Every girl knows the type of girl. The one who insists that she’s “innocent.” Means nothing by all her enthusiasm for a guy who is blatantly “attached.” And since most “attachments,” even in this “modern” world, still infer a monogamous setup (as “polyamorous” as it might be), the tacit rule, one would think, is not to treat such a man as though he is “boyfriend material” for herself. Yet, that is precisely what this sort of faux innocent girl does. Never seeming to care about all the blood-boiling she’s causing within a “fellow sister.” Because, frankly, she could give a shit. Women are a dime a dozen, but men, oh, those are the ones whose affections and attentions really matter. That’s something Frieda, being the type of girl who easily befriended men, learned about herself almost as soon as she fled from whence she came, landing in London sometime in 2018 to finally start her “real” life. That is to say, a life filled with real men. Never mind if some of them had girlfriends. As far as Frieda could tell, there was an unspoken laxity about such things in “big city settings” anyway. Because, honestly, how could any man be expected to stay “tied down” to “just one” girl amid a selection as vast as what London had to offer? If anything, Frieda was just helping these men along in their journey toward that inevitable epiphany.

If Frieda had thought at all about the emotional damage she was causing, that might have been her logic in asserting such close, intimate friendships with men who were in long-term romantic relationships. In fact, that appeared to be her very deliberate “target audience” when it came to cultivating and nurturing “friendship.” The lone female (and single) friend she had, Oona, was scarcely ever around, but she was also what could be described as a “good-time girl.” Of the ilk that was perennially partying, no matter that most twenty-somethings were prone to eyeing her up and down at the club with total disgust and incredulity. Oona read like a cautionary tale to them—the last thing anyone ever wanted to be: over forty and still acting twenty in a bar. To be “fair” though, Oona had only just turned forty-one.

Indeed, Violet, who had been forced to observe Frieda’s behavior for long enough now thanks to her boyfriend, Nick, being, like, “best friends” with her, realized that the sole reason Oona factored into Frieda’s friendship equation was because she provided no competition. Frieda, still in her early thirties, which Charli XCX had recently made even more acceptable with her Brat party life, was, thus, perfectly safe from Oona posing any “threat.” That is, in terms of “horning in” on any of her male “friendships” that were obviously so much more. The lines constantly blurred as Frieda engaged in wildly inappropriate behavior like pressing her tits up against a male “friend’s” shoulder and expecting him not to respond, inviting him for sleepovers when his girlfriend was out of town, making him special cakes for his birthday—that type of vexing-ass shit that is extremely absurd to play off as “innocent.”

But that’s exactly what Frieda did. And she played the card so well, always talking about how she was from one of the smaller, more isolated-from-civilization towns in the Black Forest of Germany. A place called Häusern, with a population that hovered just barely over a thousand. How, then, could such a “jejune” bumpkin possibly be held responsible for her uncouth comportment? Comportment that defied any other woman’s sense of “good grace” when it came to dealing with “attached” men. Needless to say, Frieda didn’t get much “sausage” in a place like Häusern. At least not the kind she had been fantasizing about her entire life (though of course, she would never admit to such fantasies aloud). Which was part of why she seized on the chance to go to London when she got accepted to the Mountview Academy of Theatre Arts. In truth, Violet had to admit that no one deserved such an acceptance more than Frieda, whose acting ability was quite deft. What with all her pretending to be so innocent and “who, little old me?” about her infiltrating-a-relationship ways.

And she always did so in the same conniving manner: by endearing herself to the man’s girlfriend…at first, anyway. But it didn’t take long for most girlfriends, Violet included, to fathom that Frieda was a fake-ass, shady-ass bitch. The varietal of bitch that made other women feel no remorse for rearing their “antifeminist,” “internalized misogyny” heads. To be sure, just as much as conservative politicians, a woman like Frieda was behind setting back the “feminist movement” in spades. All due to the venomous thoughts she was capable of stoking. Even if she didn’t seem to compute that her behavior was drawing such ire from other women. Emphasis on “seem.” But Violet knew damn well that Frieda was aware of what she was doing…and simply didn’t care what kind of emotional harm or fallout she wrought as a result of her need to be lavished with attention by boo’d up men.

Another key part of her modus operandi was to drive a wedge between the boyfriend she had set her sights on and the girlfriend who was ultimately in her way. She had a knack for timing the crescendo of that wedge around Valentine’s Day, when emotions and expectations were already running high as it was. As Violet would learn later from other victims who ended up being turned into ex-girlfriends by Frieda, her technique involved making the boyfriend in the permutation grow increasingly irritated with the girlfriend’s expression of jealousy, which would continue to escalate the more out of bounds and inappropriate Frieda became. Asking things of another woman’s boyfriend that she should really be asking of her own. Except, oh wait, she didn’t have one. Nor did she even seem to want one. It appeared, instead, as though she got off on attracting the lust and favor of a man who was “spoken for.” Almost as if it proved something to her about her power. Her “desirability.” Even if she looked like nothing more than a hearty village woman with perma-flushed cheeks.

