The Friend Zone
Season 3 (of 3)
(Twilight Zone music: Di-di-di-di-di-di-di-di, di-di-di-di-di-di-di) You unlock this vagina with the key of romance. Beyond it is another dimension; a dimension of joy, a dimension of laughter, a dimension of happy devotion. You’re moving into a land of both substantive beauty and childlike wonder; But then your hope is turned to fear as the relationship rug is pulled out from under you and you realize that the vagina you’ve just crossed over into, resides in…The Friend Zone. (buhd-oo-bud-up!)
By: Michael Allen Hempen
Brought to you by: Cous’n Hemp’n Entertainment
Featuring: Rod Serling
Episode 7: A Penis Out of Time
Rod Serling: Submitted for your approval, or at least your analysis; one Michael Allen Hempen; Who at age 38 is the horniest man on Earth. He holds a masturbatory record for the most jism spewed into a two liter mountain dew bottle during the course of a day, and it’s very likely that as of this moment he would have gone through life in precisely this manner. A dull argumentative bigmouth who sets back the art of civil conversation a thousand years. I say he very likely WOULD have except for something that will soon happen to him. A revelation that will considerably alter his existence and ours…in the friend zone.
Part of me hoped Irena would text me during the week, but she didn’t. As my frustration brought on by ANOTHER failed attempt at bedding a woman mounted, I began becoming short with people, misplacing the anger I felt at myself and dumping it on the rest of the world. I started reading ‘women seeking men’ posts on Craigslist and sending scathing retorts to their authors. Here’s an example of one such outburst.
Female Author: “I'm in an unfulfilling long term relationship with a guy. I miss the days of passion and feeling wanted. I'm looking to get to know a nice guy and let them get to know me through texting/email. I don't really want to end the relationship because I feel that I am just in a rut at the moment and I will get over it eventually. Therefore, I'm not looking for sex or even meeting.”
We all know I think too much. I know how the friend zone starts, but I ALWAYS feel I can change things. There are 2 different friend zones as far as I can tell. The one in which the chick WON’T fuck you because she doesn’t see you as a sexual threat, and the one in which she DOES fuck you but her who-erish nature makes her feel the need to fuck other people. “A who-er is someone who fucks everyone, and a bitch is someone who fucks everyone but you” THIS statement sums up the friend zone perfectly. However, a woman who SAIS she’ll fuck me, but just wants to be my friend gives me hope because I have to think that if I bring the ruckus to that ass…she’ll stick around. It’s a psychological friend zone in which I feel that a woman is more afraid to commit rather than unwilling; and I figure that if I can assuage that fear, I’ll find myself stepping out of The Friend Zone and into…the Relationship Worm Hole…but that’s a title for another series of stories. I mean, if the sex is good; why does she need to fuck someone else? And if we’re exclusive, then we’re dating. Call me a Cro-Magnon, but I would hope a woman I’m fucking wouldn’t fuck someone else during the time that I’M fucking her; that’s ALL I ask. I’m not demanding of a woman’s time, I’m not stalky or overly jealous…all I ask is don’t be a who-er. Unfortunately in 2012, this request is harder for a woman to grant than asking Obama to legalize marijuana. In fact, I would probably do VERY well in the friend zone, as long as there was a sign post in it that read “No fucking other people while in the Friend Zone”.
But what if I’m wrong? What if the chick wants to fuck me, but REALLY just wants to be friends? I’ll be honest with you here, I just don’t know how to fuck a ‘friend’. Here me out; when I fuck a woman, I like to be romantic with the candles and the soft music and the what not. I like to say sweet and engaging things that women want to hear which will moisten them like a baby wipe. A woman’s mind needs to be stimulated as much as her body and I’d feel like an asshole pitching woo to a ‘friend’. When I think of a friend I think of Steve whom I go to baseball games, funerals, and titty bars with. I don’t wanna fuck Steve so why would I wanna fuck a female version of Steve? Men and women were meant to fuck, that’s in NO way a put down on the gay community; that’s a different dynamic within the same genre. But men and women weren’t MEANT to be just friends. I mean hell, Jesus was the friendliest mother fucker EVER according to Catholics, but he wasn’t FRIENDS with Mary Magdolin…he was fucking her.
