Single File

Just friends.  

Whoever said that men and women cannot be platonic friends was probably a jaded fuckbuddy.

In the 18 months following a disastrous breakup, I found myself in very interesting friendships.  Though time after time, I vowed to keep the friendship sex-free, it is usually a matter of months before I roll over, sweaty and panting, placing my hand over my face in disbelief as to how my “friend” and I went from sitting on  a couch arguing over a football game to tackling each other, naked, in bed.

As stupid as it sounds, I did not see this last one coming.  Ironically, I met homeyloverfriend through another fuckbuddy.  I was not interested in him at all, found him mildly attractive, and was generally not affected.  My lack of interest made a friendship with him all the more feasible, or so I thought.

We hung out, at first, in group settings.  Over time, however, like the racist Agatha Christie suspense novel, the numbers dwindled, and then there were two.   We started spending more and more time together, just him and me.  We were a dynamic duo, a purely platonic pair.  We gave each other tips on how to deal with the opposite sex, watched football games, and discussed politics.  We watched funny movies, sipped hot chocolate at trendy coffee shops, and debated over the state of the black community in America.  We talked about our families, told each other secrets, and promised to always be there for each other.  We laughed at each other’s jokes, play fought, and tickled each other.  We had sleepovers, we cooked dinners together, and we kissed.

We kissed.

We kissed, then we touched.

Clothes are ripped off, underwear flies through the air, and we try to get inside each other as deeply as possible.  We match each other’s breathing.  I look at him, thinking that this time will be different.  We won’t end up sacrificing our friendship for late-night hookups.  This time won’t be like the others.  He’s going to continue to listen to me ramble on about my latest plan to save the world.  He’s going keep unexpectedly showing up at my apartment building demanding that I run downstairs as soon as possible to go get ice cream in the middle of the night.  He’s going to keep telling me that I need expect more from men.  More.

Before I knew it, I was swept away in the scent of his cologne and couldn’t get enough of his curiously curly hair.  The random Sunday afternoon phone calls to see how I’m doing turned into random 2 a.m. booty calls to see if I’d do him.  And, I did.

His days, which used to be filled with conversations with me over cocoa about just about everything, were now getting busier and busier, while his nights were free for the taking.  I thought that since I didn’t see him as often as I used to in the daytime, I had to see him when his schedule allowed.  I would scramble to pack a duffel bag and see him at night — settling for 15-minute talks between our hour-long fuck sessions.

After a couple of months, I realized that his four-door sedan was not my horse and carriage.  It morphed into a rotten pumpkin, my glass slipper was a pink sock that lay on the edge of his mattress, and his castle was just a dark bedroom that reeked of boyish cologne and latex from the rubbers we used.

My phone rang less and less.  My instant messages weren’t responded to.  My door was left without knocking.

Rest in peace.