… the fuck buddy.

There is was: a text message that beeped on my phone from him. A message, completely unsolicited, meant that he had either just been dumped by someone or he was bored with whomever he was currently fucking. And since we had neither fucked nor spoken to each other for about 2-months BC (before cocooning) my mind started running to what he wanted from me. Even if it was obvious I knew the answer to that question I still willed myself – imagining it was baked cheesecake and totally self-indulgent – to delete it. No point starting something that he couldn’t finish.

We had met a few years back in the most debauched way. After spending some time together – mostly in my bed – I started developing feelings for him. Since I was still young and naive enough to believe that ‘if he fucked me: he loved me’ he was not the dating kind because that would mean coming out to his friends, family and himself so he deleted my number and never called. Almost a year passed and then out of the blue he texted me the usual no-strings double-speak line. And things started up again between us. Usually around midnight when I was drunk, horny and in the neighbourhood after leaving a club nearby I would find myself at his place for uncomplicated no-frills sex and when it was all over being shown the front door.

As infrequent and mind-blowing as it was this fuck-buddy relationship that developed between us led to a friendship of sort. Though we were never monogamous to one another we did have … something that kept each other locked together. Having seen me through at least two of my past multi-month relationships and him through at least three major client flare-ups I found myself wondering what was it that couldn’t make it work between us once again? After all we liked pretty much the same things in bed, we had the same outlook to life and the people around us. Relationships have been built on less.

But no matter what he was adamant one afternoon when I raised the topic as we showered after an afternoon sex that it wouldn’t work out. No reason given so obviously none was required. This led me to question all my past relationships and why none had lasted. I wondered if we were all just victims of conditional responses doomed to repeat the same unconscious relationship patterns or were we all just in fact dating the same person over and over again? After all many of the guys that I dated we pretty much cut from the same cloth. Mid-30’s, devastatingly handsome and total assholes.

Sure most would say that these guys were aberrations. But really I waited for the perfect guy to ask me out on a perfect date and then I project these huge fantasies on him creating these enormous expectations and then when they blow up in my face I wonder why it didn’t work out. The fact that they were in their mid 30’s and single should have been a clue that no one else wanted them long enough. Another would have been their emotional unavailability (since they were already in love with themselves.) To be fair I tended to be in love with the idea more often than in love with them.

So Instead of love I’m left with soy-milk decaffeinated lattes, sleeping until noon on the weekends before heading out to mountain bike alone and an unmistakable feeling … restlessness. A sense of unease that pervades my waking hours knowing that someone like you is looking for someone like me. And that this time I’ll love the man and not the idea of love instead.

 

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2 Responses to “… the fuck buddy.”

  1. Sounds like you’re in need of a gentleman…

  2. I know what you are writing about and I encountered this feeling again again for several years. Were all the right men taken or did I consciously or subconciously get drawn to those, who were actually unable to give me what I craved for? Being an optimist I still believe that one can grow and move on. And one day it will just click and everything will feel right, even a few months after those first moments of passion. you will see…

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