A Poem-ish Letter to my “Fuck Buddy”
We’ve been attracted to each other
for a long time—minds and bodies.
The twenty-nine years between our
birthdates makes little difference.
We flirted, fantasized for a few months.
I know that I’ve been interested in you
much longer than you in me. Pretty much
since you started working here.
I never thought it would happen.
I hoped it would.
We spend hours together.
Collaborating, commiserating.
Working on separate projects in the same room.
We have side conversations via
chat where we type what we can’t say
out loud in the office we share with
two others.
Your wife went out of town
November 30. We were together
December 1.
Nervous and excited all day,
being with you went beyond
my expectations. I didn’t know it
was possible to even be with someone
to that degree. You’re my #7, and I never knew.
Beyond rockets and fireworks, this
was like solving an infinity-piece
jigsaw puzzle and latching the last
two pieces, completing the picture.
One of those perfect times in life
that’s beautiful, magic, and cannot
be replicated in exactly the same way.
We had a hot twenty-four hours. Texted
when I left, chatted when I got home.
Back at your house at six. Sex, shower,
report to work. I never wanted to leave
your bed that day. I wanted to keep
my head on your chest and hand on your dick.
Back at your house again at 7:30. Sex,
hot tub.
Full stop.
You wanted to stop. Couldn’t
do “this” to your wife, shouldn’t be a
hypocrite as a religious man, didn’t
want to change your situation, wouldn’t
want to lose our friendship.
I didn’t agree, but what was I going to do?
Force you to fuck me?
I told you that, and also that I would respect
the decision.
Opted to walk v. being driven to my car, and
left poised, no tears, no scene. I asked for
one last kiss, which you willingly gave. I felt
your eyes on me as I walked away, and made it
two houses down before crying. You know
how I hate crying. I had been hit by a train,
but our experience was well worth the pain.
You texted me to have a good time with my
mom—I was going to see her for the weekend.
At first, I was pissed—why would you write me
a regular message like that immediately after?
Then, I thought, ‘He just wants to make sure we’re
still friends,’ so we exchanged this:
‘Thanks. I want you to know that I enjoyed every second with you. I feel very rug-pulled-out but will be okay. I treasure having you as a great friend in my life and look forward to continuing to be the same kind of friend to you as ever. You are a wonderful man. No regrets.’
‘My feelings exactly…thank you for understanding. That is a great friend. You are that friend.’
The next morning on the road, I felt
like I was still being dragged by the
train. You texted me to drive safely.
Over the weekend, I moved from
trainwreck victim to head-to-toe bandaged
person in the ICU. We kept texting and chatting
at night, flirting, which was confusing.
‘Either we’re doing this or we’re not,’ I thought
but didn’t say.
‘Don’t give me hope if there isn’t any.’
That weekend, I questioned whether
it was just an amazing physical connection
going on or more. Over the course of almost
two years of a friendship that became closer every day,
had I or we fallen in love accidentally?
When I felt as bad as I did, I kept telling myself
it was just the abruptness
and disappointment of its ending.
I wanted to skip work on Monday.
I wanted to get there early to see you.
I wanted to find a reason to never
be sitting at my desk at any point.
Meetings, meetings, right?
Except you would’ve been in the same ones
if we were having any. Damn.
Seeing you wasn’t bad—I enjoy your company
too much to be pained by it. You look good.
Tall, strong, sexy. Sky-blue eyes that see me
a little too clearly sometimes. Long ponytail
that I want to shake loose most of the time.
Your hair is beautiful. Your body is firm.
We started to get flirty on messenger, but
I got “shot down” over something and said
to myself, ‘Yep, that’s it, I guess.’ Later, I was
frustrated over something, and commented
on needing a drink, and you offered to take me
out for one after an event we had to attend.
During the event, we kept glancing at each other.
I was very aware of your being in the room.
Couldn’t wait to be alone with you again, even
if it would hurt like lemon juice soaking the
virtual bandages that still covered me.
We had a great time together—excellent
conversation and drinks. If it had been a date, it
would’ve been one to call home about. You thanked
me for being okay with everything toward the beginning
of the night (It was a miracle—I was cured by spending
the evening with you. Not a scratch on me anymore).
By the end, we were holding hands
and you said, ‘I would like to make love to you again.’
Of course, I said I would, too.
Of course, making ‘love’ is just an expression.
We’ve been together several times since.
Twice a week usually.
I always have a good time with you.
You played your guitar and sang for me one day before sex
and relaxing together. We acted out a
fantasy that you had previously written as a short story.
I love giving you blow jobs. You’re the only man I’ve ever
swallowed with. I accept you—every part of you. I want you
to be exactly who you are. Not that you’re perfect—you’re not.
I’m glad you’re not.
You’ve mentioned a couple times
that your wife doesn’t like how you dress, even treats you
differently based on appearance. It offends me that she
does that. I want her to treasure what she has.
I have learned the definition of ‘cherish’ by being friends and now
lovers with you. I straight-out enjoy the pleasure of your company.
I don’t care if we’re in the same room not interacting. You
being in the room makes it worth being there, too.
You know that my marriage sucks.
It’s going to be over. Maybe not next month, maybe not
in five months, but it’s going to end at some point.
In a way, it’s already over. Not because of you,
which you also know.
What makes me sad is I know that someday,
maybe soon, maybe not,
you’re going to repeat what you said on
December 2. And whatever we have,
love, sex, connection, passion, excitement, all mixed together
with our friendship, is going to have to change again.
I don’t want you to leave your wife or do anything that you
don’t want to do. I don’t expect you to cast aside your whole
life to be with some girl. I just want to
keep being with you when possible. I want to find the perfect
woman for a threesome (fantasy of yours). I want you to fuck
me on a table, outside in the grass, on a beach—really, anywhere.
Just keep fucking me because you are my fantasy.
I don’t want to lose this amazing thing
we have, but I know we will, and that you will have a
completely sound reason for ending it. We call each other
‘Fuck Buddy,’ and I think that’s best—words make a difference.
If we said ‘lover,’ it would probably already be done.
Call me ‘bitch,’ ‘slut,’ ‘whore,’ please, if it will extend our time.
You introduced me to “The Bridges of Madison County,”
And there’s a line about Robert and Francesca having
somehow created a force outside themselves, their own ‘us.’
I feel like there is an ‘us’ between us, but we are keeping it
locked up for our own good.
If you’re reading this, it’s because it’s over. Do four things for me:
1. Have no regrets. Remember what I said.
2. Play “Cowgirl in the Sand” and think of me one time.
3. Cover for me. I’m using a sick day.
4. Continue to be my friend. I can’t lose you in that way, too.