Plus, if I were to fuck a woman as a friend, I have a fear that as we’re making out in my bedroom and randomly groping each other’s various areas, I’m going to whisper in her ear as I’m kissing her neck “I can’t imagine wanting a woman more than I want you right now”, she’s gonna put her hand on my chest, push me back and say with her brows furrowed “whoa buddy, just friends; remember?” Then, as she’s riding my cock and screaming “DUDE!” and “BRO!”, I’ll be staring up at her with a confused look on my face thinking “shit…Steve calls me ‘Dude’ and ‘Bro’…” Jesus, maybe I DO wanna fuck Steve.
For me, there has to be a modicum of passion and desire when I’m fucking a woman and I can’t get behind (both literally AND figuratively) fucking a ‘friend’. I want her to spend the night, I want her to be as comfortable around me as I am around her, I want to make her breakfast in the morning; in short, I DO want to be her friend but I want to be the ONLY friend she’s fucking. And therefore a JUST friendship with a woman simply can’t work for me. But in this instance? I was gonna try like hell to live with it. I mean, this would be a sexual boon on par with men landing on the moon, the invention of the microchip, or the Berlin wall coming down. This was a moment in vaginal history which would firmly cement my cock in the annals of ugly man greatness. This would be a story that my ugly grandchildren would someday tell THEIR ugly grandchildren and so on throughout the future. Friend Zone? Here I come!
As we talked on into the night, Irena told me that besides not liking condoms, she can no longer get pregnant. Wait, WHAT? If I wasn’t sure before, I was damned well sure now. This woman is TINY, I think I’m being generous when I say 5’2”, which is great because her small hands would make my average dork look like a fucking softball bat, and I gotta admit…that was part of the attraction from the beginning. Couple that with NO condom and the possibility of her pulling me close to her at some point and whispering heavily into my ear “come inside me”, and fuggetaboutit! I’ve never wanted to fuck a woman more in my life; but the thing about desire is that it can be wholly selfish, and I often find that in my selfishness; there’s always a cummupence.
Rod Serling: Mr. Michael Hempen, a romantic in a world of fast food sex, a product of a bygone era in which men were men and treating a woman with respect was the honorable thing to do. Mr. Michael Hempen who has found out through trial and error –mostly error- that with all its sexual ambiguity, with all of its devotional deprivation, it may well be that this is as good as it’s going to get. Love notwithstanding, sex has much to offer. Tonight’s case in point…in The Friend Zone.
Episode 8: The Bang-Over
Rod Serling: You’re looking at a tableau of vaginal reality; a woman of substance, of great physical beauty. 29 years old, 5 feet 2 inches tall, 105 pounds, and perfect 32 c breasts that sit perkily above her flat stomach. These features exist and have dimension. Now this is Michael Hempen, age 38; not a grotesque man, but certainly not an aesthetic equal to our previous subject, however he is also real. He has flesh and blood, muscle and mind. But in just a moment we will see how thin a line separates that which we assume is real and that which we manufacture in our thoughts. For in a moment Michael Hempen will be pulled abruptly from a fantasy which he’s cast like a shadow in the light of his own narcissism, he will be pulled from that fantasy and thrown deep into the reality of…The Friend Zone.
I already made plans to go out with Cous’n Hemp’n that Saturday night to see The Avengers and, having read a story of mine about Cous’n Hemp’n, Irena wanted to come along. Because she was closer to the theater than my place, she decided to meet us at a restaurant near it. Cous’n Hemp’n picked me up and I gave him a hundred dollar bill because I knew he’d pay for dinner on his credit card anyway. Normally, Cous’n Hemp’n always pays, but if I have a woman coming out with us, I’ll carry my own weight AND hers; I mean, we have the kind of relationship where I can feel comfortable with him footing the bill for me, but although he probably WOULD do it, I just feel it would be…inappropriate to ask him to pay for my date…or friend…whatever.
