whores, ho's and bro's
Tuesday, Oct. 30, 2012 @ 8:21 a.m.

One evening in early fall, a few of my friends and I were sitting around an astonishingly large fire, drinking in excess -- it was probably a Tuesday -- and talking about things that we assumed would bear no relevance on the rest of our lives. At some point in that conversation, it became evident that I could turn the phrase "What's up, bitches!" at least as authentically as any twenty-something in fishnets and platforms on a street corner in Harlem. We debated whether this was a marketable skill and, to our mutual chagrin, decided that it was not. I'm no ho. Although it was noted that other bitches can absolutely do, say and be whatever they want as long as they don't spread the hiv.

It doesn't bother me that I was likened to a ho. There should be no shame in a good laugh among friends. So when my clueless neighbor confusedly (he's french/we spend the majority of our time together inebriated) referenced that Tuesday night, but mistakenly called me a whore instead of a ho, I was able to laugh twice as hard at the combination of his stupidity and my hilarious ho-talent. I told him that he was lucky I'm his drinking buddy and not just a girl, else I might have taken offense...but I didn't mean it. I wouldn't have taken offense anyway.

The problem with that is that it makes me more like one of the boys and less like one of the girls. Spending an evening joking about female prostitutes with men does nothing to endear a girl to members of the (supposedly) fairer gender. Growing up poor and homely and outside of even the least-coveted social circles, I found most girls to be emotionally combative, manipulative and generally predisposed to hate other girls for all the wrong reasons. For what could most easily (although perhaps inaccurately) be described as jealousy, they hated girls who were prettier than they were (I hated pretty girls, but only because they were the meanest ones), made fun of smart girls and joked that girls who exhibited exceptional athletic skill were homosexual. Guys would fistfight to fix things, but girls torched souls for spite. My soul didn't make it out unscathed, and you can bet I remember why.

Times have changed for me, but some things never will. Money isn't a concern anymore, and I've learned a thing or two about grooming that would have come in handy circa 1999. I wear lashes and lipstick and more flattering clothes than the hand-me-down oversized sweatshirts and tapered jeans I had in high school, and I do nice things with my hair. Maybe I even look like a mean girl. Don't be fooled. I am and will always be the same socially terrified kid I've been every day since grade four, waiting to hear I've made some completely unforeseeable faux pas and worrying because I know that there will always be someone -- probably a chick -- around to crucify me for it.

I like men better. It's not a secret. I can relate to them in a way I haven't figured out how to relate to girls: I would rather be punched in the face ten times out of ten. I dressed like boys and played soccer on boys' teams (neither of which assisted in quelling rumors girls had started regarding my sexual preference) and have always liked being outdoors in rubber boots mucking around in puddles. And not that these are female qualifiers*, but I've never enjoyed talking about feelings, don't need to feel looked-after and couldn't care less if I ever get flowers. I actually forgot my own anniversary this year -- then, when I did remember and congratulated Bryan on a decade together, he reminded me that it had actually been eleven years. A baker's dozen of decades, I replied. No harm, no foul.

Until this past week, when I found out that girls who look pretty aren't allowed to be more comfortable around men. That I had fauxed another pas that I was unaware existed until a girl exploded and I ended up in a situation the likes of which made that time in the bathroom in grade six when I overheard two girls talking about how they thought I was a lesbian look like a day in the park with a kite. One that begs the basest of all questions:

What, bitches, is up?

Fifty percent of my remaining good friends (1 of 2) are male and I've never thought twice about the fact that he has boy parts: he's just my homie. We share books and stories and he always makes sure I have a lime margarita in my hand when such a thing is appropriate. And I've never, not once, heard from my significant other that he thought it was inappropriate for me to have a straight male friend. In his exact, confident, bullshit-free phraseology: ''I'm just glad you have a friend.'' I choose to interpret that to mean that he knows how hard friends are to come by for socially stunted non-ho's like me. I didn't even think it was particularly big of him to say so.

By comparison, I do think that it's small-minded to assume that I would sleep with another man -- especially someone else's husband -- just because he was there and we were acting friendly. Implying that's the case does more than illustrate personal insecurity and jealousy: it undermines what I have with my husband. It's like saying you think you have more to lose than I do, or that you don't think I care as much about my family as you do about yours. It's also as close as I've ever come to actually being called a whore.

Among friends, words like that can be shouted and laughed off.

But not among girls.

So even in the aftermath, with everything seemingly apologised and explained away in letters and over coffee, I know there hasn't been any actual resolution. I recognize empty words when I read and hear them. It's the girlest of girl plays: the bait and switch. This far, my counterplay has been to kill with kindness, because I thought I could handle turning every cheek if it meant I could maybe, eventually, someday have my friend back. With evidence mounting to the contrary, however, perhaps it's time to change tact and make some fine distinctions to let everyone know where I stand (although certainly not where I sleep):

As ever, with the bro's.

(*they so are.)