Three Men, Flirting Callowness, And A Stubborn Lady

Midnight.

“You’re flirting with me,” the young, barely pubescent man quipped as I adorned his lap.

I felt my face contort, my quizzical expression seemingly unjustifiable as I straddled him in the middle of the raucous house party. People were watching his insistence as much as they hung off my denial. Our battle of wills had replaced any other entertainment.

And, within the small confines of the suburban Melbourne backyard, the debate was raging without an end in sight.

“I’m not flirting with you.” His pelvis moved, evidence he disagreed with me. Even if I thought I wasn’t flirting, his body sure thought I was.

“Fine,” I objected, my stubborn tone undeniable. “Think what you want.”

Three months earlier.

Peter was one of those guys I met during forgettable circumstances. If it wasn’t for the fact he introduced himself to me three times in half an hour, I doubted I would have remembered his name. Peter, Peter, Peter.

The party was one of many at the time: a friend of a friend’s birthday drinks at a little bar in the Melbourne backstreets.

I was eighteen, and the men and women in our party were the same age. We shared a muted conversation: simple greetings, comments on the music playing in the pub, and inquiries about who was drinking what.

The discussions involving Peter and I were far from memorable, especially as I was smitten with his attractive, swarthy friend, Angelo Bortano. Even though I’m happily married, the thought of the flirtation with Angelo, to this day, reminds me of young fireworks between two unrequited lovers.

The idea of Peter being involved in such explosions of passion and the desire penetrating my young loins repulses me. He was no Angelo, nor did he ever command my attention like his friend did.

Peter’s unforgettable demeanour meant our first night in each other’s company was quite the fizzer.

Surrounding Peter and Angelo in the bar was a myriad of their friends. They were part of a group of boys who went to a neighbouring school to mine. There were ten of them and ten of us girls — a match made in pubescent heaven.

Peter wasn’t the only boy I met from this group. Aside from Angelo, I remembered only one other: Weston. With his tall, uncouth curly hair and slightly parted front teeth, Weston didn’t resemble the other boys. He looked more like a man, comfortable around us women, too.

Weston darted in and out of conversations at the right moments, listening intently for tidbits and reporting them to gossipmongers wanting to understand what was happening. Peter was one of those in the wings.

Weston’s presence didn’t bother me, with my romantic blinkers firmly fixed upon Angelo. In hindsight, I should have watched for those lurking in the background.

One month earlier.

A girl doesn’t enter the dating world harbouring the assumption she will be the other woman one day. It isn’t a role she aspires to fill.

Despite this, I found myself (not volunteering) playing the other woman’s role for Angelo. I thought our kissing and physicality were an expression of romance and genuine desire, not the stuff of a tawdry affair I would soon forget.

Worst of all, I was unaware of Angelo’s girlfriend’s presence until another friend of a friend broke the news to me. He couldn’t even tell me himself.

As I contemplated this heartache, I was not alone.

Peter was one of the witnesses to this conversation, where I learned my blissful relationship was nothing more than a cheap affair.

It was pure coincidence that he happened to be overhearing, but at least he could hear my devasted reaction and experience my youthful heartbreak firsthand. There would be no denying in Peter’s mind I had eyes for his friend, Angelo, and not for him.

Peter offered me a short condolence, a gentle pat on my back. It was more than the apology I never received from Angelo. This gesture was an extension of friendship, I reasoned at the time, enough of a justification to learn his name and remember to use it the next time we socialized.

Weston was also listening, as it turns out. He wasn’t forthcoming on the day it all went down, instead reserving his offer of condolence once he and I were alone. These included messages offering to go to lunch, phone calls at all hours, and sympathetic gestures to ensure I survived my heartache. Weston was the perfect friend.

At least not all of these boys acted with disregard for my feelings, I reasoned privately. Peter seemed to understand, and Weston quickly became my best friend. How could I be that upset?

An hour earlier.

It’s not one of my finest hours, admitting I went to a party without knowing whose house it was or who hosted the soiree.

My girlfriends going with me promised they knew whose place it was, and we would assimilate with the other guests without anyone being the wiser. They were wrong. The host immediately questioned our invitation and almost kicked us to the curb.

I learned that evening how easy it is to persuade a young man to allow additional guests into his home once he realizes it’s a pack of single girls in short skirts.

It doesn’t hurt when you present him with a bottle of cheap champagne, a liquid lubricant, for his generosity, too.

I remember giving up my swag, knowing I had enough to drink during our journey to the party.

At such a young age, I didn’t need anything more, a regretful decision I made once I saw who was at the party. Angelo stood among the kind faces of Peter and Weston, unable to remove his smug expression the whole evening.

He had pulled the wool over my eyes.

He had successfully had his way with me and maintained the relationship with his girlfriend. Once he saw my perturbed expression, I realized I had satisfied his ego. And once he had the upper hand over me, I needed another drink — a big one.

Ten minutes earlier.

