Shortly after meeting my eventual best friend Danny, I developed an enormous crush on him. Shortly after developing an enormous crush on him, he told me he was gay.
Naturally.
Of course, as soon as my confused Darwinian instincts settled themselves, I was overjoyed. I mean, having a gay best friend? Isn’t that the dream? Dances at gay bars, endless shopping sprees, and obviously, the best guy gossip a girl could ask for… But I would soon discover that the GBF is not always such a friendly creature.
Firstly, any time we ever went anywhere together, people would assume that we were dating, immediately taking us off the table when nearby attractive males were hunting for their latest mate. And trust me, there’s no way to say “Haha, no, actually, I’m single!” without sounding desperate. I’ve tried.
Of course, when we weren’t cock-blocking or clam-jamming each other accidentally, we’d be doing it on purpose. You’d be surprised how much competition can arise even between bosom buddies when hunting after the same guy… orrrrrr maybe you wouldn’t be. But even those could usually be resolved based on which of our genders the target preferred. The claws really come out when there’s a bi guy involved. Ouch.
I’ve been happily relationshipped, however, for most of my friendship with Danny, so the dating world, though murky, wasn’t my biggest disappointment. However, although I’m not always looking for new guys, I am always on the hunt for new clothes. And leave it to your lady friends to help you with that, because for real… My GBF knows nothing about women’s fashion. Nothing. In his own words: “I don’t dress myself with it, and none of it looks attractive to me.” He could dress a male model like Louis fucking Vuitton, but if you just added some tits and flipped the gender identity, she’d probably walk out on the runway in Nike shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.
Danny once talked me in to buying acid wash jeans. Yes, it’s that bad.
As for gossip, well, it certainly can be plentiful with my GBF. Basically every guy who walks past us when we’re shopping or eating or even blatantly man-watching gets an Ebert-and-Roeper-esque review:
“Although the muscle tone and the chiseled jawline are on point, wardrobe leaves a lot to be desired, and the buzzcut needs some serious reconsideration. 7/10, would make out with at a party and not regret it.”
However, we can never agree on which guys we like. His taste fucking sucks. If you’ve ever seen an episode of BBC Sherlock—he would rather get with John Watson than the titular detective. What a dumbass. And of course, if we ever found a real-life target to approach, the ones I liked would always be gay, and the ones he liked would always be straight. Naturally.
A little while in to my experience with a GBF, I began to think, “Why did I ever want this in the first place?” And after some consideration, I realized I never did. I became friends with Danny because of his passion, his sense of humor, his intelligence, his personality. His sexual orientation is just a part of him that I respect without revering, appreciate without appropriating, and it says nothing about the “type” of person he’s supposed to be. And even if he were that dream gay guy, the enthusiastic bundle of rainbow energy—people shouldn’t try to collect his friendship like a Pokémon.
Friendship happens because of mutual understanding, mutual trust, and, if you’re lucky, mutual jello shots.
That’s beautiful. Let’s keep it that way.
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