On Opposite-Sex Friendships

Comments on friendship, contained within a dangerous horny-post, performed while balancing on high-wire.

May 02, 2025

I’m friends with a few women from my past—some that I’ve fucked; others that never got to that point, all because of existing relationships at the time. I’m not talking about chicks I was orbiter to (yes even I have done that), those never turn into friendships, you’ve been warned. These are not that. Most are now friendships of correspondence, perhaps the key ingredient that I will never revisit.

Almost all of these women are aesthetically minded, high IQ, and all of them get extremely wet when they encounter a good metaphor.

I sometimes see my female friends all toge… oh who am I kidding, hot people in the post header, rule number one. (Credit: APG Graphics)

One Such Friend

One such friend most embodies this kind of relationship. We never fucked. I met her through my girlfriend at the time; her boyfriend was becoming a close friend of mine then. The girls were literally longtime childhood friends. Even if we had both been single, I feel like I probably would’ve been friendzoned by her.

We text a few times a year, and this accounts for the substantive parts of our extremely intermittent conversations. We sometimes send each other writing that we enjoy, briefly rant to one another on the state of modernity, or just share shit we are into.

If memory serves, I think I once made out with my girlfriend while she was tangled up with us on a couch—and I might’ve tried to tell my young self I’d kinda had a threesome for a month before the delusion wore off. Then I eventually came to have a genuine, sapphically-tilted threesome and can now laugh about my attempt to fraudulently amplify this moment in my ambitious youthful mind.

Here’s some tasteful sapphic-themed art to take the edge off. It bears relation only to the completely random anecdote that I just told you which has absolutely nothing to do with the thrust of this piece. Let’s see if this triggers substacks prude filter (always be learning):

One time, a nosy, paranoid ex of mine accused me of having erotic feelings for this woman, and I guess she wasn’t wrong. But it’s a twice-a-year text relationship—barely anything even then. Sure, airplanes exist, but my words don’t carry such potency, and I don’t think she knows how much hotter I’ve gotten (I don’t use social media).

And Yet

Were we local to one another right now, and freed of our respective obligations to others, I like to think that we would fuck—and that it would be an exceptionally beautiful display. Two erotic and aesthetic minds finally unleashing on one another after two decades; both of us a bit surprised at the frisson of finally connecting, albeit in totally different ways. Her, confused into high arousal by her attraction to the awkward boy she once knew who is now fully a man; I, overcome by the mild but long-lasting feelings of erotic frustration finally clearing like an unclogged pipe.

Alas, I think she might be starting a family at the last minute—good for her. I hardly know her anymore, but from what I remember of her, I think she would make a world-class mother, and it would be a shame for her not to do so. I find these friendships to be best served by talking about the world and not our worlds; I really don’t know hardly anything about her life, nor she about mine, and I think that’s mostly for the best.

I think this rough framework actually sets the right architecture for genuine opposite-sex friendships—one that is based primarily on shared interests (aesthetics and heterodox thinking in our case) and a sort of “didn’t happen before but probably could today,” type vibe. There’s a kind of crossing of these two people in the middle of life that happens, as age and experience do what they do differently to men and women.

This is a kind of extreme low-potency, long-distance, longterm arousal for what might’ve been—she for you as you are now (so very different and nothing like she remembers); you for her exactly as you remember her then.

On the two or three times a year we have a text conversation, it usually lasts a day or two. I must shamefully confess that, long ago, after one such conversation, I took to the algorithms of sex and sought out a woman in her likeness. (Does it make it less or more terrifying and horrible if I admit to having done this on one other occasion regarding another of my female friends?)

But when her facsimile and I spoke to one another, it was, of course, nothing like what I know the conversation would be like with my actual friend, and so it was a disappointment all around—because the truth is, her mind, though I barely know it at all anymore, is what I thin makes me most horny for her. As for whether or not I closed my eyes during sex and used my imagination, even I have limits. Use yours.

On Female Aesthetes

There is something about the female aesthete that stirs in me the urge to eat pussy with reckless abandon—something that often feels emotionally unsafe in today’s modern world, at least with low quality casual sex partners. Even in a longterm relationship it can become problematic without guardrails. It is as though a woman who understands beauty is more capable of truly appreciating the gift.

I want to believe that the female aesthete is less wont to let it make her think less of your masculinity and is instead capable of transmogrifying your being between her legs into the most masculine act.

There’s a kind of security felt with female aesthetes that allows one to feel a bit safer in desiring to give more than to receive without it destroying the polarity. I am drawn to women like this. There’s something freeing in being able to relax one’s frame a bit, act a bit more androgynously mentally, and assume the improper role as an appetizer—only to rise moments later and be able to serve her the full masculine entrée with no hint of contradiction present in her eyes.

