Don’t fall for that bullshit. That language merely makes her feel better, and pops you in a ribbon-wrapped box of friendship that’s easy for her to open and occasionally poop in. It gives her the superficial security that friends give each other: no-pressure, like-each-other, be-there-for-you bollocks.
You are friends, sure.
But first you are business partners and lovers.
Hollywood has again fucked with your head. A thousand rom-coms have salted your brain in a preserving barrel of feminine brine. You believe that the perfect woman is out there. Your Soulmate, decked out in a sultry little black dress, ready with witty one-liners and enough charm to bring a dead orca back to life. She knows you. Everything about you. Your fondest memories, your ticklish spot. She knows how to surprise you, gets the present you wanted without you even telling her.
Movies have told you this woman is your Best Friend. And, unbelievably, it’s always the male character who says it, at the altar. Or to one of his mates. Or to her on the couch. It’s always the same. And it stinks like a tartan pile of dirty flannies.
So you meet said perfect girl. There is only one question that needs asking: Can you be completely, 100%, hand-on-heart, sauté-a-baby-in-onions-if-I-mitigate-at-all honest with the girl?
If you can, congratulations. You have won the feminine lottery of the millennia and deserve a place in history alongside Attila and the guy who invented the penny-farthing. Which is a pretty good thing.
For the rest of us, Men are the best friends required.
Blokes. Best mates ever.
One of the greatest things about being a man is the potential quality of a man’s friendships. Once a certain point of confidence is reached, a man chooses his closest friends with great care based on their honesty, their attitudes, and their accomplishments. These friendships are pure diamond. Brutally hard, vibrant, cutting and beautiful. A good friend pushes you. He is incredibly honest. He makes you laugh.
He holds a view of the world distinctly different from your own while still accepting and even encouraging that difference.
Sit down with your mates and discuss cooking children, ironing porn and off-colour jokes and no one will bat an eyelid. Does your wife know about that?
You may read this and think I am a misogynist. I am not. I love my wife heartily. She is an incredible woman. But though we share a house and children and a bed, she is not and cannot be my best friend. She simply cannot, through basic biology, understand my most basic function: that of being a man.
My Best Friends MUST be men. The women in my life cannot understand what it is like to have a hard cock, or to feel the fire of Jupiter running in my veins. They cannot know about the passion to strive, to fight, to want to endure pain hardship and incredible anxiety for only a possibility of success.
In my life, only another man can understand.
This poster illustrates the difference between men and women. To a woman only a stranger would dare be truly honest to her face. Meanwhile, her friend is only truly honest about her to other people behind her back. Only then, when all honesty has been used up, do her best friends ensure that nothing real ever gets shown. They can share only those air-filled platitudes which collapse upon transmission like a shiny, useless soap bubble.
There is a profound saying that sums up a man’s Best Friend:
Best friends stab each other in the front.
Brutal honesty is only possible with a friend who is a man. And if something bothers you about your friend, you better make damn sure he knows about it from you.