The Boy has been referencing this book in our conversations for some time now, and I've just been going along with it based on nothing more than a vague understanding gleaned from Wikipedia, so I've decided to watch the film tonight. Sadly, all this has allowed me to do is read what I suspect is far too deeply into the similarities between himself and Valmont, myself and Merteuil, and our respective relationships. It would be rather nice to believe that all his other dalliances with girls were merely out of some sport or boredom, and that I was the one he really wanted, but unfortunately I don't think this is the case. (Well, the second part, anyway; I know him well enough to know that the first part is at least partially true.)
It has been long since established that talking to him isn't that good for my mental well-being or sanity. I sometimes feel that he picks me up and puts me down again to suit him; I will often get messages along the lines of "I'm bored / waiting for a train / have a spare half hour before the gym - entertain me", and I will be expected to jump to like a performing monkey. And I actually do it! It's like I can't help myself. He also often sends me pictures of clothes he's thinking of buying for my input, or pictures of his suit so I can judge the cut and fit, but when I send him a picture of a new haircut I'm thinking of going for, he seems to be unable to summon up anything beyond the barest amount of interest.
If he was actually my boyfriend, or anything had ever actually happened between us beyond a drunken cuddle on a sofa at a party, then I'd like to think I'd give up and cut him loose. (If he was my friend's boyfriend, I would DEFINITELY be advising this course of action.) But he isn't. I'm not sure what we are, really. We haven't even kissed. In fact we've only actually met in person about 6 times, and the first two of those I was too drunk to even remember him being there. As a result of this, the third time we met, it took me fifteen minutes to remember his name (tad awkward as he was sitting right next to me, talking to me).
Technically, I guess we're friends. This really seems to bug my brother, whose friend he really is first. (They were at uni together, which is how I met him. While I was going out with another of my brother's friends from uni. Less said the better really.) But the Boy and I have become friends in our own right, and we certainly talk a lot more and know a lot more about each other than he and my brother do. Although there aren't many of my friends I am in almost daily contact with (apart from my workmates, I suppose), who I stay up talking until 2am with, and who sent me torso shots of them wearing their latest purchases for my sartorial judgement. So maybe we're more than friends? We're not friends with benefits (oh, if only; it's getting to the point where I am envious of television characters who have sex, let alone people in real life) because we never see each other. I guess you could call it a romantic interest, but there's very little flirtation between us beyond the occasional comment - not for my want of trying.
All my friends think talking to him is a bad idea. Deep down, I suspect they're right. But part of me - the part that wants to live a little dangerously - keeps encouraging me. Something has got to come of it eventually.
Right?
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