What Happens When You Try To Turn Your F*ck Buddy Into Something More
“Are you home? I want to cuddle.”
I looked down to find a text message from Colin*, my f*ck buddy. We’ve been having an on-and-off, casual relationship. It was one in the afternoon on Valentine’s Day.I was home. I had spent the night at an all-lesbian party that my fabulous gay friend and coworkerZara took me to, where I drank too much and smoked a spliff for the first time in months.
My body was vulnerable. My brain was still fuzzy. There’s no way I wouldn’t have benefited from some hugs and kisses.
Did this mean Colin and Iwere together now? We’d never really had “the talk.”He did drunkenly confess to me at a bar that I’m lovely, a wonderful writer, and that I’m the kind of woman he needs. But that’s the extent of it.
I won’t lie to you: I was ecstatic to hear that. I want to be the woman he needs. But we were just f*ck buddies.
Did he also know it was Valentine’s Day?
My phone buzzed again. “And Happy Valentine’s Day, of course.” He knew.
I told him to come. I had no plans.
I was hanging a tapestry on my bedroom wall when I got a call from him this time. He was at the drugstore and wanted to know what he should bring over. I told him I wanted chocolate — not that Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup sh*t, but the good sh*t — and he arrived at my doorstep twenty minutes later with a tub ofHagen-Dazs and a bag of chocolates all the way from a chocolate factory next door to his childhood home in Ireland.
One hour into our little hangout, we started to tear off each other’s clothes.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said, looking me dead in the eye and slipping inside me coyly. I moaned. God damn, he felt amazing.
We began to f*ck. I mean, really f*ck. And it felt really … real. A little too real. We’d go for a round, stop, and make some jokes. Maybe watch some TV. Then we’d start up again, all the while completely in sync with one another.We’d gotten so comfortable with each other’s bodies that it no longer felt like detached, meaningless sex. It felt romantic and rhythmic and significant. We were kind of like an old married couple, only young and hot. Hell, I’ve even farted in front of the guy, and he laughed it off. He brought me out of my head and back down to earth. He made me feel connected to him.
What the hell was going on?
Hours later, we’d finally tired each other out. It was clear he was done: He rolled over and distanced himself from me. Iinched over and laymy head on his chest.
While our Seamless order was en route, I remember hoping he’d cook for me. I remember watching “Leap Year,” a rom-com so bad it’s actually good, and wishing he’d make a gesture as obnoxious as the one the Irish male protagonist makes for Amy Adams.
Was I in a sex haze, or did I really like him?
“Your eyes look vacant,” he said, looking at me with a hint of concern. But they were full. I had things to say; I just didn’t know how to say them.Because I 100 percent had feelings for him. How does one say that while naked and exposed? Sh*t.
Somewhere along the way, f*cking him became more than just f*cking. I don’t know if it was because of his boyish crudity, his beautiful Irish accent, or how warm his pale skin felt on my skin, but I caught feelings, like a damn amateur.
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