My friends don't trust my new Man

I meet my girlfriends every Monday
morning, same place, same time,
new shoes. We snap our fingers for
‘another coffee’, we complain about
the coffee, we talk about our
weekends, ooh and aaah over our
new shoes, we laugh, we cry, we try
sort out the country, but mostly, we
talk about the men in our lives. And
the men in the coffee shop.
We talk about Steve who is gorgeous
but gay, Kevin who behaves like a
cunt, Tom who really shouldn’t have
walked out on his wife, Joe who I
have a crush on but no-one really
trusts, and Martin who has the best
body in the world.
Everyone knows women talk like this.
It’s part of life, it’s fun, it’s
expected. We talk about our dates
(Kevin never called me back), our
sexual encounters (Steve, a really
good lover) and poor Martin who, try
as he might, just couldn’t get it up.
Actually, I think anyone called
Martin can’t get it up, but that’s
another story.
The conversation never goes further
than our table and somehow I
always thought this was a thing that
women do. Not men. Never men.
But there’s a group of men that sit
at the same coffee shop on the same
Monday morning. They’re not nearly
as loud as we are, they always have
their heads buried in their
newspapers and when they do talk it
seems to be about sport or beer.
They never complain about their
coffee, never admire one another’s
shoes and certainly don’t seem to
even notice us or our behaviour.
But last night I had dinner with Joe.
We were having a really nice night
and I had specially put my phone
away so I could focus on him. I don’t
do that for many men so it’s always
a good sign.
Oddly enough, his phone bleeped
through the entire dinner. I got very
fucking irritated.
"What’s going on Joe. Man United
getting hammered?".
He grinned sheepishly. "I’m going to
tell you the truth", he said. "Don’t
be mad."
Remember, Joe is the guy none of
my friends like. Maybe they had
good reason. I sat back and waited.
"It’s the boys", he said. "I told them
I’d send them a message if things
were going well with you. They want
to know what stage we’re at: dinner,
making out in the car or maybe
finally, finally, after all these bloody
dinners, having sex".
What?
I’d held off messaging my friends to
tell them how the date was going.
I’d been dying to tell them we were
close to landing up in bed. But I
had manners. I was going to wait at
least until dessert.
I was outraged. It was fine for us
women to do this oversharing thing.
But men? Never. How dare they.
He went on to tell me how he and
his friends talk about everything too.
What they think of Suzie’s short
hair, that Karen has great tits and
that Linda should never have left
her husband. And that Violet, that
would be me, well, no-one really
knows what to make of Violet.
Pfft. My dessert arrived and I picked
up my phone and quickly sent a
message.
"You were right, girls. Not to be
trusted..."