How a woman can come up with a different outfit every time I see her that makes her look MORE attractive than the last time, is just fucking beyond me. Irena met Cous’n Hemp’n and I at the restraint, wearing an orange shirt, tight jeans, and a matching orange gypsy scarf on her head…what can I say? The chick digs head gear. She was also wearing super high heels which made her walk like she was floating on air. Cous’n Hemp’n’s jaw nearly hit the floor when she walked in and he later told me that this chick HAS to have a cock; that could be the ONLY explanation for why she was hanging out with me. The three of us talked, ate, and drank and to my surprise, Cous’n Hemp’n didn’t embarrass me at all. Until the bill came. Cous’n Hemp’n made a comment about always having to pay for everything without acknowledging MY contribution. In fact, the bill was only fifty fucking bucks and Irena and I had only had 3 bloody Marys between the two of us. Was this mother fucker hitting on my date…lady friend…whatever the fuck? What was I gonna do? Lean over to her, raise an eyebrow, and say with a sly grin on my face “You know…I paid for that.”, the thought of doing that gave me douchechills…so I let it go.
After dinner, I hopped in Irena’s car as The Cuz followed us to the theater. Cous’n Hemp’n had already gotten us three tickets to the show, and as Irena went to the bathroom, I asked him to give me two of them…and he fucking refused. “Chris, you already made it look like you paid for dinner, now gimme the tickets so I don’t look like a cheap ass” Like a 12 year old he played keep away from me as I grabbed for them, hopping in the air and bouncing around him trying to grab them away like a nerd trying to get his milk money back from a bully.
Just then, Gordon showed up and offered me the distraction I needed to occupy Cous’n Hemp’n as Irena came out of the bathroom. I’m convinced Gordon doesn’t have the ability to show emotion, so he was unfazed by Irena’s beauty. I asked her if she wanted anything from the concession stand, and to be honest I was kinda hoping she’s say that she wanted popcorn because I’ve always wanted to try that popcorn trick from “Diner”. You know the one; you cut a hole in the bottom of the popcorn box, stick your dick through and when she gets to the bottom? You both get a surprise (yes, extra butter).
Although…now that I think about it…you’d have to maintain a hard on the entire time. I mean, what if it took her like an hour to get to the bottom? God forbid she asks for an extra large box, you’d just end up going home with a buttery dick. And then what if she wanted to blow you later? How do explain that your dick tastes like a salt lick? What is she, a horse? Plus, if she DID make it to the bottom IN the theater, after an hour…there’s nothing sadder than a flaccid penis at the bottom of a popcorn box. That’s the first thing they teach you at clown college, in fact I think that’s the clown college motto which adorns their hallowed gates on a bronze plaque: “There’s nothing sadder than a flaccid penis at the bottom of a popcorn box” – Yukko The Clown.
After the movie, Irena offered to drive me home. We talked the whole way there and she let me in a bit deeper into her life. She also told me that she had to be up early to go to church and it was already 230 in the morning. I was fine with that because to be honest with you, between the uncomfortable seats in the theater, and feeling a bit gassy from the food and booze earlier, I wasn’t up for more rejection anyway. I decided to take the evening for what it was; a nice night filled with good food, a good movie, and great company. There would be time for rejection later.
About a week later to be exact.
Irena and I made tentative plans to go out the next Thursday. I agonized throughout the week as to what we’d do. I wanted to get her flowers and take her someplace nice for our 4th outing; and THIS is why it’s difficult for me to be in the friend zone. I’m ALWAYS looking to, not so much impress a woman, as show her a good time. I want a woman to go out with me and think “shit, I wasn’t expecting THAT.” When I called her on Wednesday to ask her what time she’d like to go out, she told me “This is why I am not having a boyfriend. I don’t like to making plan, I will call you tomorrow when I am ready”
Jeez, wanna throw THAT in my face again? I wasn’t calling to ask her which banquet hall we should have our wedding reception in for fucks sake, I just wanted to know if I should eat dinner after work or would we be going OUT for dinner? Throwing a time stamp on the beginning of our evening would just be a nicety; you know, something a fucking FRIEND might do. After not hearing from her all day on Thursday, I cleaned the apartment and got myself ready for when and IF she would call…although not with NEARLY the amount of enthusiasm I did on previous evenings; but still dancing to the Thong Song as I showered.
Irena called me at 930 and asked if I’d still like to go out. And I said sure, although I should have had my head examined. In my mind, all day, I pictured the two of us going out to dinner; talking, and then coming back to my place to watch a movie, during which I would eventually yawn while stretching and surreptitiously putting my arm around her, waiting patiently for her to reach the bottom of the popcorn box on my lap. Man, do I have an ancient view of what a date should be or what? Next I’ll be asking her to wear my letter and eventually getting us separate beds like Lucy and Ricky.
