Just Friends

For a young man

who never made 

women swoon,

never caused

the blush of blood

in a woman’s breast,

her stories were,

at first, titillating.

In her many

business travels

she would arrange

to meet men

in foreign cities,

and with only 

the slightest wisps

of personal data,

she would

offer herself

in anonymous hotel rooms

as a submissive,

to be tied up,

beaten,

swatted and flagellated,

her ample plump frame,

objectified

for a crumb of attention.

Distance demanded

that nothing would ever come

from our email friendship,

so I just listened

without judgement,

trying to understand.

She had an estranged father,

a mother dying from cancer,

and it wasn’t my place

to do anything but

be a friend.

So I just listened

as the phone calls mounted,

laughing and mirroring

each other,

each call affirming

each other.

Months later,

one spring afternoon,

she cc’d me on

a mass mailing

that she sent

to the dozens of partners

she’d met along

her loneliness,

and she told them

she decided

she wasn’t

doing that anymore.

She decided

she didn’t want

that

anymore.

In a separate note,

she credited me

with giving her the strength

to move into

the next phase of her life,

where she eventually

fell in love,

got married

and had a son.

So,

to all you women

who weren’t

attracted to me

and I either had to learn

to be “just friends”

with you

or lose your friendship,

thank you.