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FWB. And Now We Try This.

March 17, 2013

OK, people. We’ve got ourselves a genuine, agreed upon Friends With Benefits (FWB) situation. This is not a drill. This is happening.

I said the words. I asked the questions. Last night, No. 5 came over and we sat and talked for a couple hours, sucking down a bottle of wine between us. I came out and said it, “So, is this like a FWB situation we have going on here?”

“Yeah. I think that’s exactly what it is,” he answered. “Why, are you getting emotionally involved?”

“No,” I said. “Are you?”

“No,” he said.

“So, do you want to keep doing this until it’s not working anymore?” I asked.

“Yes. I do.” he said.

“I’m going to say something to you I’ve never said to anyone else and will probably never say to anyone again.” I told him. I laughed at the absurdity of the situation as I struggled to find the words to say what I wanted to say.

“Just say it.” he said.

“I’m giving you permission to booty call me.”

“Oh,” he laughed. “I guess there’s no other way to say that.”

“I like talking to you. I like being with you and I like having sex with you.” I said. “You know this is going to end badly, right.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“So we might as well enjoy it while it lasts.” I said.

“Yes.” he agreed.

We agreed that if either of us starts seeing someone else, we end it. He reminded me that he was hoping to go overseas soon anyway. Fair enough.

This is all Pickle’s fault, of course. She’s the one that told him to make a move. He would’ve never done anything if she hadn’t pushed him into it. That was last weekend. I hadn’t heard peep from him since that night. But I didn’t expect to. No 5 is an unusual person. He’s smart and funny and personable but he has a sort of socially awkward detachment about him. The last thing I expected was morning-after platitudes. Though he left my apartment with a smile on his face and a tender kiss, I was still wondering what he was thinking about the unexpected night we had together. I knew what I wanted. I wanted to do it again. So I planned to go where I knew he would be, (Yes, Pamplona’s), tell him that I enjoyed being with him and ask him if he wanted to do it again.

That evening I was a nervous wreck. Pickle and I were going dancing in Breaux Bridge and we were going to stop at Pamplona’s first. My heart was racing as I fixed my hair and picked out my clothes. Pickle has a good way of putting these situations into perspective. I tend to run through worse-case scenarios. What if he says it was a mistake? What if he regrets it and wants to forget it ever happened? What if I offer to do it again and he says no? What if he’s not there?! Fear of rejection and just plain nervousness had my stomach in knots. “The goal is to be brave enough to ask the question,” Pickle said. Ok. One thing at a time.

Pickle dropped me off at the front door while she found a parking spot. I walked in and took a deep breath. I looked up at the bar. I didn’t see him. I walked up. Nothing. I started to find someone to ask. I made eye contact with James. He knew why I was there and who I was looking for. He shot me a smirk. James had already guessed what had happened between No. 5 and I. Pickle was bragging a few nights ago about one of us going home with someone after the absinthe party. I was saying something about it being an unexpected development. “Yeah, No. 5 is kind of slow.” he had said.

Shit. “How did you guess who it was?” I had asked him.

“Well, I know it couldn’t be a complete stranger because that’s not how you roll.” he said. “That leaves only a few options and I could read it on your mind.”

Yeah. Whatever James. They both told me they thought the attraction between us had been building for months. I said it was a complete surprise. No. 5 claims innocence, as well.

I went to the edge of the bar and was about to ask one of the waitresses if they had seen No. 5 when he walked up. There were a lot of people around, mutual friends and acquaintances. It was very awkward for me but he seemed unaffected.  The opportunity to talk to him was not presenting itself. Pickle walked in and I moved over to where she was. Some chairs opened up at the bar and we were moving towards occupying them. Just before we sat down a man and woman walked up beside us and the woman asked, “Were you about to take two of those seats?”

“Yes. We were.” I said.

“So were we,” she rudely commented as she put her big purse on one of the chairs.

This pissed me off and I was already on edge. This wasn’t going well. No. 5 wasn’t making any efforts to talk to me and he was clearly engaged in a conversation with a friend at the end of the bar. I was getting upset. Pickle got James’ attention and ordered shots. “What do want?” he asked.

“A shot of courage, James.” I called out.

“You got it.” he said with a knowing smile and mixed us some lime-tasting concoction. We toasted and tossed them back. Frustrated with how things were going, Pickle intervened again. God Bless Pickle. “Let’s move over there and I’ll talk to Nancy,” she said. Wingwoman extraordinaire. She somehow managed to get Nancy out back to smoke a cigarette. I was facing No. 5. He suggested I sit down. “No thanks, I’d rather stand” I said. “I have something to ask you and I’m really nervous about it.”

“Ok.” he replied, revealing no emotion at all.

“I had a nice time last weekend.” I said.

“Yeah. So did I.” he said.

 “I was wondering if you’d like to do it again.”

“Yes.” he said.

“OK, so how do you want to make that happen?” I prodded. He didn’t get what I was saying. “Would you like to have my phone number?” I offered.

“Oh. Yeah. I guess we should do that.” he fumbled. I gave him my number. He called my phone. We plugged in each other’s contacts. I let out a sigh of relief. OK. He excused himself to go out to smoke. I stayed behind but then remembered that Pickle was out there so I followed him out. He and I hung back a minute when Nancy and Pickle went back in and I asked him, “What are you doing later tonight? I’m just sayin’.” Yeah that’s what I said.

“Why don’t you let me know if you have any ideas about that,” he responded.

“I’m telling you now,” I said. “Pickle and I are going to Breaux Bridge. Can I let you know when we’re headed back?”

“Yes.” he said.

After a strange few hours in Breaux Bridge (that’s another blog). I excitingly texted him from the passenger seat of Pickle’s car: “I’ll be back at #5 in 30 min. Wanna come over?”

“I’ll see you there.” he texted back.

“Damn. This is too easy.” I thought.

We spent another night together. It was nice. It was great, actually.

Saturday, I tried it again.

“Let me know if you feel like coming over again.” I texted.

“I probably will want to,” he had replied. Funny. And very typically No. 5. He came over that night and we set the stage for our attempt at being FWBs.

It’s a bit weird for me to write about this because I know those three night might be all there is to it. It might not go any further. It’s a weird situation. But like all the other blogs, I just need to record it. To get it down on paper, so to speak. Besides, how else am I going to write my book if I don’t keep track of the who’s, what’s and when’s?

No 5 is unusual. Calm. Collected. Stable. Non emotional. Which makes it that much more surprising that he’s so affectionate and tender. He’s a great kisser. He’s slow and deliberate. Soft and committed. He passed the timer test (see: No. 5) and he’s considerate and giving. It’s quite nice.

I was wondering today how having this option available to me will affect the way I might interact with men now. There’s absolutely no reason for me to accept an offer for casual sex with someone I don’t know, even if he is as beautiful as Tennis Bashir. Why do that when I have a safe, uncomplicated friend to do it with instead? Someone I already know, in that way. The only thing that will tempt me away from this arrangement is dating someone. Falling in love with someone. So, now I can hold out for an offer of an actual date. Unless this uncomplicated arrangement goes the way they always do in the movies and I fall for No. 5. I know he’s not what I want or need, long-term. But I am still a hopeless romantic. How many times can I be intimate with him, talk with him about history and politics over wine without blurring the lines? He did something cute last night and I told him, “You’re going to have to stop being so cute, if this is going to work.” He offered to talk about sports. “Yeah. That’ll do it,” I joked.

FWB. I didn’t see this one coming. But like everything else, I’ll enjoy it while it last and adjust to what happens next. And then write about it.



From → Rantings

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