Anyway, that fantasy was dashed when she told me she wanted to get high and stay in her neighborhood. She told me to meet her at a bar in Elmwood Park. Now, without pulling out and unfolding a map in front of you like a lost tourist, it would be hard to illustrate to you just how far that would be. I mean, it’s easy enough to get to, as It’s right off of Harlem Avenue, which I live 2 blocks away from. The problem is that it’s 40 minutes down Harlem Avenue.
But as I’ve said before, I’m always down to try something new, and although I would be shocked and disappointed at one point in the evening…the evening itself didn’t disappoint at all.
I drove down Harlem and parked near a Latino nightclub on Grand Avenue, where she asked me to meet her. Like last time, I was the only white guy there AND like last time, I went in and had a drink. At this point I just didn’t give a fuck…I NEEDED a drink. I have to say, the place was beautiful but for the life of me I can’t remember the name of it. There were deep black sofa chairs set up in circles around dark mahogany wood tables. The lights were dim and an 8 person salsa band was setting up on a small stage to the right of the entrance. Hispanic men wearing silk shirts and brimmed hats talked with beautiful Hispanic women in tight dresses, ready to dance the night away.
I sat at the bar watching what looked like a Miami nightclub in the ‘50s unfold before me; When Irena came in. I want you to forget, for a moment, ALL of the ass kissing I seem to have done in these tales about Irena. Forget if you will the beauty I’ve described in her body…her face…and how her outfits complimented those features; forget it all and marvel for the first time at what I saw that Thursday night at 10:32 PM at the Club Babaloo or whatever the fuck, in Elmwood Park.
Irena came into the nightclub, hovering elegantly 5 inches above the floor as she walked effortlessly on high heels. She wore the tiniest denim mini skirt I’d ever seen, which was more of a belt than a skirt. Above it, a tight white sleeveless shirt clung to her perfect figure, and a white and purple scarf adorned her neck, wrapped around it several times and hanging low to cover her tits. It was a perfect mixture of shocking exposure and withheld delights. She wore no hat this night, exposing the black roots on her head that flowed down into the most beautiful blonde hair I’ve ever seen. Every eye in the club turned to her, including the band. Is there ANY place I could go with this woman in which she wouldn’t be the most beautiful woman there?
A desire built within me as she walked across the dance floor to meet me at the bar; a desire that threatened to expose itself like an old man, naked but for a trench coat on a subway car. Usually I can curb this feeling, tell myself “it’s only a chick”, but in this case I wanted her so bad that I could feel my stomach doing summersaults, I could hear my heart quickening in my chest as every other sound in the room faded out and Irena came towards me in slow motion; my mind capturing that image to compare all future dates to. Tonight I was going to fuck this woman, obviously she was thinking the same thing; otherwise, why dress like that? I would fuck her in the bathroom of this nightclub if I could, in an alley outside the bar, in my car, hers, I didn’t care…all I knew was that I wanted her in that moment more than I wanted anything in any moment throughout my time on this planet. Friend zone, fuck zone, girlfriend or enemy; tonight I was willing to be that man outside of Exit with a cigarette in his mouth if it meant getting physically closer to Irena.
She sat beside me at the bar, and when she crossed her legs on the bar stool, about 90 percent of her ass was exposed to the dance floor in front of us. Heads snapped as men AND women did double takes, not quite believing the ferocity and boldness in which she carried herself, even while sitting. She was high, which just made it easier to make her laugh; “Joke, joke, self deprecation, joke…COMPLIMENT!” I told myself….”Stick to the formula.”
I ordered her a drink and we laughed for the next hour when the band began to play. These guys were great with the bongos and the cow bell and the what not; and Irena fit in perfectly to the atmosphere and ambiance of the bar. Her laughter filled the air like smoke USED to when you could smoke in a bar. She made sexual overtures to me and at one point even showed me the tiny pink underwear she was wearing just underneath that tiny skirt. People…believe me when I tell you I was ready to fuck her ON the bar. This was in the bag, a sure thing. I just needed to make sure I didn’t fuck it up. I forced myself to say all the right things, to SHOW her how much I was enjoying her company, to not think about being in the friend zone. I stayed IN the moment; future be damned I wanted this woman and tonight I would give her not just the best of me…but ALL of me.
