I thought–somewhere in the confused mess my mind had suddenly become–that maybe he just meant it hurt to hang out with me because he really cared about me, and wanted to step back because he didn’t want to expose himself to more hurt. And I readied myself to say that if he wanted to take the relationship further I’d be willing to try–was interested in trying. Because I still thought he actually liked me, you see. I still thought my friend Jose was actually my friend, that he’d spent all those hours on the phone with me because he liked talking to me.

I was wrong.

Before I could say my little piece, Jose informed me that no, in fact, I was a selfish bitch. That my ego was crazy and out-of-control. That the slightly drunken singing I’d been doing that evening was annoying, and made him sick. That he didn’t want to be around me–that nobody wanted to be around me, that everyone was irritated with me because I didn’t care about anyone but myself. That if I wasn’t interested in sleeping with him I shouldn’t have wasted his time like that and used him like that (at this point I will mention that the man never ran errands for me or bought me so much as a beer, it’s not like I made him take me out to expensive restaurants every night or paint my living room. Not that it would be okay if I had, but still). That he was sick of me using him to feed my own ego and sick of me stepping all over him and sick of me leading him on.

I mentioned this–okay, ranted about it a bit–on Twitter last night. And a couple of people asked me if I told him to fuck off or whatever. No, I didn’t. I was too busy crying. I was too busy feeling sick. I’d apparently hurt someone I cared about, and worse than that, I’d been stupid enough to think he cared about me, too. This was a man who knew so much about me, that I’d opened up to so much, and now he was telling me not only how little that meant to him but that every bad thought I’d ever had about myself, every fear, every bit of self-loathing, was right. That I was right to feel like maybe something was wrong with me, because there was. That maybe I was right to think people didn’t like me, because they didn’t. That I was such a lousy judge of character that I’d believed he liked me, that he was right to tell me I was an ego-mad bitch because hey, my ego had led me to think this guy actually liked me and he hadn’t.

I even seem to recall asking him at one point why he was doing this to me, telling him that I was sorry for whatever it was that I’d done, that I didn’t mean to hurt him. That I thought we were friends, I thought he liked me. And he basically said no, he hadn’t liked me, why would he, when all I ever cared about was myself. He was there because he wanted to fuck me, and if I wasn’t going to let him do that he really had no further use for me.

I don’t remember how it ended; I don’t remember how I got home. I just remember crying, and feeling sick and ashamed and horrified. At myself. Yeah, I knew he was being an asshole, but I also felt like it was my fault. Because when someone tells you that all your worst fears about yourself are true, you believe it. When someone confirms for you that very bad thing you’ve ever thought about yourself is true, you believe it. Especially when it’s someone you really like, someone you respect. When someone you think really knows you, understands you, tells you that yes, you really are that bad?

I honestly can’t think of many things in my life that hurt more than that. Of course there are things. But that night is definitely up there.

That’s what that Nice Guy I “left in the friend zone” did to me.

And you know what? It’s not the only time it ever happened. Yes, it’s the only time it was that dramatic, that painful. But it wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last that some guy who wanted to be more than friends got pissed off at me because I didn’t feel the same.

But that’s also not the point.

Here’s the thing, guys. That “friend zone” you think you shouldn’t be in? Women get put into it, too. All the fucking time. I spent most of my high school career being a friend, while the guy I was crazy about chased after one bitch-who-treated-him-like-shit after another. Oh, they always liked me and cared about me; why wouldn’t they? I was the one who held their heads while they puked up Everclear and cried about some other girl. I was the one who’d give them a ride to the latest bitch’s house because it meant I get to spend ten more minutes hanging out with them. Don’t act like you men have a monopoly on that shit, because you don’t.

But here’s the thing, too. Being treated that way? Was my own goddamn fault. They used me because I let them use me. I was the one who tried to be their friend, I was the one who was convinced that if I was open and caring and let them know–in a non-creepy way–how much I thought they deserved happiness and wonderful things, that they’d realize I was the one who could provide it. That was me, not them. They took my offer of friendship at face value; I told them I was their friend, and they believed me, and the only person I can blame for that is me for not having a little more self-respect, for not removing myself from a painful situation, for not being clear in the beginning that I wasn’t Polly Pally.

And for not accepting, very early on when it became clear that their feelings for me were not what mine were for them, that nothing I did would change that. I didn’t turn around and decide all those men were using bastards just because they didn’t want to kiss me, just because they let me drive them home. I didn’t decide that they owed me sex because I drove them home, either. I didn’t bitch about how dare they shove me into the “friend zone” after all I’d done for them.

