Most of my life, okay, all of my life, I’ve always been “one of the guys”, a tomboy, the wing-girl, the girl that the guys at the bar cozy up to, talk to in order to get into the pants of the girls that I’m hanging out with. Or the gal that the guys hung out with because I was easy to talk to and could make them look “safe” to the gals they were checking out when we were at the local pub catching a game. And I’ve always enjoyed that role, particularly when hanging out with the guys. It gave me such fascinating insight into the way men behave and think.

Believe it or not, it has always served me well. Being a gal that played sports, specifically as the only girl on a team, it has served me well. Socially and professionally. I have worked with professional athletes, c-suite executives and a couple that are now ceo’s of very public companies. I’m friends with many of those same men. Just friends.

I was thinking about that the other day, and I believe it’s because I am not a threat to the women in their lives or them. The women don’t see me as a threat or rather know that I am only a friend or a colleague because I don’t meet the standards they have in their own minds of what a mistress or the other woman would look like. Certainly not an overweight, middle management soccer mom. And the men, these men, some whom I know intimately (as friends, not in the typically associated intimately way) they don’t have an interest in me for the same reasons. I’m just this gal that they know and or work with, sometimes both that has not betrayed a confidence nor have I ever used our connection for favors. If I have ever sought tickets to a sold out event, I’ve always paid my way. I’ve never asked for a referral or for swag etc. It’s not my way, never has been, never will be.

As I was out with a friend and the frenemies (they deserve a post all their own) tonight, it struck me how much they really don’t know me. They are long time friends of my friend Wen (Wendy), they tolerate me as I’m a bit too direct, too average for them. And yet, sometimes for grins and giggles, I will accept the invitation from Wen to join her and these women (there’s a whole group of them-all trophy wives) because it’s entertaining.

There are two specifically that are mean girls. Yes, just like the movie with Lindsay Lohan and Rachel McAdams. They were likely very popular in high school and are gorgeous, trophy wife types in middle age. They are well educated, well heeled and married to driven, successful, wealthy and good looking men. And yet they are clearly not happy because everyone is a target, a target to their ridicule and disdain. For the life of me, I have no idea how Wen became friends with them in the first place. No, wait, that’s not true. They all met and bonded over children born around the same time and were part of an exclusive mommy & me playgroup started in infancy. And until 3 years ago, Wen was a trophy wife as well, without the attitude or lineage, but I digress.

They make no bones about the fact that they believe that my darling husband’s issue with my weight is valid and my own fault and that as a plus size woman, I have no right to expect him to be attracted to me. They openly mock me when I order the patty melt with fries and ask for tartar sauce on the side. They are the two out of the group that love it when the local soccer dads swarm around us to pay attention to them. They are the two that when we go out as a group, if our bar tabs aren’t paid for by some men they get so offended they can’t believe it and get upset. And yet, they are two of the most naturally beautiful women I have ever met. For a plus size gal like me, they embody what I have always wished I could be. Tall, athletic, not overtly slender, normal appetites, flat stomachs, nary an ounce of pudge and breasts that look as if they’ve never nursed. Gorgeous skin, naturally full eye lashes and stunningly beautiful eyes. And yet their caustic personalities and the need to make sure every female around them knows she is inferior to them makes them so ugly.

As one was bragging about all of the men that hit on her, and how she feels sorry for fat women that don’t know what it’s like to have a man really lust for you, desire you and genuinely want to be with you, she looks directly at me, with pity. God, if she only knew. If I could only tell her about him and the last time we were together and I squirted and came so much I had to call housekeeping after he left for a complete change of sheets. Or that he fucks me so thoroughly and completely that the stories we share when I am blushing or giggling I’m thinking of him and not some former lover of my past. I have never been compelled to tell my secret. Ever. But that night, I wanted to in a momentary flash of wanting to make them shut the eff up.