Fierce: or, The Biggest Box of Candy in the Shop, Part the Second

So, Shiawassee is staying at my house, and maybe because she's there for Valentine's Day, maybe because we've had a few too many whiskeys, she starts to give me a pretty strong earful about The Kind of Man I Need. I'm okay with this, not only because Shiawassee is sassier and smarter in the ways of the world than I could ever aspire to be, but also in light of my past. I've gotten tangled up with some shady characters before--some villains, even a sociopath--and it was mainly because I totally couldn't see the shadiness, the villainy, the sociopathy until it was way, way too late. It was after they were in. And then I was lost. A girl could have used a friend like Shiawassee standing over her shoulder saying, "Now I know you are not going to fall for that! Walk. A. Way."

I'll also let Shiawassee go to town on me over The Kind of Man I Need because she doesn't trivialize the issue of The Body. Meaning, my body. The thing that you're not supposed to say--and the thing that your girlfriends are apparently never supposed to entertain for even a second--is that realistically, most dudes have an issue with dating a fat girl. The specific subculture of Chubby Chasers aside, there is a hugely real difficulty that guys have in dealing with their attraction to a fat girl. An awesome, funny, sexy fat girl to be sure, but the awesome, the funny, the sexy will never eliminate the social charge of the fat. It doesn't take a genius to note how female fat is stigmatized in American culture, and by default, for a guy to want a fat girl...well, he's in grave danger of having that stigma rub off on him. Especially when you're talking about someone like me--no amount of euphemizing will squeeze me into the upper range of average. So in my experience, I have found that for a guy to admit that he wants to be with me, he either has to be:

1.) so clueless that he doesn't realize the social implications of being with a fat girl

2.) so secure in his masculinity that what other people think doesn't matter

or,

3.) so brave that he's willing to step up and face potential social stigma. Oh, and this bravery has to double if the guy is "very attractive" in a mainstream or traditional sense.

That throws a tremendous wrench in the dating works that many people refuse to recognize, and Shiawassee is too savvy and too honest to pull the typical girlfriend lines of "You're great! You're beautiful! Your body doesn't matter!" Shiawassee says that yes I'm great, yes I'm beautiful, but only an idiot would say that my body--which is perhaps the most outlaw body a woman can have in American heterosexual circles--"doesn't matter". My body is awesome, but oh boy, does it matter. Which is why Shiawassee gets to give me as much of an earful as she likes. Because she's not afraid to consider the social complications that my body causes.

Like, back in my very early romantic explorations, back when boys were too inexperienced or too innocent to realize the full implications of their words, they would lament to me, "You would be perfect, if only..." I tell Shiawassee this, and she does not say, "Oh-no-they-didn't." Instead, she sighs heavily and says, "Yes, they did." She recognizes that statements like "you would be perfect, if only..." are examples of cowardly douchebaggery from boys who may never really become men, but she also understands the culture that breeds that mindset, that fear of loving someone in a non-traditional body. (Or more specifically, the fear of admitting love for someone in a non-traditional body.) She gets it, but nevertheless, inspired by the time of year and the whiskey, she decides to crack the Da Vinci Code that is my romantic history. She attacks it like a geometry proof, all fiery logic and drive, determined to find the one place to break the patterns of my past, to subvert the social tensions regarding my size, and to lead me to the path of Happily Ever After. I pretty much sit back and watch her work through it, since her determination is both vastly entertaining and tremendously sweet.

But then we hit the sticky spot. The uncrackable code. The Phenomenon of the Faux Boyfriend.

There has been a reoccurring phenomenon throughout my dating-aged life in which I will meet a boy, a guy, a dude, whatever, and we will hit it off instantly. There's usually lots of sass and play and edgy flirting while still challenging each other's wits. It just happens. Some kind of instant connection. A recognition of each other. Chemistry. You know how it goes. But I, ever skittish when a guy appears to be Genuinely Interested, will leave it at that. Because I know where this can go.

But then almost without fail, the guy will take a very strong lead in breaking through the surface playfulness to bring us into an intensely intimate space where we get very tight very quickly. He will be the person to initiate constant communication and hanging out, a healthy dose of those intensely personal conversations that you can only have at around 3am, with a good amount of compliments, flirting, physical contact, and play peppered throughout. Not a big deal, right? Just what the sociologists call "courting behavior." Of course this is what you do when you're Genuinely Interested.

Oh, but there's something else: all of this is done with absolutely no mention of sex or dating or whatever. Totally courting behavior, but no verbal recognition of it.

Early on in the process, I will get jumpy at the intensity of the emotional connection between us, and I will try to pull away. This is partly because with men, I'm far more comfortable with physical intimacy than I am with emotional intimacy, at least at the beginning. But this is also partly because the magnitude of my feelings will start to scare me--especially without any official decree that he and I are creating a space that allows for Feelings of Magnitude. (Even though it is obvious that we are.) So I will pull away out of self-preservation. He will pursue. Then I will pull away more, scared of the mounting pile of evidence that we are in serious danger of falling in love with each other, that something real is happening. In response, he will pursue me even more.

