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The (First?) Fuck Buddy

20 June 2012

How does a girl go from being a conservative Christian virgin to, well, me? I’m sure there are many routes, but mine took me through Dan-the-man Savage. I found his Savage Love column sometime at the end of college and, let me tell you, my mind was blown. Here was this whole world of fascinating people with fascinating sexual proclivities, people who could also write elegant or funny prose and use grammar correctly. There was the guy into wearing adult diapers, the feminist concerned by her own rape fantasies, and the cuckold fetish couple who thanked Dan for showing them the way. I was hooked.

I mean, I’m sure I could have found a better image. But a 30-second Google search was all I wanted to do to find this, thank you very much.

Nothing happened right away, but years of reading his column and others that it led me to wormed their way into my consciousness. I became a sexual rationalist, instead of a sexual moralist; my views on fucking changed a long time before the actual fucking commenced. The problem was, I was a little yellow. It’s easy to intellectualize and theorize about one’s changing views. I prided myself from my transformation from a prude (at least in the eyes of my friends) to a liberated woman (at least in the eyes of my friends) because I was “up for” all sorts of things, in theory. The car still hadn’t been test-driven, though.

One of my rationalist sexual positions was that at this point I wanted to have sex and get the hang of it, not have sex and fall in love. Enter the Fuck Buddy, affectionately known hereafter as FB1 (Hey, I’m an optimist). I was hanging out with a friend, we were drunk, he propositioned me, and I felt like he was a good candidate. We made out, got undressed, fantasized out loud, he went down on me, and we mutually masturbated. It was an absolute blast. I told him why we didn’t do everything, and he was surprisingly fine with it. All he said was “Oh, really? Well that explains some of your…reluctance.” I had been all conditioned to expect one of two reactions when a guy-of-the-world was confronted by a virgin: extreme terror or extreme fetishization. Not “shrug.”

(This would probably be a good place to expound on the complications of “virginity,” but, in a rare moment of self-control, I’ll save it for another time.)

Apparently it was a faux pas to sneak away at 3am, but, hey, that’s the kind of girl I am. I rode the subway home exhilarated–I’d found my one! And in this case “one” means no-strings-attached booty call, not Prince Charming.

I’ll give you the details on our first time in another post, but can I stop here to give the Friends-With-Benefits situation a ringing endorsement? Once he knew what I wanted–it was pretty clear what he wanted–we started having fun and have been, off-and-on, for seven months. We like each other immensely but don’t like like each other. We are mutually attracted but not overwhelmingly so. He’s polite but not cloying, I’m detached but not rude (I think). We get along enough to enjoy seeing each other even without the sex–although we both would rather do it every time. I’d rather do it twice every time.

Don’t believe the movies! It can just be like this: good sex, with no eventual realization of “true” feelings.

Having my first sexual experiences with a friend+ has been ideal. I mean, I see the appeal of fumbling around in a car at 15 with your “first true love,” but that shit’s not for me. And, disclaimer, my set-up is not for everyone. But it’s for me. Many of the sexual experiences I want to write about have happened with my lovely FB1. He’s been a good-looking, horny, safe companion for my explorations, and woo-ee have I enjoyed it.

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