomably scared of any relationship with someone I cared about deeply and could end up actually being happy rather than my more comfortable position of “meh”. The movement from friend to lover has always given me a great amount of difficulty, for one I am hugely worry and anxiety driven person, so to place myself in a position of risk of losing the friend is not a pleasant one, choosing to not change anything and live in continual okayness. The second point is, that I am terrified of uncertainty and the unknown, wanting to be someone’s friend before lover, placing me squarely in the first point, collecting friends rather than the intimacy I so long for. Being given the opportunity for a person to move category from friend to lover and confess their feels for me is one of immense terror and trepidation, my main and so fair only reaction is to metaphorically run away in the opposite direction.
Now to the tale at hand. Younger slimmer model of my now self, full of dreams and hopes and friends, I discovered my love of the dramatic. Being a flamboyant youth, my parents placed me every Saturday in a drama club, help me pursue my wishes, but more likely just to get me out of the house. I adored Saturday drama, but hardly articulate my thoughts about my new passion with my school chums, as it might imply that I was a homosexual which was not a celebrated pride, love and sexual preference that it should be today, but the worst things in the world to possibly be, even though none of us could fully define what a homosexual was.
I was actually pretty good at acting, planting my feet on the wooden stage, projecting dialogue and emotional subtexts. I enjoyed it immensely and being one of only a few other theatrical males in the group, I was given leading parts, my peak being some would say type-cast as the son of God. It was in this gaggle of thespians, I made friends, not just people who I believed to be the least worse people to hang around, but actual friends who I liked being around. Seeing them not just at drama, but in the outside world, of parks, houses, parties and the almost ritualistic Chinese Buffet Wing Wah. Wing Wah, being an incredibly cheap place, a dream for a teenagers’ evening meal, probably due to a multitude of broken hygiene regulations, complaints and suspiciously textured meats.
It was on one of our many adventures to the not quite eastern Asian cuisine that we became all rather raucous, sugar and caffeine rushing through our blood stream causing us to convert into even more garish and childish beings. It was at this point a little finger taped me on the shoulder, whispering telling me that a particular person on that table has a liking towards me. This I brushed aside not only the person in question I believe did not like me at all and I was enjoying my combination of Chow Mein, California Sushi Rolls and something that resembling a prawn, more than I would have enjoyed the awkward encounter.
However, this brash display, my wafting hand dismissing any talks of love, tip toed its way down the table, slapping the face of my admirer. This generated a haze of silence, which was then cut by the sobs of my devotee. Aware of my newly collected position as the love destroying crown placed itself open my noggin, I gathered up any scraps of positivity and kindness that I had left and calmly strolled across to the overactive water ducts. Lowering myself, placing the dismissive hand on the shoulder of the broken hearted, this giving the impression of caring and sympathy. Through the cries and whimpers I apologized explaining that the attraction was not mutual and if possible find a more acceptable suitor. The sobbing and weeping slowly turning into malevolent laughter, as she looked up mascara stained across her face, hands curled up. She had transformed into that of a mad person, crazed by the fact that I could not love her back, irrational and distraught that I could not be with her, to make her happy, to be her partner. She looked upwards cackling to the brown textured ceiling wall paper.
Instead of my peers and past contemporaries glazing in horror at the warped twisted new mind of our friend, they choose to copy and imitate the laughter. My friends mockingly pointing and chortling at our fallen comrade. Questioning my friends’ logic and reasoning for this ridicule and scorn, jeering the pain of others, scorning the failure of love. I realised my own logic and reasoning, my friends are nice people who wouldn’t do such a thing, they would care if an individual was truly hurt. Truly hurt. It then smacked in the face, they were not taunting her, but me.
It was an elaborate scheme to mock me. A prank to make me the foul, crush the mighty sexual erotic self-belief I had of myself. Crushing the flattery and ego inflating experience, into one of embarrassment and humiliation. I stomped back to my place, sulking into my unfinished assembly of supposedly Char Siu pork, background noises of childish giggles and sniggers continued to the end and the following Saturday.
There are two morals to this story, one is don’t be so narcissistic and egotistical that you are willing to believe that someone could love you. Point two, don’t make friends with actors.