And no matter how hard I try, he will not let me pull away. And I admit that I love being around him, so eventually I will force myself to evaluate the situation. And when he seems truly sincere and genuine and good, when there is love that is undeniable dripping out of his every word and gesture...then and only then, I'll put on my big girl panties and say, "Okay, it's time to trust." Even though it is absolutely terrifying, I'll make the specific choice to trust his actions and words and looks and tenacity and the charge in the air. I will trust him. And then I will love and love and love. (Or like and like and like.)

Most often, what follows is what I now call the Faux Boyfriend Phenomenon. You know, where you both clearly have feelings for each other, and where you exhibit clear dating behaviors together, but you don't call it dating or seeing each other or being together or whatever. And you don't have sex. You don't. Have. Sex. Instead, you hang out constantly, and when you're not hanging out, you phone and text and email constantly, and while it's fun and funny and great, there is a constant edge of intense intimacy that makes all contact well beyond the scope of Just Friends. And at any moment the conversations may, and often do, take a hugely personal turn--never really instigated by me--that involve the Faux Boyfriend delving into my history or my emotions or my fears or my wounds in a way that a lover does when trying to learn all there is to learn about you. But in ways that Just Friends don't, since Just Friends let you reveal your secrets in your own good time, at your own pace.

And there is always this gentle tenacity on behalf of the Faux Boyfriend to glean from me that part of myself that I haven't given to anyone else. To be Christopher Columbus and to find that one spot no other man has reached. To retrieve that private gem as a trophy. And I may even say, during the course of these explorations, "I don't talk about that with guys" or "I'm afraid to trust you with that" or even the intentionally-daunting "There's a big responsibility that goes along with getting me to trust you, so you need to be prepared for that." But my warnings about what emotional intimacy means to me are always met with this strange, fierce hunger, as well as assurances that what we have is special, that this is important and safe and unique. That this is real. And I trust, because I know it is real. I know it is love. (Or like.) I know the difference between me unrequitedly crushing out on someone and the two-way connection that constantly shoots electricity back and forth between us. I know the difference. So I take the leap.

And of course, there are accompanying behavioral intimacies that go beyond the Just Friends, some just past the border, some miles beyond. There's constant physical play. There may be hand-holding. Or ass-slapping. (Not by me.) There are little notes and paper letters that are bursting with love but manage to keep it contained within the language. There are special surprises and gestures and maybe little presents that are designed to melt my heart, my resistance, my resolve. There may even be blatant, traditionally romantic, full-on Valentine-y events like sending flowers or dinners by candlelight, with neither the dinner nor the lighting design of my making. And in the most shameless of cases, there is highly sexualized behavior that doesn't involve making out or the actual sex act, and there are professions of "I love you."

None of this is out-of-the-ordinary for people who are Genuinely Interested in each other. But the difference is that nothing is ever said regarding the nature of our relationship, even though it is blatantly, obviously, almost embarrassingly so, so far beyond Just Friends. There is still plausible deniability because we do not have sex. Because sex would make it undeniable.

But what is happening is real. And I chose to trust. So I love and love and love with every last ounce of my sizable body.

And the relationship gets to a point where it is so intense and so intimate and so clearly beyond Just Friends that it is not only obvious to us, but to the whole world around us, and the conscious ignoring of what is so clearly happening between us starts to turn all the millions of little champagne bubbles of joy coursing though my body into millions of tiny, sharpened thorns pricking me all over until I can no longer bear it. And I have to say something about it. So I do. I say we need to talk about what is going on between us. That we need to make some decisions about it. Nothing too heavy--just opening the door. A verbal recognition of the truth.

And then there's this moment that hangs in the air. It wedges itself in between us where we sit on my couch, or sometimes it clogs the airwaves between our telephones. And while the responses vary, they usually follow the line of, "What makes you think something is happening?"

And I stay centered, because I understand the implications of admitting attraction to me, especially attraction with such intense emotional intimacy along side it. And I'll gently revisit some of our behaviors and conversations, and I'll gently note that that's a level of intimacy that Just Friends don't have, and that we should recognize that.

And sometimes there's a stuttering search for words--a "Holy shit! She actually said it!"--and sometimes there's a flip-flopping back and forth. In one case, for example, I was being held tightly in my Faux Boyfriend's arms, sitting on a bench on the promenade by the Irish Sea, where he confessed, "Of course, every time I see you, all I want to do is hold you and kiss you," and "I want to spend all of my time with you," and "Everything I've done this summer, I've done with you in mind." But the intensity of his confessions led him to backpedal into complete silence when I offered a simple, practical, "We just need to choose whether we're going to do something about this or not--that's all." It was met with more holding, but also more silence. No admission of anything.

