Description Of A Cockblock

Two guys, a girl, and life.

The inception of a relationship often entails a “cockblock,” in which the supposed alpha male, on one fateful night, asserts dominance over the target female by usurping other male competitors. The art of the cockblock lies in both the implicitness and effectiveness of said block, while remaining reticent and fairly amicable about it. In short — at least in a civilized setting — the involved parties are all “friends,” though the triangulation of such a blurry entity begins to shift immediately after a successful cockblock. I was recently cockblocked, here is my story.

At approximately 5:13 pm on a Sunday, the target [iii. cockfucker] arrives at semi-bro [i. cockblocker]’s apartment (a), at which the latter and myself [ii. cockblocked] were hanging out and drinking beer that I brought over. She arrives with emotional monopoly the way women are prone to do, quickly becoming the apartment’s fulcrum. The cockblocker begins to make dinner in effort to “bed” — may this be our euphemism herein — the target. I was feeling pretty chill at this point, because a) I had no idea of the cockblocker’s intentions, and b) while I had mild and/or tentative affection(s) towards the target, I wasn’t “in love” or “hell bent” on possessing her, just a chill bro having dinner with two friends, one who accepted natural feelings as being simply that.

Within 10 minutes of the target’s arrival to his apartment, the cockblocker expresses dismay that he doesn’t have tomatoes for a salad, to which I respond — because I’m a nice person i.e. perfect cockblockee — that no sweat I’ll get some tomatoes at the corner convenience store (b), located just 4 minutes away. The cockblocker is dour. He tells me that it “would be nice” to have some cheese too, but that said convenience store (b), inconveniently, did not carry cheese, and would/could I go to the vaguely-socialist-yet-inextricably-capitalist progressive organic grocery store (c) which was further away. The target quickly offered to accompany me to the far away grocery story. A ha, plan fucked! But the cockblocker, in a rather douchey move imho, looked directly at her with longing eyes and said, quote, “oh, do you want me to be alone?” thus exploiting her co-dependent/guilt tendencies, to which she conceded by staying.

The cockblock added 13 minutes to my trip [17 minutes one-way], which made total round-trip travel time around half an hour. Include shopping and transaction time and I’m gone a good quarter hour, during which — I was to quickly find out at the night’s conclusion; or at least my night’s conclusion — he and the target had either verbally or physically communicated that she would spend the night at his place, wherein undisclosed yet somewhat implicit timeless behaviors would happen. They are now in a relationship, albeit “open,” and subject to the self-exodus of their mutual wandering hearts.

Walking to the store (c), I knew had been cockblocked, but it was okay. The only collateral damage was a little tinge in what has remained my heart after all these years of cruel romance. I wasn’t angry at the cockblocker, or the cockfucker; these two kinds of people seem to always get along, and when the tears come, I am usually on the phone with the females — because they have tits, and if God put brains in balls, then we’d have huge balls. Sometimes I too occasionally bed a cockfucker, and boy, is it fun.

I bought some really nice Gruyère and tomatoes “on the vine,” as well as — in honor of this memorable night — a relatively expensive 2009 Bordeaux, to lube up whatever synapses might be needed to be lubed up that night, a whispered breath as a thin cloud of some promise, said by either party, in darkness. To imagine them fucking seems grim, and glib, but that’s what I did. Gently resting the bottle on the counter, the cashier looked at me with misinterpreted envy, for he thought I had some hot date. “No bro, you don’t understand,” I wanted to say. “I live in hell.” Instead, I let reticence do the talking — both at the counter, and, some 17 minutes later, inside a random overpriced apartment (a), in a popular district in a random overrated city, on a random planet negotiating a dying star, where random friends are often left with nothing to do but random things which sort of feel good. I walked up the stairs hugging the paper bag because the handles had broke. I knocked with a fist that in better days might have punched someone. She opened the door, and I said nothing. Then she said nothing too. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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