Irena told me that she wanted to go outside and smoke a cigarette. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and asked her to wait for me as I strapped my hulking boner down to my left leg, which forced me to goose step as I came back into the bar like John Cleese in the Institute of Silly Walks. As we smoked outside, Irena moved her body to the sound of the music coming from inside the bar, and I couldn’t help but admire her; not just her beauty but her spirit, her freedom of expression, and as always…her laughter. How much longer must I continue this farce? To pretend my longing to feel her against me wasn’t a lecherous pervert standing between us? My desire to bed this woman threatened to explode like a volcano. Trying to stop objectifying her, I brought myself back down to earth by asking her questions. When we talked on the phone earlier, she told me that she was having a bad day, and as we talked outside the nightclub; my desire nearly bursting through me, I asked her if her day had gotten better.
“This is wonderful Mike” she told me sounding like Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle, and then coming close to me, putting her hand on my chest, and balancing herself on one leg with the other playfully kicked back like a nurse kissing a soldier in old post World War II ticker tape parade photo. “My morning was SO bad; I had bang over…” I didn’t really pay attention to what she said after that, as I cocked my head to the side wondering if I heard her correctly. When she stopped talking I asked “Bang-over? Surely you mean HANG over?” Irena laughed again and marijuanaly turned around in a circle, as she came around to face me she said, VERY non-chalantly “No, is bang over. This is where I am fuck stupid the night before” At least that’s how I heard the definition; and then she strutted back towards the bar.
The bouncer opened the door for her and as she walked back in I stood outside with awe rippling across my slack jawed face; I looked up into the unforgiving night sky and screamed “KHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN! (khhaaannn! Khhhhaaan!)” while shaking my fists in the air.
WHY did you have to tell me that? My once proud boner disintegrated and turtled itself up inside of me. Even if she WANTED to fuck me now, I couldn’t do it! I just imagined that her pussy was all red and swollen from the pounding some unibrowed calling card salesman had given her the night before. PLUS she doesn’t like condoms and sperm stays inside of a woman for up to 5 mother fucking days! I wasn’t gonna fuck her using some other guy’s Ukrainian semen as a lubricant. AHHHHHH! My dreams were dashed because let’s face it, there was probably a veiny cock imprint on her vaginal wall like someone thumbed a number two pencil into play dough.
How many times had she USED that term, I kept wondering to myself. And how prolific in her ‘bang overs’ must she be if I’VE never heard of it? I have my OWN dictionary of terms with words like this in it, I’ve researched and travelled the globe to come up with funny and unique sexual plays on common words and in ALL my travels, in all my communications with communist dictators and terror cells TRYING to get them to open up some of their unique brand of sexual humor, I’ve never come across ‘Bang-over’. (By the way, terror cells do not have a good imagination for this, the only entry THEY had for the Hempenary was “The Car Bomb” which is apparently when you cum on a woman’s berka in a car. Entry into the Hempenary was denied. A Jihad was issued against the Hempenary.) The only explanation had to be that she fucked SO much, that she had to coin a term to describe how she felt in the morning. I’d not only been out vocabularized by a foreigner, but outwitted, humiliated, and dejected all in the same moment.
Part of me was relieved that she told me because if she hadn’t? I might have been down there lapping up sperm like a kitten with a bowl of milk. Part of me was horrified that she told me…because I SO wanted to fuck her…oh God, I SO wanted to…(head hung low in hands sobbing)... somebody, please help me.
Well, we went back inside and I turned off the desire like a light switch, looking upon Irena as just some hot chick in a bar like I would have if I didn’t know her, instead of the hottest chick to ever walk into a bar. I stopped drinking and I walked her to her car at around 1:00. She smiled, flirted, played with her hair, and showed me her underwear again as I made uncomfortable small talk with her. After 5 minutes of pleasantries I said fair well, showed her how to fist bump because frankly; unless I had a gallon of Purell, I didn’t even wanna touch her. Then I went home to beat my dick like it owed me money.