But most often, after a bit of awkward sputtering on the guy's behalf, there's a blanket denial of anything happening that steps even the slightest bit beyond Just Friends. Which I know is a lie, and even the guy knows it's a lie as it is coming out of his mouth, but he never admits it's a lie. He most often says something like, "We're going to be in each other's lives forever" or "What we have is bigger than dating." Of course, the thing that is "bigger than dating" is love, plain as the nose on his face, but as long as he hides behind the safety of the Just Friends, there is nothing I can do.

Except break it off, that is. Because I'm not going to be some guy's Faux Girlfriend. I'm not going to be the safe, practice girl. And I'm certainly not going to be the girlfriend that he is too ashamed to call his girlfriend because of my outlaw body. I cannot give a man the intense intimacy that accompanies a romantic relationship without the official romance part. And of course by this time, I care about him so much that it feels like I'm cutting off my right arm when I let him go. And usually, I give him some kind of chance; I'll tell him that there are parts of me that he cannot have if we are not together, that there are parts that are reserved for the man I can love and depend on. I tell him that if he still wants to be in my life, he needs to figure out a way to adapt his behavior to remove the lover-y stuff. And really, you'd think that things like candlelight dinners and hand-holding and hair-stroking and waxing on about how amazing and beautiful I am and vows of "Someday, I'm going to be the one man you can really trust" would be pretty obvious modifications to make.

But they can never give up the loving intimacies. Because they want the loving intimacies. Because we are falling in love. (Or in like.) But the guy is too scared of the consequences, so he can't admit it. But he doesn't stop the boyfriend-y behavior. So I call it off with him. Because it breaks my heart to be in love with someone who is terrified of his love for me. And every single time, he will try some kind of desperate negotiating--trying to find some way to Have Me without admitting that he Wants Me. That will just break my heart further, showing just how much he buys into the social pressures that say He Should Not Want Me. It will become too much to bear. Because we both know the love, the like-like, is there, but I refuse to be a guy's dirty little secret. So I call it off. I usually say that I'd love to see him again if he can find some way to make it different, to change the dynamic, but that I can't continue on as his fake girlfriend.

Because I can't do it. It shatters my soul. Because each new leap of faith is harder, more terrifying. And when I meet a man I click with, the impulse to run away comes earlier and earlier because I am convinced I know what is going to happen. And the more sincere, the more genuine, the more dripping with love his actions are, the more I start to get nervous and weird because I think it will lead down the exact same Faux Boyfriend road. Because throughout my life, these ones who are relentless in their pursuit of me, tireless in their exploration of me, dead-set on gaining the trust of me...there has yet to be one of these guys who could handle what achieving their goals actually means. They become petrified at the implications of being with me.

And before these ideas just sound like the ramblings of a woman who is way, way too full of herself, I know all this because they've told me. My Faux Boyfriends. I got it straight from the mouths of the horses themselves. Anywhere from 9 months to 2 years after I've broken off contact with one of them, I get a call from him, or a letter, or a message relayed via a mutual friend.

I'll get an explicit, "I was falling in love with you, and it scared me. That's why I treated you that way" over the telephone two years later, along with an attempt to get back together.

I'll get an "I'm so, so sorry...I'll do anything to keep from losing you" after I am already long, long lost.

I'll get an "I always had such a major crush on you, you know" when we run into each other at a bar one year later. (And P.S. Um, yeah. I totally knew. That's what I was talking about.)

I'll get a "Lulu's the woman I should have married..." passed along to a mutual friend.

And on one hand, sure, it's nice to get confirmation that yes, I actually know what I'm talking about, that I totally know love when you're shooting it my way, sir. At the same time, it's infuriating since it's confirmation over and over and over that there is apparently no love that is powerful enough to transcend the boundaries of my body. No love strong enough to inspire a man to step up to the plate and face the social challenges of loving a big girl, by which I mean me. So instead I get entanglement after entanglement with guys who want me to give myself to them intensely, completely, whole-heartedly, the way that only a lover does, but leaving out the one part that would make it complete or "official" or undeniable, and incidentally, the only part that I feel entirely comfortable with: the sex. It's a clever game. And it's a game I always lose.

Since she was so determined, I was hoping that Shiawassee would be able to think me a way out of this phenomenon. Where's the weak link in the chain? Where is the part where I flip the page in this Choose Your Own Adventure Novel that is my Faux Boyfriend Phenomenon? Because you can't just say, at the first spark of sexual chemistry, "Okay, I need to know if you're okay with the fact that you're sexually attracted to me." Talk about emasculating. But I can't just hide out forever and assume that no one is man enough for the challenge, either.

For once, Shiawassee was stumped. Clearly fear is the central issue in the Faux Boyfriend Phenomenon, but neither of us could quite put our collective finger on what the fear really is:

Is it a fear of loving someone with such physical magnitude?

Or is it fear that all of that space is filled to bursting with such a fierce love?