It’s an Australian thing to stir the pot. We have a knack for spotting susceptible victims, those prone to frustration from simple mocking or convincing dares. And I was the target of Weston’s jocularity the night of the party.

Of course, as a friend of Angelo and Peter’s, Weston witnessed my affair, observed Peter’s sympathy, and knew how willing I was to do anything to get my mind off the heartache.

We had spoken about it at length a few days earlier over one of our secret coffee dates. As the night progressed, Weston quickly reminded me of this conversation.

“You want to show Angelo you don’t care about him?”

I nodded with great fury, desperate to do and say anything to avoid my one-time lover from having the upper hand.

“What do I have to do?”

In hindsight, the satisfied smirk on Weston’s face mimicked Angelo’s, but I didn’t concern myself in my inebriated state. Instead, I fixated on his suggestion.

“Go over to Peter,” sitting on a lounge at the party’s heart, “And sit on his lap.”

Thinking twice wasn’t an option. I shoved my empty drink container into Weston’s hand, marched over to Peter, and plonked myself on top of him. Straddling him. Face to face. The party stopped and watched, all eyes upon us.

Peter stared at me. “What are you doing?”

I giggled. “Just saying hello.” I couldn’t admit I had perched myself based on an immature dare.

“No,” he began to argue. “You’re flirting with me.”

Eleven hours later.

“So, you and Peter, huh?” Weston started to hum a lame, uninspiring porn soundtrack while pretending to gyrate in his chair. “Just drink your coffee.”

Weston didn’t stop berating me despite my request. “No, I’m serious. You and him at Jeremy’s party.” So the host had a name, I found out. It was his couch I found Peter sitting on.

“I mean, you obviously want him.” My head was beyond pounding; my brain was attempting to evacuate itself from my ears. My dehydration wasn’t admirable, nor was it something I planned to repeat anytime soon.

“Why do I obviously want him?”

“You know what you did.” Weston raised an eyebrow as he sipped his latte. “You know you were flirrrr-ting with him.”

I couldn’t contain my frustration; the man who put me up to this social experiment accused me of flirting when he knew what I was doing. “Are you kidding me? I did exactly what you told me to do.”

“I didn’t tell you to flirt with him.”

I felt the warble in my voice crack. “I didn’t flirt with Peter.”

“Yes, you did.” Weston was beginning to sound like Peter, adamant that he knew my behaviours better than I did. My so-called friend also reminded me of Angelo, my brief affair, who was gaining immense satisfaction from watching my romantic struggles.

What was happening? How were these men getting the better of me? How did I become trapped in this immature game of flirting? Was this a preview of the battle of the sexes I was forewarned about in my adolescence?

Two weeks later.

Undeniably, he wasn’t happy with me approaching him so directly. Standing at the bar alongside Angelo and Weston, Peter tried to avoid eye contact with me.

Talk about a full circle moment; here we were, face to face, in the same place we first met, where our misunderstanding initiated. My private hopes were this would be the place to end them.

“Can we talk?” I asked him after trying to offer him a polite hug. “Mmm.”

I didn’t know what his murmuring meant. “Can we talk privately?”

He shook his head. “Let’s stay where everyone can see us.” I rolled my eyes. “Are you serious?” This entire situation was getting out of control. “Do you really think I’m trying to get into your pants?”

“Yeah, I do. You were all over me at the party.”

I looked at the poorly dressed pubescent guy with his uncoolly gel-slicked hair and old jeans. I looked at how he stood there, like he owned the bar and the people, like he owned me.

Like he was better than me.

Like any girl who wanted to converse with him was trying to sleep with him.

I needed to clarify how flirtation worked in the real world. A woman sitting on your lap didn’t equate to flirting, especially considering the circumstances. A woman telling you she’s not flirting with you isn’t up for debate. You can’t convince her you know her intentions better than her.

Instead of explaining my logic, I felt the pain of rejection, another blow from this group of boys.

“And what would be so wrong with the idea that I did? Are you that repulsed by me?”

Peter didn’t know which way to look. He was too busy being terrified at the idea of a woman fancying him and then having to let her down that he didn’t consider my feelings. “I guess it wouldn’t be wrong.”

I pushed my hands onto my hips and puffed out my chest.

“You guess? Grow up, Peter,” I exclaimed.

Swivelling on my heels, I trotted away from Peter and his friends and out of the bar. I was wondering what point I was trying to make with my exit. I didn’t feel like I had the upper hand.

Yet, it ended the conversation and set the tone for my friendships with these yet-to-mature men.

I wasn’t taking their shit.

Postscript.

Despite remaining friends with these boys for another three years, Peter never spoke to me after the night at the bar.

It was for the best. He could never accuse me of flirting again.

I never accepted another of Weston’s dares. I quit being his best friend when he lied about having an affair with my female best friend, Anne. It was evidence he could never be trusted.

And Angelo and I hooked up again. Twice more. On the second occasion, we decided to become boyfriend and girlfriend.

We broke up fourteen minutes later.