This, too, is part of what would make the girlfriends even angrier about their boyfriends’ increasing amounts of time spent with her. She wasn’t even “cum-on-sight” hot. So what was the goddamn appeal? What did she have that his real girlfriend didn’t? Because it wasn’t looks, and Violet wasn’t even convinced it was personality. Perhaps, more than anything, it was her ability to mirror how men wanted to be seen back to themselves. And it made them feel good. Which is all men ever want to feel. But in relationships, they rarely do. Instead, they inevitably get the sensation that the walls are closing in, of being “hen-pecked.” How was that Violet’s fault? She who had done everything possible to embody the “chill girlfriend” that was so coveted among men. The girlfriend who didn’t mind that her boyfriend spent most of his free hours not with her (least of all pleasuring her), but playing video games or generally stewing in his own filth. But oh, for Frieda he would get up and shower—even spray on some of the fucking cologne that had been given to him as a gift from his girlfriend…last Valentine’s Day (a testament to how long a fragrance could last in a man’s medicine cabinet…or on his bedroom shelf, or wherever the fuck he stored it).

Initially, Violet was able to tolerate it, especially because it was still during Frieda’s signature lovebombing-of-the-girlfriend phase. After a few months, though, she would invariably drop the ball on pretending to care about presenting herself as a friend to both parties, when, really, all she cared about was the one. With the penis. That’s when the “oh maybe this is fine/maybe men and women really can be friends” thinking would dissipate entirely from the girlfriend’s mind. Violet was no exception. And a part of her believed that the friendship lovebombing of the girlfriend was all part of Frieda’s plan to invoke even greater amounts of jealousy later on. And there was no denying the white-hot rage that flared up the more that Nick would casually mention he was going somewhere with Frieda. As if it was no big deal. As if she wasn’t treating him like her boyfriend but without the sex part. And it was true that, in certain regards, a man’s heightened emotional attachment to another woman that wasn’t his girlfriend was even worse than him just sticking his goddamn dick in already.

Around six months into Frieda’s “friendship” with any man who had a girlfriend, she would constantly surface to the forefront of the latter’s thoughts. She could prompt entire cities of women to seethe inwardly about what a bitch she was. Violet was at that point, and could no longer hide her total ire for Frieda every time Nick mentioned her (which was often—too often). She wanted to call her Frieda Fellatio or Frieda the “Friend” Girl. She supposed the second epithet would be less “offensive.” Maybe she should just call her Brumhilda the Valkyrie. Brumhilda for her constant mention of being “but a simple German girl” and “the Valkyrie” because she guided boyfriends’ “souls” (read: wangs, forever unfulfilled) away from their girlfriends. Nick was at risk of being guided away for good, and it was all Violet could do not to stab him for his stupidity. A sentiment that augmented tenfold as Valentine’s Day approached and it was clear that he had no intention of doing anything to celebrate it. Oh sure, Violet knew it was “bullshit” and “another corporate holiday commodifying ‘traditional values,’” but goddammit, it still mattered to her. And it used to at least kind of matter to him…until she came along.

This was the first year in their three-year relationship that Frieda had been in existence as a “friend” to ruin their Valentine’s Day. Evidently, she had been poisoning his proverbial well for weeks beforehand, constantly mentioning to him how only the “weakest” relationships needed to rely on Valentine’s Day as a measure of expressing “true love.” “Whatever that even means,” she would add cavalierly. But of course there was nothing cavalier about it. Everything she did was utterly calculated. Something that girlfriends like Violet understood only after it was too late. And even boyfriends like Nick…though they could never admit to themselves that, yes, they had sacrificed their relationship for a manipulative Jezebel who never even put out in the end. After all that (sort of like Kathryn Merteuil in Cruel Intentions).

But Frieda could always get the blokes to break up with their girlfriends after enough time. Enough wearing down of confidence. Or rather, enough driving the girlfriends so crazy that they would do the breaking up, seeing no other way since “their” so-called man had to be shared with this goddamn cunt who didn’t “get” why her (omni)presence was so fucking annoying. Why should she? Because she’s just a village girl whose intentions are nothing but pure. It’s all the other women who are unhinged, right? And Frieda is sure to mention that to any “friend” considering ending his relationship.