The Fuck Buddy Complex

After the dust had settled on my previous relationship and my brain was again able to finally form actual real thoughts instead of replaying an endless loop of “our best bits” like a lazy sitcom episode, my initial thought was; “well that’s my sex life over with… for the time being”.

I knew I wouldn’t be jumping straight back on the horse [probably could have picked a better metaphor for sex to be honest], but then at the same time I knew it wouldn’t be long. You may see that as being a little egotistical, but I have a tried and tested method; get into a relationship, get out of a relationship, have sex, get into a different relationship… I’m not trying to claim I invented this method, but it’s always gone this way for me. I’ve never really had a long ‘draught’ – apart from the time I lost my virginity, it took me another two years to have sex again… but I’d be practicing over those two years [you think adolescent males pick on each other for being virgins, try and be the one in the group that had sex then didn’t for two fucking years]. Since then, the flow of gash has never subsided for too long. I’m not trying to portray myself as some sort of player, when comparing figures [of women desperate enough to sleep with us] with numerous friends, I’m some where in the middle, between virgin and man-whore, which I’m more than content with [so content in fact it’s the first sentence on my covering letter I supply with my C.V.].

You see, the thing is I’ve been lucky enough to secure myself fuck buddies over the years; this is what’s kept me my figures at a medium and purchases of tissue low. I don’t know who came up with the brilliant concept of fuck buddies but I’d love to shake his hand [I presume it was a man, seems like the kind of thing WE’D do] after he’d given it a good wash first, mind you.

When you’ve been in a long-term relationship, sex almost becomes stale, it becomes the same rigmarole, you both know what to expect; nothing new, nothing exciting. Towards the end of the relationship it’s simply a loveless act, hollow of any emotion, just one of those things you do, like saying “I love you” every once in a while to break the awkward silences in between television adverts. Then you have sex with someone else, then you realise; “Oh yeah! This is why humanities obsessed with sex… because it’s fucking amazing!” 

You fall back in love with sex; it’s great, a rush of endorphins to the brain and a rush of blood to your member, then a rush of sperm onto her thigh, then a rush of apologies from your mouth. It’s a rush!

Two of my close friends had been in fuck buddy relationships [they’ve asked me to point out that it wasn’t with each other] just before I re-entered the single life and once I was finally single those relationships had blossomed into … well … relationships. I was foolhardy enough to think that I wouldn’t let that happen to me. “Pfft… emotions are simply a creation of conglomerate greeting card companies to help sell their products” I’d tell myself as I sat alone in my room while my friends went out and formed meaningful connections with those they loved. I tried to convince myself I had that Barney Stinson swagger… although my boy never suits up, yet I’m still disease free.

The thing is meaningless sex is easy to have with someone that doesn’t mean much to you [I may never have meaningless sex ever again after that sentence, although most women I’ve had meaningless sex with can’t read… so I may be OK]. The ‘problem’ arises when those emotions you previously discounted begin to surface and you’re fuck buddy starts to do things that encourage those emotions to grow like turning up at your house with a bottle of Southern Comfort. Then in between all the sex you start to realise you have plenty in common, then before you know it you’re in a predicament.

That predicament is; although you both agreed this was strictly sex [Shameless Plug; watch out for my new Strictly Come Dancing spin-off; Strictly Cum Sex pilot episode ‘cumming’ to BBC in the winter], you start to think; “Wow, this girl’s pretty amazing, so much better than any other fuck buddy I’ve had before, plus we have tons in common AND I’m not ashamed to be seen out with her in public!” but is she thinking the same thing? Then you begin to catalogue your own qualities as to how they compare against hers and you fall short; an obsession with rap battles and drinking until you pass out doesn’t appeal to most women. You look at what she’s done for you; treated me great, laughed at my shitty jokes [and my Amateur Abortionist rap] and bought me that bottle of SoCo [yes, I’ve mentioned that, but Southern Comfort is a necessity] against what you’ve done for her and somehow; “well… I give her the dick” doesn’t quite measure up [short penis joke implied]. With all this in mind you try to contain those emotions, because if you let them out you’ll ruin the fuck buddy relationship and back to spraining your wrist on a daily basis.

But eventually it gets too much like the guilt you feel from murdering a younger sibling [my lawyer wishes me to point out that that was a “wacky simile and has no connection to me or any court case I’m currently involved in”]; you have to blurt it out. Then you wait for her response, those seconds feel like really long seconds, then she doesn’t respond but that’s fine because she’s asleep and this whole saga was simply a ‘practice run’ so you know how it’s going to happen when she’s conscious. Then finally, with enough Southern Comfort courage you ask her out, then she says “Yes”, then you’re happy, then she inspires you to write again, then you write a blog about it, then you hope she doesn’t kill you.