Irena NEVER said to me that she hadn’t fucked anyone since her husband left, I just assumed that as I tried to interpret her jumbled vocabulary. She was NOTHING if not incredibly honest with me from the beginning about NOT wanting to be in a relationship, and I understood that as my penis frothed at the mouth. Now that I look back on it, what I think she said was “I no longer being the way I was” which must mean that she used to be slutty, but she didn’t want to be slutty anymore…at least with me.
And that’s the problem with the friend zone; when a woman puts you in there, a man will spend hours even days sulking and trying to decipher the meanings behind a woman’s terms and phrases. We’ll try to reason with ourselves that an innocuous statement means more than it actually does or that a meaningful and straight forward statement like “I have bang-over” isn’t as bad as it sounds. We do this even with women who speak perfect English.
On the way home, I deleted Irena’s number from my text and call history. Why bother? Better to put this out of my mind and chalk it up to another funny story for YOU to read about, and another dreadful experience of missed opportunity for ME to live with.
Oh wait…After I was done writing this story; Irena came over to my apartment on Mother’s day. We went out for coffee, late at night, and then came back to my place where I read her some of the story you just read. We sat on my couch and talked for a while, and she ate some of the dessert I’d made a few days before. We talked openly and frankly about sex, and laughed at the miscommunication between us. Then she dragged my mind through the mud as she told me “I like man who want me VERY badly, who is bold…but when he show interest, I don’t want him anymore.” What does that even MEAN? In ANY language? So a man has to be bold IN his indifference towards her? What do I gotta do, sternly look away? Git the fuck outta here! Then she said “I like man who is showing NO interest in me.” To which I replied “I can’t imagine wanting to fuck a woman less than I don’t want to fuck you right now.” She wasn’t falling for that.
She was honest and forth coming throughout the evening, telling me that she did indeed have sex the night before we went out and apologizing for bringing it up so cavalierly while we were at the club. (Note that there was no need to apologize for HAVING the sex, as we are JUST friends…) As the time seemed to slip through our fingers, Irena told me that she should get going and walked towards the door. And knowing that she does (or doesn’t?) like bold men, I shut the door and locked it before she could leave. I stood over her, and our bodies touched in the dark of my living room. Her breasts pressed against my stomach and my hard cock rubbed against hers through my pants as she lowered her face while looking up at me with lustful blowjob eyes. I brushed the hair from her neck saying “what if I don’t want you to leave? What if tonight…I want to be bold?” and I leaned in to kiss her…
Sorry folks, that’s all you get. Maybe Irena and I fucked, and maybe we didn’t. Maybe it was the most satisfying sexual experience I’ve ever had, and maybe I jerked off after she left and went to bed, either way I WILL tell you that I came that night…hard. But it doesn’t matter how it ended, what matters is how I learn to deal with that ending, so I’ll let you fill in the blank with YOUR imagination. Suffice to say that I still have a great deal of respect for Irena and I wish her luck; not only in her future endeavors, but in maintaining the happiness and joy she seems to have already found in life.
And isn’t that all one can hope for in a friend?
Rod Serling: A Latino Nightclub, a feeling of desire, a set of improbable circumstances, all combine to probe a mystery, to fathom a depth, to send a facet of light into a dark after region, to be believed or disbelieved depending on your frame of reference. Why was SHE with HIM to begin with? A fact or a fantasy, a substance or a shadow, but all of it very much a part of…The Friend Zone.
Rod Serling off mic to the production crew: Guys, I don’t believe for a SECOND he fucked her, who’s this asshole kidding?
Episode 9: Epilogue
Rod Serling: Quitting time for loneliness. Time for romance now. Time for love. Time for a cool drink on a porch with the object of that love. Time to kiss her under the quiet rustle of leaf-laden trees that screen out the moon. And underneath your newfound devotion, behind the worshipful eyes of passion, hanging invisible over the summer night, is a horror without words. For this is the stillness before storm. This is the eve of the end; and unbeknownst to you…this is The Friend Zone.
The reason why The Friend Zone exists is simple; Women have come to mistake bitter pragmatism for independence. They use the Friend Zone as a crutch to either be slutty or keep their options open. This is the way men USED to think. We were looking for a woman who could take the place of our mother, never outright saying that, but subconsciously projecting that need on prospective lovers. When we realized we couldn’t find that, we just fucked a bunch of chicks to fill that gaping hole in ourselves. NOW, women don’t think they’ll find a good man, so they figure why not fuck a bunch of ‘ok’ men. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, women are the new men; and when you’re one of the last REAL men left? This fact is annoying as fuck.
