Tag Archives: London life

The f*@k buddy debate

"Maybe we could just have a quick shag?"

“Maybe we could just have a quick shag?”

So who’s ever experienced that strangely celebrated standard of 21st Century love – a fuck buddy?

Let me tell you a little something about mine (who for all those interested detective sorts constitutes one of my recent clutch of clandestine liaisons.)

I met the perpetrator around five years ago – believe it or not whilst working on the very same play where I met Dan (like most plays in the english language it was ludricously male heavy which meant there were lots of healthy specimens to choose from)

Mat Oakley. Mat spelt only with one t – that’s terribly important. Apparently.

Mat was (and indeed is) one of the most ludricously vain men I have ever come across. One eye is constantly trained in on his own reflection, and one hand is constantly employed in slicking back a too gelled hairdo. He doesn’t eat carbs after six and his drink of choice is a gin and slimline tonic.

I’m sorry to say he wasn’t much liked within the cast. His vanity often mutated into self obsession and a conversation with Mat required little more of you than an occasional nod and a sporadic assenting murmur. Dan totally despised Mat, and led the cast in rather cruel impersonantions behind his back (horrid school playground bully behaviour not to be sanctioned in any way – remembering such smallnesses about Dan are always useful.) I didn’t mind him – I suppose I felt sorry for him – I prescribed his fractious self obsession to a shitty childhood and his preoccupation with outward appearences to shockingly low self esteem. Rather boringly – because I felt sorry for him – I was often locked into his interminable one way conversations. His saving grace was that he was nice to look at – very in fact, tall muscly with thick brown hair and sinkably blue eyes. It was fascinating how such good looks were totally dwarfed by a terminably dull personality.

The play came and went and Mat seemingly passed out of my life for good. Dan and I had moved in ever decreasing circles towards each other till the famous moment where I universally blew it with the kicking out of bed sequence. I was feeling a little bruised and frustrated. I was in fact furious with myself and wanted to do something fairly self destructive. I wanted to have sex with someone anyone and get the big hulking presence of Dan out of my head.

Cue Mat.

The cast had decided to have a reunion a few months after the last curtain had come down on our messy theatrical outing (aaaah nostalgic out of work actors). Dan was supposed to be there but had pulled a sickie at the last conceivable moment. I was preened and pruned to perfection having come along with the distinct plan to try and rectify all my previous undoing in the romantic possibilities of an Adams Burke union and was crushingly gutted that he wasn’t there. So… dangerously sexually frustrated I got very, VERY drunk.

Towards the end of the night I realised that Mat’s hand was inelegantly plonked on my inner thigh and he was gently doing something which could only be perceived as fondling. I darted a swift sharp look in his direction gathering all my sober wits to try and arch one eyebrow to give a acerbic ‘what the fuck?!?!’ look. This was supposed to have the affect of removing said twitching hand, but oblivious as ever Mat didn’t move a muscle but instead grinned in what I suppose was intended to be a sexy manner. My addled brain quickly did a bit of fact balancing :

1) Mat wants to shag you.

2) Mat’s a twat.

3) Mat’s a very good looking  twat who’s probably got a rippling six pack underneath that overpriced shirt

4) He’s a bit of a dick

5) But he also has a dick that could make you forget about the richter scale demolishing levels of sexual tension coursing through every cell of your sad barren  body

6) People think he’s ridiculous and therefore people would think that you were ridiculous by proxy

7) Nobody need ever know.

And that did it. I grabbed him by the hand and hurtled him into the nearest taxi where there were scenes that would make even the most seasoned of London’s cabbies blush. So we had sex (full sex at home not in said taxi I hasten to add). And it was good.

It was really good.

I’m not a looks girl, not at all really. More than often the objects of my affection have had some decidedly unattractive characteristic: a gargartuan nose, a caterpillar inspiring uni brow, a large and strangely engaging hairy mole….. The biggest turn on for me has always been a sense of humour. Make me laugh and I’m yours on a plate sunny side up.  I would have never thought I could be attracted to, let alone enjoy earth shattering sex with someone so unerringly humourless. But enjoy it I did… and did and did, and then did some more – indeed five years on me and Mat still meet up for the occasional shag – no questions asked.

Why? How can sex with someone you find fundamentally undesirable (however attractive you might find the sheer bones of him) be enjoyable and keep you coming back for more?  Maybe it’s because you’re allowed to engage fully with the actual act rather than simultaneously tackle the emotional maelstrom that accompanies anything as vulnerable-making as sex with another human being. There’s no running commentary in my head anlaysing my performance and anxiously pondering whether the bloke’s enjoying it or not? Does he still fancy me? Is that slightly tortured look in his eye a grimace of enjoyment or boredom? Will he want this to happen again? Please god make him want to do this again? I’m sad to say these thoughts can often totally engulf me which leaves no space for me to question whether or not I’m actually enjoying the heaving sweaty union.

I can honestly say that I wouldn’t care if any time we and Mat met up proved to be the last. I have no fantasties about a future, no real concern as to whether he likes it or not. What we do, when we do it, is purely about the unadulterated fun and joy you can find in playing with another person’s body.

Of course if we were being terribly introspective and shrink-tastic about any of this then we might talk about how I can only have respect for my own enjoyment (and therefore myself) when I have piss poor little for the other party. This is actually pretty scary  and is pretty exemplary of the lack of self esteem that at times cripples me. But hey I acknowledge it. But as psychologically dubious as I’m sure it may be, Mat’s generally has been a good thing for me and my stunted confidence. I just hope one day I get to be so relaxed with someone I actually give a damn about.

And Mat, this is for you.

M xxxxxxxx

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