Further Detours On Hands And Dick

It’s been years since I’ve seen this chick in person. Look at me trying to deflect the cringe—excuse me, this friend, I mean. It’s been years since I’ve seen this friend in person, but I believe she had exceptionally beautiful hands; that’s usually a prerequisite for me in any given female association, so that would make sense.

Beautiful hands are one of the surest signs of beautiful nipples, breasts, pussy, etc., so that would be a nice bonus in this, gulp, fantasy.

NOTE: I am slowly building the blocks of this Cheirophilitic theory of everything as it relates to female beauty. See On Breasts and On Lilies for two critical building blocks recently published.

Beautiful mind and hands are the clearest signs of beautiful everything else in a woman—use this information wisely and kindly, please. Anyway, enough about my fantasies of eating my friend’s pussy; she might be reading this in the office, in a cubicle with no real means of outlet for many hours. Not many women receive Houellebecqian LARP prose (that’s a dangerous self-suck if ever there was one) in their inbox during the workday. Even fewer receive it knowing seventy-five others might also be reading it.

NOTE: Like and Restack this post on Substack to increase the potential potency of this pieces’ arousal and/or creepy factor.

When we text, I sometimes wonder if she fantasizes about fucking me—or if I’m frozen in time in her mind’s eye as the twenty-two-year-old awkward-looking beta that I was back then: a funny, clever man, but not one you’d wanna fuck. I like to think that she has observed enough men around her and seen some of them blossom into men—either through concerted effort or the gift of natural aging—and I wonder whether or not she has ever imagined me naked, maybe even hard, even if it’s only in those brief moments when my name randomly appears on her iPhone twice a year.

It’s not a cannon by any means, but it’s been referred to as “the most beautiful penis I’ve ever seen,” by at least half a dozen women by now (without prompting), something I suspect most men cannot relate to. So I like to think that as a true aesthete she would appreciate it even more than most.

Cowardly Caveat: This post will seem like an alarming combination of horny-posting and simping or whatever they call it, and who knows, maybe it is. But really, I think it’s just that I’m using these horny memories to inspire and inform the subject of this article. Let’s continue with the cringe, go much deeper.

The Old Persons Village

I sometimes like to think that if tragedy befell us both, God would somehow use his control of fate to bestow upon us both a special surprise near the end of life—that he would put us in the same retirement community, unbeknownst to one another at first, each totally alone, somewhat sad, and afraid about having managed to find such lonely ends. But then, glimpsing sight of one another on the walking paths after decades of having forgotten one another, we would quickly fall in love and have beautiful old-person sex twice a day until we expired gracefully—me first, her two months later. I think of it as akin to that movie in which Chris Pratt wakes Jennifer Lawrence out of cryosleep, minus the, “wtf you woke me up! I’ll never forgive you.”

We would spend hours reading in the same room together, share gems we find on the internet, and she would teach me about art and photography, the nuances of gardening; I would thrill her with my exceptional conversational skills, my deep knowledge of history, and give instruction on the finer aspects of the female form to and about her.

These moments would be punctuated by prolonged and frequent readings aloud (by me to her) as she lay snuggled in my arms. She would never once ask me to wrap it up, instead allowing me to get my fill reciting another man’s words every single time—not out of a desire to please me, but from her own insatiable thirst for knowledge and beauty.

I like to think we would exist in a small, cozy place, made beautiful by her exquisite sense of taste; our place would be the envy of the unaesthetic old crones all about the small retirement village, who would shun her out of resentment for her refined taste and lack of children, which would only serve to drive her and I ever closer together.

Though it is evocative of feelings of loneliness to ponder the end without children or a true spouse, I think that, in many ways, we would be the least lonely couple in that community—a product of squeezing many lost decades into the last one.

Self-Consciousness

Given that this post was inspired by one of our twice-annual text conversations that culminated in—okay, fine, our text reconnect was actually initiated by me self-doxxing this new Substack publication to her yesterday, and yes, she’s a subscriber now, so this post is either gonna implode in embarrassment or somehow find a way to soar, there is no in between.

Despite the horniness laced throughout, this is really just motivated by a perfectly rational longing to be read by her or anyone really. Now that I’ve gotten a taste for for what it feels like to be read these past two weeks I can’t stop. But I do wonder if this post will now destroy that friendship forever—or if maybe she’ll kinda get it, or who knows, maybe even really get it.

NOTE: Once again, please smash that like and restack button to tell her how she should feel!