Women have taken suffrage TOO far. When it was for voting and equal pay, suffrage was a great idea; now it’s used as an excuse for threesomes and ass to mouth experiences. “I just wanted to try it”, yeah? Well now I don’t wanna try YOU Slutticus. There is an order to the universe, a natural way of doing things that comes with evolution. Now don’t take my saying that as a put down, I’m not trying to say that women don’t deserve everything they’ve worked hard for over the years. I’m a firm believer in a woman’s right to choose and when I see a story on the news about a chick making less money than her harebrained male counterpart, I wanna light my fucking bra on fire. All I’m saying is CALM the fuck down, being equal to men doesn’t mean you have to be JUST as big an asshole as we’ve been through history. Move forward as a gender, but MAINTAIN your individuality. BE strong, BE independent, BE intelligent…but also be beautiful, demure, and in demand. With hold vagina until the third date, MAKE a man respect you because THAT’S where your power lies. So take the cock out of your mouth and go try to be the first female president. If Sarah Palin read books instead of sucked dick, she could be in office right now.
The Friend Zone exists because women have forgotten the meaning of romance, and it’s not entirely their fault…because men forgot how to dish it out. In a world where porn is not only accessible, but acceptable, where fathers no longer teach their sons to be men and women don’t teach their daughters to be women, there really aren’t any people WORTH getting to know. These days parents are simply ignorant jailers who use “The Jersey Shore” and “The Real Housewives of” whatever as a babysitter while being less involved with their children than John Voight (look it up). For the life of me, I can’t believe that I live in a world where the producers of “Toddlers and Tiara’s” aren’t shot live on TV in a crowded football stadium along with the parents of those little girls. And they’re ruined as well, may as well just euthanize them now. But with so much shit on TV teaching your children that there are no consequences to being an asshole, how does romance stand a chance?
Let me tell you a hard truth: NO guy wants to be friends with a chick that he HAS banged because he doesn’t wanna hear about them fucking Eckoli, the retarded Italian towel boy at the neighborhood pool (true story), AND we don’t wanna be friends with someone we WANNA bang because we don’t want to watch them bang everyone BUT us. I mean; Why the FUCK would ANY guy want a woman he finds attractive to be his friend? The minute she starts telling him about the veiny pethis of the guy she’s banging, it’s just gonna make him feel ugly by default, cause why isn’t she fucking HIM?
I talk to women ALL the time who say I’m full of shit because they have MANY guy friends and those guy friends have NO interest in fucking and or dating them. “BULLSHIT!” I want to shout in their ear with a fucking mega phone. YOU’RE either dumb and don’t realize what you’re doing to these poor slobs, OR you know EXACTLY what you’re doing and should be in a 12 step narcissism program. YOU are the vagina-triangle and their 7inch47’s are flying STRAIGHT towards you and in some cases they’ll never be seen or heard from again. In a way you ARE fucking them whether you know it or not…MIND fucking.
Although the bad dog owner didn’t give me much of a reason to be her friend, Irena really didn’t do anything wrong. I THINK she was honest with me from the start, but who the fuck knows with that accent. Miscommunication and misinterpretation abounded in the short time I knew her and for that I can no more blame her than I can the position on the globe of her mother’s vagina some 29 years ago. But whether she wanted to be my friend or not, it doesn’t really matter; because hearing about her ‘bang-over’ made my ego drop like a crystal wine glass on a hard wood floor, and therein lies the anguish which hovers over a man in the Friend Zone like flies on shit. I may not be the most self confident man in the world, but I just can’t be that guy. I will never be the second choice or paint my penis to look like a sad clown; because not only am I a man god damnit…but I’m all the man a woman will need; and even though we may or may not have made sex on each other…I can’t be ok with a ‘bang-over’ slip up again.
