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Platonic Girl Friends Are Just Girls You Haven’t Closed With Yet

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Are you one of those people who thinks men and women can be friends without any semblance of sexual tension existing between them? If you are, you’re a moron and you probably have at least one “platonic” female friend. Let me offer you this piece of advice: You need to bail on that chick. Get out now before you do something really stupid like decide to date her, or even worse, end up drunk and sloppily intertwined over your coffee table using a special Polyurethane condom because she’s allergic to latex. Females are food, not friends, and you, for the love of God, need to make sure they stay that way.

During my freshman year of college, I had the misfortune of meeting an awesome girl named Kayla. Kayla was sexy as hell and could actually quote relevant football statistics. For a while, I attempted to snare Kayla in my web of seduction, offering to drive her and her friends out to the bars back when you could still do that as a pledge, inviting her to gamedays we didn’t share with her sorority, and even committing to study “dates” well in advance. Completely pathetic, I know, but I was 18 and had less game than the ’08 Lions. Kayla always responded to these gestures by flirting and some experimental kissing, but she was the kind of girl who only unlocked the more fun stuff for guys she was in a relationship with, something that I was totally against.

Dating in college is a bad idea. Don’t do that shit. I had a buddy who, for two precious collegiate years, hung onto his girlfriend, even though she went to a rival school and was the personification of a tapeworm. One time he broke his nose hammered drunk and she drove the two hours down from her school to chew him out in front of half the fraternity for being careless. He dropped her a month later and then ended up with the clap because him “making up for lost time” apparently meant having sex with the creatures from the black lagoon. He used to call himself our Raw Dog Chair. Don’t think he does that anymore.

Anyway, I settled into a comfortable friendship with Kayla. We shared the same major, so we had multiple classes together each year moving forward. We became so close that she used to help me grade the girls I hooked up with, got to the point where it wasn’t exceptionally weird for me to tell her how my “dates” had gone over the course of the week. I stopped thinking of her as a hot girl and grew more accustomed to including her as one of the guys. What I didn’t know then is that a situation like the one I had with Kayla is not sustainable. It’s like a season where the Cleveland Browns start on a hot streak — it’s nice and there’s hope for the future, but in the end, it’s doomed to fail.

The beginning of our friendship’s dissolution started with the homecoming week of our junior year. My fraternity was matched up with her sorority and we had spent the first couple days of the week destroying 24 packs of Natty in preparation for the game. The date of our homecoming Woodser approached and Kayla and I had agreed, like we had many times before, to go together so we could split the liquor cost for the event. From the advent of Woodser day, something was off with how it was going down. Kayla told me she wanted a bottle of gin for the night. She had never selected gin before. After all, who in their right mind picks gin to get drunk with? I wasn’t especially fired up about sucking down stuff my mother enjoyed drinking, but I complied and got my hands on a huge bottle of Bombay Sapphire. So, in my bubba keg I swirled together the Sapphire and tonic water (she shot down my suggestion of gin and juice – I failed Snoop) and we got on the bus to take us out into the wilderness.

There is one thing I haven’t yet mentioned about Kayla: The girl could pack alcohol away like an Irishman. From the second the bus pulled out of the parking lot, she was crushing the gin and tonic like an AA member with a free bar tab. I luckily had the foresight to bring two bubba kegs worth of alcohol because we were almost finished with the first one by the time we made it out into the woods. We spent the night having fun and playing beer pong on someone’s inflatable table. Nothing out of the ordinary. No, the craziness didn’t start until it was time to get back on the bus to head home.

Kayla decided that it was right around the moment we should be loading up that she needed to completely evacuate the gin from her stomach (seriously, what kind of serial killer picks fucking gin?). As she’s vomiting up a night’s worth of Queen’s Victoria’s finest supply, I was trying to convince the bus driver to let her on board so we could leave. The bus driver refused to allow us on the bus until Kayla had finished puking, so I waited for a lull in the waves of stomach matter, declared she was done, and ran her to the bathroom at the back of the bus before the driver could argue otherwise.

Luckily, the bus was extremely full with drunk college kids because the second we made it to the bathroom, Kayla started spewing like a faucet again. Even if the bus driver could somehow hear her continuing to blow chunks, he must have decided it wasn’t worth the hassle to make us get off because the bus started moving. In-between retching like a plague victim, Kayla demanded I hold her hair back so it wouldn’t get caught in the explosions erupting from her mouth. I grabbed a handful, hammer grip-style, and held it back while I drunkenly conversed with some of the people standing around the back of the bus. Every once in a while, Kayla would gurgle something that sounded like an attempt at English and I would tell her she was doing great or something along those lines.

After an hour, the bus pulled up in front of the house. I only lived a few blocks down the street so I figured I could get us both home safely by myself. Even though Kayla had stopped puking, she was now standing with her arms clasped around my neck and was leaning all her weight on me and in no shape to walk; I decided I would carry her to my place. I tossed her over my shoulder and fireman lugged her down the street and into the elevator up to my apartment. After an extremely interesting conversation with one of my neighbors, I opened my door and dropped her onto the couch. I fell into my bed and figured I could pass out in peace.

I had just started to fall asleep when a voice akin to the girl from the Evil Dead started shouting my name. Kayla, with drunken strength, had somehow gone from lying on my couch to lying on the wooden coffee table in the middle of the room. I walked over to her and she zeroed in on my face. She sat up and said, “Kiss me, kiss me right now.” Without really thinking it through, I responded, “Fuck no” entirely too quickly. I had just spent an hour studying the contents of her stomach as it flew out of her and had no intention of touching the portal through which said contents had exited her body. Kayla got really upset at my answer and started shouting at the top of her lungs. I was absolutely terrified someone was going to call the police, and I was entirely too intoxicated to explain what the hell was going on to law enforcement.

So I caved.

It was one of the sloppiest kisses I have ever taken part in, but goddamn was it hot. I kept kissing her, knowing what an absolutely disgusting individual I was. We started going further, clothes were torn off, and I found myself on my IKEA coffee table, deep inside a girl that I was supposed to be really good friends with. Until that moment, I had forgotten how badly I wanted to fuck this girl. My freshman self cheered me on from somewhere in my head as we banged. This was the culmination of the events set in motion that day in class so very long ago. At that moment, I stood alone at the top of Sex Mountain — victorious.

The morning after was an entirely different story. I don’t think either one of us really wanted to acknowledge what had happened between us during the prior night. We knew that our friendship could never go back to the way it was, as the sex cast a huge shadow over us. From then on, we slowly went our separate ways. We spoke less often and saw each other sparingly. Finally, we halted all forms of communication entirely, as the weight of that night was too much for our friendship to handle. I couldn’t see her as “one of the guys” anymore, funny how that seems to correlate with me having been inside her. The days of Kayla being my platonic friend were over.

Platonic friends of the opposite sex are powder kegs waiting to explode. The end game is always the same; eventually you will hook up and you will see how it is impossible to maintain your friendship. These friends are either girls you’re trying to have sex with, or girls you have forgotten how much you’re trying to have sex with. I thought I lost a friend that night of junior homecoming, but I see now that it was just Kayla and I reaching the pinnacle of our relationship with one another, that apex materializing in sloppy coffee table sex. Sometimes I wish Kayla and I were still on good terms, that she could come over and watch the game instead of this other girl who asked which team is wearing which color. But then I remember that one Wednesday in November, and think to myself: “Holy hell, it was worth it.”

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Wooden hulled, three masted heavy frigate. Named by President George Washington.

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