By Aster Ren Kivy
My high school “friend” group is a strange bunch. Three of them are some of my closest friends, one of them is my mutual beard, and the rest are boys I don’t like, who all used to make a habit of crashing my place to play poker and get wasted.
Beyond the countless number of tone-deaf jokes that men find hilarious, there are two of the bunch that I dislike the most. The two of them—let’s call them Shjack and Shmax—suffer from the tragic illness of incel-ulitis.
At first, I thought their ignorance was simply because they were teenage boys who knew no better. Now, nearly five years after graduating, I realise that their ignorance is a choice. They went from boys who knew no better, to men who make no effort to know better.
Both are bad. But one is much, much worse.
Shjack’s main issue is that he’s been yearning for and lusting after another member of the group since they were both about five or six years old. He claims to see Rafi as a “younger sister”, but anyone with eyesight, and at least half a brain, can figure out he’s lying.
It’s somewhat of a remaining constant in the life of the group. Bry and Sam’s devoted affection for each other, my perpetual status as Designated Driver, Jacob’s streak of Fly Me to the Moon at karaoke, and Shjack’s persistent pursuit of Rafi despite decades of rejection.
Every time the group goes out to drink, Shjack makes it his life mission to make sure Rafi never pays for a drink. A few times, he’s straight-up handed them his card for the night. They don’t always use it, but he does ask them to.
Such was the case at Jacob’s 22nd—wherein Shjack was drunk and shameless. Despite him “seeing Rafi as a little sibling”, it was made abundantly clear that night that he does not, in fact, see them as one.
You don’t lean into your sibling’s personal bubble multiple times, ignoring the fact that they keep moving to different seats to get away from you. You don’t make innuendos about your sibling that nobody laughs at. And you certainly don’t touch your sibling’s inner thigh.
It got so bad, at points, that Bry and I were constantly checking in with Rafi and figuring out ways to get them away from Shjack’s looming presence. We got the others to drag him away to the dance floor. We got him to go get drinks. We trapped him in conversations with strangers that he couldn’t get away from. Multiple times, Bry and I pulled Rafi away to the bathroom to just stand there without him on their arm.
When the night was over, we debriefed on the walk to the train station. Sam and Shmax walked ahead of us as we aired our frustrations about Shjack’s behaviour.
When I saw Shmax shake his head at our comments, I asked, “What?”
“You’re making him sound like such a bad guy,” he said. “He doesn’t mean it like that. He just likes them a lot.”
“And that makes it okay to make them uncomfortable.”
He scoffed, like we were simply too stupid to fathom the intricacies of the male mind. “He was drunk.”
“It’s not just when he’s drunk,” Rafi pointed out. “He does that shit sober, too.”
“Don’t you still have his card?” He glanced back at us. “You let him buy you drinks all the time.”
‘Yeah,” Rafi said. “So?”
“So,” he dragged out, the condescending way men do when they think they’re stating something obvious, “obviously, he’ll want something back.”
You’ll be glad to know we all yelled at him after that.
I knew, objectively, that neither Shmax nor Shjack were good men. But it was still unfortunate to be outright shown how little respect they had for someone they called a friend.
What’s more unfortunate is that I wasn’t surprised. I was disgusted, yes, but all I could think was, they’re just like the others. Sadly, it’s a common mindset—an ignorant and incorrect one.
If you’ve ever been in a similar situation and feel riddled with guilt, allow me to be the one to tell you: you are not the problem.
Flirting isn’t contractual. Just because someone buys you a drink, it does not mean you’re obligated to fuck them in their shitty one-bedroom with a floor mattress and stained sheets.
I understand there may be some pressure to return the favour (trust that as a people-pleaser, I’ve said many a regrettable “yes” in my time) but know that you have no obligation to.
It’s their choice to buy you a drink. Just like it’s their choice to then be entitled bigots about you owing them something back when you tell them no.
A drink is just that: a drink.
There’s no unspoken rule that you have to give them what they want as a thank you. There’s no blood contract that binds you to them and one night of mediocre sex. You have the power to say no. A “thank you for the drink, but no”. Chivalry may be a fading art, but autonomy has always been (and will always be) sexy.
If they continue pressuring you after you refuse, my only advice is to get out of there. Find a friend. Find a safe bartender. Find someone to get you away from them. There’s no conversation with them worth staying for.
I like to think of these types of people as door-to-door salesmen—the ones that catch you in the wee hours of the morning, while you’re still groggy and dressed in your Anko pyjamas. They knock, you open the door, they monologue at you about the wondrous beauties of their discounted services, and you stand there like a fool wondering how best to tell them you don’t need a new car mechanic.
There is always the option to close the door.
Preferably in their face.
This article was featured in the 2026 Respect Week edition of Glass Magazine.