That being said, I realize that it’s time I grew up, it’s time I started to see that The Friend Zone doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad place. There are wonders there to be sure; the comfort and unique perspective that a woman can lend to your life DOESN’T have to be attached to sex like an Alien face-hugger. There’s room for growth and bonding in The Friend Zone and even love, a love brought on by caring NOT desire, a love forged from giving each other strength NOT giving each other head, a satisfying and emotional love that makes you happy for that woman’s successes with men and NOT jealous, that offers you the comfort of her strength when another woman makes you weak. A friend is a person that you uncondionally care for because in the end, all we have in life are the people we can trust with our secrets, with our identity, with our souls.
So yes, The Friend Zone may not be the optimum place to be, but friendship shouldn’t be distinguished by gender. So although it may pain me, although it may take some getting used to, I’m going to stop looking at The Friend Zone as a frightening torture chamber where love is water boarded and rats in heated cages are placed upside down on the stomach of romance to burrow through its sheer skin and rip through its guts. I’m going to accept The Friend Zone and have occasion to walk its hallowed grounds, but don’t think that means I’m gonna stop looking to be in…The Vagina Zone!
Rod Serling: The best laid plans of mice and men…and Michael Hempen, the large overbearing vulgar asshole who wanted nothing but love. Michael Hempen, now just a part of a smashed landscape on the horizon of wishful thinking, a piece of the rubble in a bombed out building made of good intentions, just a fragment of the man he so delusionally hoped to be. Mr. Michael hempen…in The Friend Zone.
Dedications and Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank Rod Serling for Involuntarily lending his voice to your head from beyond the grave
‘The Friend Zone’ is dedicated to all the men who have walked alone through the doubt, hesitation, and skeptical over thinking within its halls.
“She can kill with her smile, she can wound with her eyes; she can ruin your faith with her casual lies, but she’ll only reveal what she wants you to see…blame it all on yourself ‘cause she’s always a woman to me” – Billy Joel.
We at Cous’n Hemp’n Entertainment (‘We’ meaning ‘just’ me) would also like to dedicate ‘The Friend Zone’ to Irena who greatly inspired it, and who I am proud to call…my friend. Even if she never talks to me again after reading this. Thank you Irena, for making life more interesting and offering the best....dialogue…I’ve had with a woman in a long time. In another life babe…in another life.
Deleted Scenes and Outtakes
Deleted Scene 1
Irena asked me; “Why do man like when I suck on lollipop?”…Shut the fuck up sister, YOU know why men like it when you suck on your lollipop. The fact that you asked me that question tells me you think I’m just as stupid as they are, not even ‘stupid’ but STOOpid.
Deleted Scene 2
There’s nothing quite as disheartening as when a woman tells you “I’m already in love”, “what’s the point of you then?” is my immediate question. Git the fuck outta here.
Deleted Scene 3
Man, desire can be a mother fucker, can’t it? I mean sometimes you want something SO fucking bad that it consumes your very soul, making you blind to everything around you; even to your own hubris. On the other hand, that NEED, that craving can make you feel alive even as it pulls you down to the depths of gluttony, (it’s at this very point in my writing that I had to stop to take a shit)
Rod Serling: Witness Mr. Michael Hampton…
Recording Engineer: Eh, sorry Mr. Serling, but it’s pronounced ‘Hempen’
Rod Serling: Ok Tom, let’s take it from the top. Witness Mr. Michael Humpin…
Recording Engineer: ‘Hempen’, Mr. Serling. H-E-M-P-E-N. Sorry sir, shall we take it from the top again?
Rod Serling: Fuck…ok, try it again (clears throat). Witness Mr. Michael Hemphin, a proud member of…Tom, is it HEMPEN or HAMPHEN?
Recording Engineer: Hempen sir, H-E-M as in MAN-P as in PENNY-E as in EMPTY-N as in NANCY. Hempen. Would you like a glass of water sir, take a moment before we…
Rod Serling: No, fuck that. Let’s get it over with. Man, this is SOME fucking name on this guy. (clears throat) Witness Mr. Michael Hempen, a proud mamber…MAMBER? FUCK! It’s bad enough this guy isn’t paying me jack shit, but I gotta come out of a fucking story about a DOG getting kicked in the face to THIS? And why does this guy have to be so descriptive with the porn talk? “She rubbed his balls with every down stroke”? What kind of pervert is the Hampton, Hemphin, whatever the fuck his name is? This is fucking ponderous man, ponderous. Let’s just pick it up here tomorrow Tom (sound of headphones being thrown down)