Tuesday, 24 March 2015

You Sucked My Big Toe

According to the internet, there are 5 rules to having a Fuck Buddy:

  • Avoid kissing on the lips
  • Don't stay the night
  • Stick to small talk
  • No cuddling
  • Turn your heart to stone, mentally lock him in a box with a huge padlock and think of him only as a human dildo

Nobody told me these rules. So it's not really surprising that my fuck buddy and I are in a bit of pickle...

It began back in September. I named him Lips because his kiss made my knees weak, but I didn't want anything serious. On the 4th date I turned to him in bed and said, "You're cool with this just beeing sex, right?"

He laughed. "I like how you waited until after sex to bring that up."

"Priorities," I replied.

"Yeah it's cool," he said. "Makes no sense getting into anything serious."

So we embarked on our Fuck Buddy Adventure. Usually Thursdays, fortnightly, 8pm. We'd chat and then we'd fuck. It was good, uncomplicated. We signed up to go to a high-class orgy together.

I'd like to state now, for the record, that he upset our sexy apple cart first.

"Do you have Frozen on DVD?" he text.

I did (of course). I got to his and began removing clothes. He stopped me and said, "I bet you can't make it through the whole film before we have sex."

Never one to back away from a challenge, I sat down and resigned to waiting another 90 minutes. Despite having never seen the film, Lips knew every word to Let It Go and sang along with gusto. And at the end, to prove I wasn't governed by my urges (and because I had an early meeting next day), I treated him to a blowjob and then I left.

A couple of weeks later, he asked me what I had planned for the weekend. I was shooting a short film and I was yet to find an actor. Joking, I asked if he'd ever considered a career in front of the camera. To my surprise, he offered to be in my film and that Sunday I directed him to kiss another girl while I stood over them, camera in hand. It wasn't weird until the producer, my friend, said it should be. And then I realised this guy I was fucking had given up his Sunday afternoon, come all the way to east London and lost his acting virginity to help me out. I refused to over-think it.

But then it became unavoidable.

On December 30th, I turned up at his and he had a surprise for me: pillows. Up until that point, he had never had pillows on his bed, because he preferred to sleep flat (I know, what a freak). But he had bought pillows so that it would be more comfortable for me. Especially for me.

That night we spoke for hours, curled up on his sofa, the TV on mute. Two bottles of red later, I don't remember everything we spoke about. But I know we talked about the other people we were sleeping with, as casually as the weather, but also about our families, our ambitions and new years resolutions. The next morning I woke up in his arms and something was different. And that night, out for NYE, when the clock struck 12, I wished he was there so I could kiss him.

Idiot. I am an absolute idiot. And so I carried on as if nothing had changed, in total denial.

I dated other guys, told Lips about them in a casual over-sharing. When he got jealous about Longbottom, I found it amusing.

Then one night he stood me up, cancelling at the last minute when I had already shaved everything and applied half a face of makeup. I was pissed off and I vowed he had 24 hours to apologise or I would never see him again. He text me at the last hour and when I suggested I'd end our arrangement if he messed me around again, he said, "I can't lose you." That Friday he ran from Battersea to Clapham to meet me, arriving drunk and elated. His kiss was urgent, different, but that might have just been the many shots he'd had.

Later he admitted, "You scare me."

He felt a connection between us and it terrified us both. We admitted our fear of commitment and the hurt we'd suffered at the hands of those before.

"We're friends, aren't we?" he asked. My reply: of course. It wasn't a lie.

That he trailed kisses down my legs and my feet, stopping to suck my big toe.

"But you hate feet," I said, surprised. He laughed, handcuffed me and we fucked into the early hours.

As we fell asleep, he buried his face in my neck and asked, "Why aren't you mine?"

Whaaaaat?! I decided to play it safe: "I'm yours tonight."

"That's not the same," he said. "You're not really mine."

"You can't ever really own anyone," I pointed out. But I knew I was being a vague, annoying dick.

I left determined to push him out of my mind and when I next saw him, he was back to normal: "Relationships are pointless. I'm 22 - why would I want to commit to anyone? I just want to sleep around."

And then, of course, because ARGH, this upset me. Even though I agreed - there was no point in anything serious at our age - I couldn't deny that the thought of him with other girls now bothered me. Did he have more fun with them? Did he kiss them like he kissed me?

More than my jealousy though, was how much I wanted to talk to him. But this in turn made me suspicious and confused. Was he just playing mind-games with me? Was he manipulating me into liking him? Or was I being paranoid? What did he think/feel about me?

Then last Friday happened. I invited him to mine - for the first time. 6 months of sleeping together and he'd never seen where I live. It became a night of firsts - the first time we met up away from his, the first time we had dinner, the first night at mine, and the first time we had breakfast together. Over drinks he told me he really admired my ambition. I realised that he understood me and he genuinely seemed to be interested.

But I can't trust that that interest wasn't faked. His words and his actions don't match and it makes me suspicious of his motives. He says his attraction to me has grown in one sentence and talks about another girl in the next. I offer him no-strings sex and he wants to hang out, get to know me, whilst saying he's determined to sleep with as many other girls as he can.

And now I can't stop thinking about him. About kissing him. About how good he looks in a suit. About how much I like talking to him.

Basically guys, what the fuck do I do?

I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to put him back in the mental box he's escaped from, put a dozen unbreakable padlocks on it, throw away all the keys and live in sweet, sweet denial. I think it is the best, healthiest and safest option.