I know that she understands the written word extremely well—certainly enough to, at a minimum, enjoy this for what it is. But that may be separate and apart from the evoked feelings of ick and creepy it elicits. I understand that the appreciation for the thing is separate from the feelings aroused by the thing.

On balance, I feel that the very intermittent nature of our friendship and the possibility of its destruction is just not worth enough for me to keep these brilliant thoughts away from my subscribers and, maybe, the broader world.

No that’s not true. I do value the friendship, I hope a why not both can exist in the aftermath of this dangerous exercise.

After all, what I actually want—much more than a brief encounter with this beautiful woman from my past—is for her and many others to read me; because really, that is the actual connection between us, insofar as it exists at all. We read and understand each others intermittent thoughts. And I think that’s part of what helps unlock the key to some opposite-sex friendships. These friendships allow us to be seen in a way that neither same-sex friend nor lover can really provide—the thoughts we occasionally share with the opposite-sexed friends are often qualitatively different and require special outlets.

Daring To Horny-Post

I think this topic will resonate with others, even if it terrifies or disgusts her. The contents of our life are grist for the mill, as they say; that’s just the fact of writing. I don’t know how people write about goblins and orcs—my skill level is too low, I guess.

Today, I say damn the consequences and I bravely dare to horny-post with reckless abandon in hopes that all of you readers will extract something deeper from this or at least get some voyeuristic enjoyment out of my self-immolation.

AGAIN: A shameless call to action. Please leave comments like “I am a gigachad who has never experienced unfulfilled desires whatsoever, and yet this essay still manages to resonate with me.” Beautiful women, a simple “really get it,” will be more than adequate. Thank you.

I am trying to resist the urge to defend myself at all; I don’t think there’s any need for self-consciousness on here. But writing on the internet often forces us to be too mindful of the ackhsually / you’re a loser crowd.

Just yesterday, I was tidying up an article in which I believe I have accidentally proven pussy mathematically and found myself worrying about whether I should re-word the phrasing, “her clitoris is now visible to us,” and thought, for longer than I should like to admit, about whether I needed to rephrase it lest I get skewered in the comments by the unensouled and the inexperienced.

We must fight this urge at all turns. If this horny-post finds its way to all of you in your inboxes, it means that I have successfully fought away this urge for self-censorship.

Back On Message

Overall, I feel that opposite-sexed friendships can sometimes be genuine, though, of course, they always have some sense of frustrated erotic desire coursing through them somewhere. But it really only works if life circumstances make it so that the contours of the erotic components serve only as faint background, and the shape of its arc must be quite specific.

Meeting when both of you are dating other people is good soil for this type of friendship in my opinion. Even better if one of you then moves away. Some casual friendships with women can exceed even those of some of our deep male friendships in a variety of ways—although I do grant that this is probably not very true for many normie men who lack more feminine interests or refined tastes.

These kinds of friendships often come to us through a healthy lack of erotic possibility in the beginning, which then converges on a maybe in middle age, and are augmented by distance, and the transformation of the two people, which cannot be seen through the blue bubbles.

In moments of deeper consideration than is perhaps advisable, it coalesces into a vague but almost certain sense of absolutely when we ponder the possibility of ever needing a consolation-prize-type arrangement in our golden years. Should families and spouses not emerge and the boundaries between the two of you somehow collapse.

In some ways, I think writing publicly might be a good way to keep in touch with these types of friends—even better if they themselves also write. Although posts exactly like this are a high wire act that I’m not sure I’d recommend.

Writing publicly can act as a sort of asynchronous, indirect communication that can allow one to check-in on the other voyeuristically without the other necessarily knowing. And then maybe it can occasionally prompt a “you were so right about that,” text or something of the sort.

Other times though, as may end up bering the case this time, it could lead to a “Dude, I would never. Get over yourself, we are just friends, and now you’ve ruined that you fucking creep.” Only time will tell.

Thanks for reading today’s overdose of cringe. I promise it won’t be too frequent. Clearly, I found the courage to hit send.

The real question though… did I leave the facsimile anecdote in?

A Note On Timing:

This article was conceived of and written the morning of May 2, not a moment before that. This may be extremely relevant to one of you. I was on the cusp of writing and publishing Hot People Don’t Wear Underwear, when struck with these thoughts this morning.

While I wrote the first half, I thought, “No way can I publish this one day after the self-dox,” but by the second half, it became clear that there’s no time like the present—consequences be damned.

I am greedy to keep the momentum going after On Breasts: The Hang Coefficient. And while I think Hot People Don’t Wear Underwear will be of interest to many of you, this horny-post probably has a better chance of quenching my thirst for more subscriptions.