See, those women you’re crazy about but who don’t feel the same way about you? That imbalance there? That means you’re not right for each other. Period. If you were right for each other, something would have happened; something would be happening. If you were right for each other you would both feel sparks. Seriously.

Yes, we all know the whole Some-Kind-of-Wonderful story where the one person realizes that the other person is their True Love and has been all along. That doesn’t happen very often in real life. If at all. Let me tell you something: my husband and I worked together for a couple of years before we got together. We were Just Friends. But there were always sparks there. They were sparks we ignored, yes, for various reasons. But they were there. The chemistry was there. And we both knew it. As did everyone else who knew us, frankly.

“Oh-ho!” you say. “But Stacia, look at your Jose story above! You’re saying that if he’d just been a little more patient he probably would have gotten into your pants! YOU didn’t realize right away that he was right for you!” Yes. I am. But again, there were in fact sparks there. And yes, the fact that if he’d just been a little more patient he would have gotten somewhere illustrates my point, which is that if something is meant to happen it will, and if nothing happens you’re not right for each other. Keep in mind the whole Jose thing from start to finish was under two months; hardly a long time for two busy people who don’t live particularly close to each other–Kendall to Ft. Lauderdale is a good hour and a half drive. Hardly a long time for someone cautious and unsure of what she’s doing and what she feels. Keep in mind, too, that if Jose had actually made a damn move sooner, instead of waiting and letting his entitled rage build until he had to tell me I was a manipulative bitch, he probably would have gotten somewhere, too. Hey, I suspected he was interested in more, but suspecting doesn’t mean knowing it for sure, and he’d never even touched me when we hung out together alone at my place. So I’d pretty much assumed he was just as confused as me, and just as interested in not putting pressure on anything, in waiting, in just enjoying each others’ company.

Which is another problem with the “friend zone.” The “friend zone” implies that women have some kind of cold and calculating plan, that we are solely in control of how a relationship goes, and that we know, right off the bat, how we feel about a particular man. Guess what? We don’t. We just don’t. Not always. Sometimes we’re confused. Sometimes we’re afraid. Sometimes we’re not sure how we feel, if we can trust how we feel. Sometimes, quite frankly, we’re going through a pretty rough patch, and we’re kind of fucked up and don’t know what we want. And hey, you know what? Sometimes we don’t know how you feel about us.

It’s not like being a woman means all men fall at our feet just by virtue of us possessing vaginas. It’s not like being a woman means that every man we meet wants us or that it gives us some sort of supreme confidence that means we instantly know when a man is interested. We often have some idea, sure. Some idea. Not a certainty. And not all the time. Nowhere near all the time. I can’t count the number of times I’ve met a man who flirted with me and flattered me and then mentioned his girlfriend. I can’t count the number of times that’s happened to friends of mine. It’s just the way it goes. That’s life. It doesn’t make those men jerks–well, not all of them. It just means that sometimes in life our romantic feelings aren’t returned, and we need to grow a fucking pair and deal with that instead of whining and acting like paying attention to someone means we’re entitled to love or sex.

Now, let me back up a tad here to make something clear. I LOVE men. I do. I’ve always gotten along better with men than with women, always had more male friends than female. I’m not saying all men think this way. I’m certainly not saying all women are innocent and perfect, either. There absolutely are women out there who use and manipulate, who take advantage of a man’s interest and attraction to get him to do things for her. I’ve seen them in action. And that is wrong, absolutely. Using and manipulating people is wrong.

But in my experience–just my experience–those women tend to make it pretty clear early on exactly what type of woman they are. Which means you have no one to blame but yourself for not reading the signs. Here’s a hint: are you constantly spending money on her because you think it’ll get you somewhere? Are you constantly doing favors for her because you think it’ll get you somewhere? And she never reciprocates? But you keep doing it, because you think if you do eventually she’ll come around and sleep with you? Are you doing that, are you seeing your relationship with her like that?

A friendship is a give-and-take. I used to have lots of male friends; did I let them buy me dinner? You bet. Did I occasionally buy them dinner? Again, you bet. Because that’s a friendship. They bought me drinks; I bought them drinks. They drove me places; I drove them places. Sure, maybe they did more of it. That’s not the point. It doesn’t have to be a perfectly reciprocal arrangement. But in a friendship one person is not always the giver, and one always the taker. Maybe you usually pay for dinner, and she lets you and doesn’t pay herself. But maybe she occasionally cooks you dinner. Maybe she invites you to a movie and pays for everything. Maybe she sees a book she thinks you’d like and buys it for you. Like I said, friendship is reciprocal; if she always lets you pay, then yeah, you’re essentially taking her on dates, and if she’s not allowing anything physical to happen then she may very well be using you.