It’s been a while since I last had a FWB**. A good while. Nearly 12 years, in fact.
For the life of me, I can’t remember what his name was. He was a fresher from Bristol, I was a knowing second year. We met outside a Greek chip shop in the back streets of our university town. We swapped numbers.
It was the near perfect arrangement. When we were single, we’d see each other. When we had more significant others, we wouldn’t. He always came to my place (because, frankly, I drew the line at sharing a single bed after Fresher’s Week). He was content to stay the night or leave as either of us wished.
We lost track of each other in the deadlines and excitement of third and second year respectively. He left me with a wry smile when I think of him. I left him with (probably) another notch on his bed post.
Since that second year, my love life has been punctuated by a series of serious (and not so serious) boyfriends, flings, people I was “seeing”, and glorious techinicolour singledom. 11 years on and I have a craving for a non-complicated, no-strings, desire-sating FWB arrangement.
If you were to meet him in passing you’d put him down as charming, polite, but ultimately a typical American jock. You know the type, Sweet Valley High books were full of them (and the stereotype has been perpetuated by all teen movies since). Gifted at sport. Looks good in a toga. Probably a member of a strange fraternity.
So anyway, there he was. Having not seen him since he left Switzerland 2 years ago, it was a little bit of a shock to see him again. Since when did he look so… not 22 (I’m guessing this age progression happened in the two years he was away but come on, you take the point). A quick chat and a swapping of numbers and I disappear to supper with a girlfriend.
Hey – I’m just on my way back. Are y’all out? Fancy a beer?
An innocuous text sent on the way back home.
Fancy a fuck?
Well then. What does one say to that?
Back and forth, back and forth. For the next 3 hours we jousted over text. Him cajoling, me faux circumspect. Oh but I couldn’t. I really shouldn’t. I’m not saying no, I’m saying not now. I might take you up on it in the morning.
The next morning, after a good, uninterrupted sleep, I reached for my phone.
So…fancy a fuck?
I too, can be crude when I wish.
And that’s how I ended up, several hours later, with a mild case of stubble rash and feeling much happier with myself that I have for a long time.
Now the hard work begins. How do I tell him that I’m not looking for anything serious but that I wouldn’t mind calling on him in the future should, you know, the need arise? And, horror of horrors, what if he says no? I have a feeling that many of you will think that I obviously have no self-respect. You may even think I’m a complete whore-bag, a wanton hussy. But I disagree. My thoughts on it are this.
- I am single, independent, and quite content in continuing to be single and independent until someone who’s worth my time comes along. It may be tomorrow. It may be never. I’m kind of ok with this.
- Potential FWB (PFWB if you will) is not a man I’m going to marry. He’s divine but, let’s be serious here, he’s 6 years younger than me and, well, he’s PFWB. I don’t intend on making the rookie mistake of thinking there’s more to this than there is.
- There comes a point when enforced celibacy gets dull. I would be the worst hard-core Republican Christian EVER.
And, so there we are, I find myself in an odd predicament. I’ve never had to play this game before – the “I’m not interesting in you, per se, but I am interested in something”. How does one play that? Aloof? Straightforward? Upfront?
Judging by the frankness of our exchanges so far, I’ve gone with the upfront route.
That was fun, we should do it again sometime.
**For the avoidance of all doubt FWB = friend with benefits