First the Cream, Then Everything Else
I’ve known Tom for about fifteen years. But we only really became close a couple of years ago—when we both got divorced around the same time. His second marriage ended with a slammed door and a lot of shouting. Mine was quieter, but still a bit of a shock. We didn’t drown in vodka or self-pity—we just pedalled along riverbanks and raced down woodland trails. Bikes, sweat, and wind in our faces. Real male friendship isn’t about booze; it’s about the chase for freedom. The kind where you don’t owe anyone explanations or lug around a sack of expectations.
We both lost weight fast. The little paunch that once peeked over our belts vanished without a trace. Freedom—turns out it’s a great diet. So there we were one warm July evening, coasting through the park. Suddenly, Tom lets go of the handlebars, throws his arms wide, tips his head back, and yells:
“Freeeeedom!”
The pensioners’ terriers went mad. And he just laughed—so happy it was almost annoying.
We lived like that for a year. Single, content, trim, answering to no one. Then one day, I dropped by Tom’s place. He’d got himself a new bike—dead chuffed, wanted to show it off. I gave the frame a tap, spun the wheels, got grease on my hands, and headed to the loo to wash up. And there, as I scrubbed my palms, my eyes landed on a little pink jar. Feminine, delicate, with a gold lid. Moisturiser.
“Tom!” I shouted. “What’s this? You using cream now?”
He laughed like a man caught red-handed.
“Oh, that’s Emily’s. Left it here so she doesn’t have to lug it back and forth.”
“Emily? Who’s Emily?”
“Ah… didn’t I mention?”
Of course he hadn’t. Big mistake.
Turns out, a month earlier, he’d met a girl. Emily, solicitor, climbing the career ladder. Lovely, sharp, easy on the eyes. Stays over sometimes. Left her moisturiser. Just one jar. For now.
“Well, that’s it,” I said. “The invasion’s begun.”
“What invasion?”
“You don’t get it? It’s like in *Alien*. First, the embryo gets inside you. Then it grows and eats you alive. That cream? Embryo.”
Tom waved me off. But I knew what I was on about. Women don’t rush. They’re subtle. No forced entry with suitcases and screeching. They leave a jar. Then a toothbrush. Then a pillow. They wait till you let your guard down. And then—before you know it—your bathroom’s pink, your balcony’s boxes, and your heart’s full of dread.
Soon after, Tom invited me over. Meet-and-greet. Emily was surprisingly nice. Stud earrings, neat bob, one of those smiles you can’t help but trust. She’d made pineapple pizza—questionable choice, but tasty.
I popped to the loo again. Now there was a pink hairbrush, hand cream. And her earrings, lounging in the soap dish like they owned the place. I caught my eye in the mirror.
“Mate. You’re infected.”
Another month passed. I asked Tom to hit our usual biking route. He made excuses. So I turned up to drag him out. He emerged in a dressing gown, bleary-eyed.
“Al, you could’ve called.”
From the bedroom, Emily’s voice: “Tom, who’s that?”
Him: “Al… bike pump… dropped by…”
I went to wash my hands—and knew. Game over. His shaving foam and aftershave were huddled in a corner. The rest? Jars, bottles, tubes, perfumes. And her earrings, right there on the sink. Not guests anymore. Landlords.
I left without a word.
A few weeks later, he asked for help assembling a wardrobe. We chucked junk, shifted furniture. Emily directed operations:
“That goes in the bin. No, that too! Books—over here!”
Tom mumbled something half-hearted. She stepped over his protests like scattered socks.
“Hey, d’you want his bike?” she asked me. “It’s just taking up space on the balcony.”
Then I knew. Tom’s freedom was dead. Snuffed out. First, the moisturiser. Then the house. Then the balcony. Then his heart.
Men! If you treasure your independence—don’t let women into your space. Not an inch. It starts with an “innocent” pot of cream. Ends with you staring at a lace-trimmed dressing gown in your wardrobe, wondering who you even are.
A year passed. Tom and I barely texted. I rode alone. It was lonely. But I still had the main thing—freedom.
Then I met Claire. Classic story. Sweet, kind, asks for nothing. Just once, softly, almost a whisper:
“Mind if I leave some cream here? So I don’t have to carry it?”
And I didn’t say no. Because I was smitten.
Now it’s done. The virus is in.
And I can feel my downfall coming.
Forgive me, brothers.
Farewell.
