Once upon a time, I had a fuck buddy.
I know, it may be confusing that Carrie-Bradshow-Looking-for-Love-Me had a fuck buddy. But I was recently out of a long relationship, I’d been on countless abysmal dates and this guy was out-of-my-league-Gorgeous (with a capital “G”).
One night, while post-sex cuddling, I mentioned yet another bad date and how I feared I was undateable. “You’re not undatable,” Fuck Buddy assured me. “I would date you.”
Because I’m crazy, my mindset changed. He was no longer my fuck-buddy: He was I’d-date-you-guy. I sat up. “We should go on a date,” I said.
“Definitely!” he smiled.
After another month of hooking up, he still had not planned a date with me, despite me subtly reminding him each time we met. Disappointed, I decided to stop seeing him.
One night, after drinking with my friend J (who always gets me wasted), I started thinking about Fuck Buddy again. “Who does he think he is?” drunk me thought. “Look at me. I’m gorgeous. I’m great in bed. I’m Ian-fucking-Michael.” I stumbled through the streets, passing subway station after station, realizing I was walking the 30-some blocks to his apartment.
Around 2 a.m., I buzzed his apartment in the West 40s. “I’m a catch,” I amped myself up. “He’d be LUCKY to take me on a date!”
He buzzed me in, and I tried not to feel dizzy walking up six flights of stairs. He flung his door open and smiled. “God, he’s handsome,” I couldn’t help but think. “Ian-Michael!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing in the area?”
Someone stood behind him, a buff, equally handsome guy (also out of my league). “He’s cute,” he said with an accent.
“This is my friend—he’s visiting from Australia.”
“You should come in and have a drink with us.”
I shuffled in, forgetting my original intent for coming over. Fuck Buddy made me a drink while Aussie Guy stripped down into his underwear, then came over and started taking my shirt off—and I realized I was about to be involved in my first threesome. Fuck Buddy handed me a drink, and I finished it in two nervous gulps.
We took off our underwear, and I hoped it wouldn’t be obvious that it was my first threesome. We kissed each other, we touched each other and we each took our turn getting off. A box of condoms and bottle of lube later, I fell asleep between them.
The next morning I woke up first, hungover and sore. I showered, put my clothes back on and snuck out. We’ve kept in touch, but I never went back to Fuck Buddy’s to fuck again.
I couldn’t help but wonder: Am I right to blame the men I try to date, or am I the one sabotaging my own love life?
Photo By: Steve Brennan
