When I told my f*ck buddy I wanted

When I told my f*ck buddy I wanted more from him, I surprised myself. He wasn’t even my type. I had picked him up at a bar last April because I thought I was only going home with him for the night.

After we f*cked that April night, drunk as all hell, he took me to brunch the next morning. We were sitting across from each other at a cafe when I realized just how much I didn’t want to be there.

“So when can I see you again?” he asked me as I stuffed a croque monsieur into my mouth.

I laughed in my head. This dude thinks I’m going to see him again? Yeah, no. But when I got up to go to the bathroom, he sneakily took my phone and put his number in it. And I did see him again, and again, and again. He’s just going to be my steady f*ck, I decided. Because what’s life if you’re not getting steadily f*cked?

He was supposed to be my rebound. My safety blanket. The thing to distract me from the thing that was causing me pain. I had just gotten out of a relationship, dammit, and a good, old-fashioned one-night stand was all I needed. It was all I wanted. I was going to use the f*ck buddy as a defense mechanism; I didn’t want to get hurt again. My ex-boyfriend had broken me enough, that was for sure.

But before I knew it, I’d known my f*ck buddy for six months. Then a year. And we grew on each other, the way your co-workers grow on you because they’re your low-key family. You know how all the little things about them mysteriously become endearing because they’re humanizing? Like the way they chew louder than they have to, or the way they wear clothes that are too small for them but try to pull them off anyway? Those little things bring you closer.

That’s what happened to me and him. Unnecessary drama, blowout fights, unanswered texts, too many texts, drunken confessions, my sass, his stubbornness, my inability to cook, his desire to teach me, us sharing pieces of our pasts with each other that we’d stuffed down so far we were surprised they even came up in conversation — all those things brought my f*ck buddy and me closer, too.

“My sister is acting weird again,” he said one day while we were lying in bed. It was a Saturday afternoon. “Pride and Prejudice” was on in the background, and his hand was resting on the crown of my head.

“How so?” I said, looking up at him with wide, intrigued eyes.

As he told me the story, I empathized. And I no longer wanted to just f*ck. I wanted to talk, too. I have a sister, I get it…

When I realized he was beginning to get to me, I confronted him with my feelings at a dingy bar in my neighborhood.

“Would you ever consider … you know … us?” I asked, tipsily grabbing his collar and pulling him in closer.

“I can’t. I … I’m almost there,” he said. He wasn’t looking at me. “But I’m just not there yet.”

Results (Arabic) 1:

عندما قلت لي و * كورونا تشيكية الصديق أردت أكثر منه، فوجئت نفسي. أنه لم يكن حتى من نوع بي. وقد التقطت له في شريط آخر نيسان/أبريل لأنني اعتقدت كنت فقط أريد المنزل معه ليلا.وبعد نحن و * cked في تلك الليلة نيسان/أبريل، في حالة سكر ككل الجحيم، اصطحبني إلى الغداء في صباح اليوم التالي. كنا جالسين قبالة بعضهما البعض في مقهى عندما أدركت مدى لم أكن أريد أن تكون هناك."حتى عندما يمكن أن أراك مرة أخرى؟" طلب مني كما أنا محشوة مسيو كروك في فمي.ضحكت في رأسي. ويعتقد هذا المتأنق أنا ذاهب لرؤيته مرة أخرى؟ نعم، لا. ولكنه عندما استيقظت للذهاب إلى الحمام، أخذت هاتفي سنيكيلي ووضع رقم هاتفه في ذلك. ورؤيته مرة أخرى، ومرة أخرى، ومرة أخرى. أنه فقط ستكون بي و مطرد * كورونا تشيكية، قررت. لأن ما هو الحياة إذا كنت لا تحصل على ثبات و * ككيد؟كان يفترض أن تكون بلادي انتعاش. بي بطانية السلامة. الشيء أن يصرف لي من الشيء الذي كان يسبب لي الألم. أنا قد حصلت للتو من علاقة، اللعنة، وموقف ليلة واحدة جيدة، الطراز القديم بكل ما يلزم. كان كل ما أردت. كان على وشك استخدام f * كورونا تشيكية الصديق كآلية للدفاع؛ لم أكن أريد أن تضار مرة أخرى. صديقي السابقين قد كسرت لي ما يكفي، أنه كان بالتأكيد.But before I knew it, I’d known my f*ck buddy for six months. Then a year. And we grew on each other, the way your co-workers grow on you because they’re your low-key family. You know how all the little things about them mysteriously become endearing because they’re humanizing? Like the way they chew louder than they have to, or the way they wear clothes that are too small for them but try to pull them off anyway? Those little things bring you closer.That’s what happened to me and him. Unnecessary drama, blowout fights, unanswered texts, too many texts, drunken confessions, my sass, his stubbornness, my inability to cook, his desire to teach me, us sharing pieces of our pasts with each other that we’d stuffed down so far we were surprised they even came up in conversation — all those things brought my f*ck buddy and me closer, too.“My sister is acting weird again,” he said one day while we were lying in bed. It was a Saturday afternoon. “Pride and Prejudice” was on in the background, and his hand was resting on the crown of my head.“How so?” I said, looking up at him with wide, intrigued eyes.As he told me the story, I empathized. And I no longer wanted to just f*ck. I wanted to talk, too. I have a sister, I get it…When I realized he was beginning to get to me, I confronted him with my feelings at a dingy bar in my neighborhood.“Would you ever consider … you know … us?” I asked, tipsily grabbing his collar and pulling him in closer."لا. أنا... وقال أنا هناك تقريبا ". أنه لم يكن يبحث في وجهي. "ولكن أنا فقط لا يوجد حتى الآن".