The only thing about a fuck buddy relationship that should be hard is the man’s dick. But no, of course, it has to be complicated.
I was watching The Good Wife last night, and there was this great quote: “Complicated relationships are a breeding ground for misinterpreted actions.” Doh. Yes, yes they are. In the solid relationships in my life, it’s pretty unusual to have a major misunderstanding. The complicated ones? Good god, every word, every text, every character in a tweet carries messages I don’t even know they do.
Anyway. So I’m fucking someone, clearly. And the sex is so good. It’s so good. Did I mention so good? You know why it’s good? He gets me off, every single time. He wants to go down on me, he wants his fingers in me, he wants his… well, you know, he wants to try new positions… It’s so good. And best of all, even better than the orgasms (possibly) is that he makes me feel sexy before and during sex. There’s no better way to release someone’s inhibitions than to make them feel comfortable, wanted and sexy.
But he’s an asshole.
It’s a simple, cliched story: he pursued me for months with no regard for my hesitation or coy dismisses. He wooed me with what felt like, at the least, well-acted interest; he put in the time to dispel my notion that he was, in fact, an asshole. And when we finally had sex, and it was so good, I found myself genuinely shocked that I didn’t hear from him after.
I wrote that entire paragraph to say, LISTEN TO YOUR GODDAMN INSTINCTS.
Anyway. So I knew his game, that I got played, and I let him know what I thought of it. Surprisingly, he did some Grade C work at convincing me that he wasn’t a dick and the timing of the coitus sucked with his post-coitus schedule.
Right. Yep. Mmmhmm. Which is exactly what I thought when he said it, but I don’t have serious feelings for the man, so I shrugged and decided, “Welp. If he keeps flirting, I’ll keep fucking. The sex is that good, after all.”
He kind of did. Kind of. We didn’t have sex for a while. And then we did, and it was oh so orgasm-tastic. But I told him, before he left, I said, “Wanna go again?”
Right. I did say that. But after that, before he actually left, I said, “No sex without flirting.”
It was a simple demand. And by simple, I mean: if a sexy woman wants to fuck you without the baggage of emotions, and her only request is that you flirt with her prior to doing so, I’d say, FLIRT, MAN, FLIRT.
Except, apparently, for ASSHOLE, flirting is too much. Flirting requires wanting to talk to me, wanting to do that thing he did for MONTHS prior to the sex, where he was interested in me, in my life.
No it’s not. I didn’t ask for meaningful conversation, right? I asked for FLIRTING. I asked for texts that tell me what he wants to do to me, that I’m sexy, that he’s thinking about what he wants to do to me, etc.
It’s not challenging.
If flirting is a difficulty for him, punctuality is an impossibility. When we make plans to sex each other, I don’t hear from him for hours. Hours. If at all.
Except that I do, you know, 10 or 15 minutes after our plans have expired, by the time I’m sitting on my bed in my lacy thong writing a blog post about HOW EVEN FUCK BUDDIES SHOULD MIND THEIR GODDAMN P’S AND Q’S.
But then I take a deep breath and with the inhale remember the orgasms that come with that Asshole, and I text back, “Yep, see you soon.”