Friends with benefits. We’ve finally arrived at one of the juiciest chapters in the dusty tome of dating content.
If you’re lucky enough to have not seen the similarly titled rom-com starring Mila Kunis, then, well done. I have not been so fortunate and so am constantly seeking out new ways to express the sentiment of ‘having sex with a friend’ without referencing said film. Pals who fuck? Mates who shag?
I’m a strong advocate of friendships that slip in and out (sorry) of the romantic and platonic spheres. As I sit writing this, I can think of three people (mates) with whom I’ve enjoyed quasi-relationships that have done just that- shapeshifted. Only one of whom I’m still in contact with.
I’ve never asked them for anything more than a euphemistic ‘hang-out’ and they return the favour. I’ve never 'caught feelings’. They’ve never asked me ‘what this is’ or ‘who else I’m seeing’. In short, we have fun and no one gets hurt. These men are au fait with my housemates (god bless them), they know my parents’ names (one of them met my dad when I moved house last year). I know their siblings’ names and their family pets. With all of them, I am different versions of myself; we meet on slightly varied terms that suit both parties and I love them all for myriad and varying reasons. One of them (maybe two) know me better than any boyfriend I’ve ever had.
Let’s start, at the beginning:
The first, I met at university when we were both in long-term relationships with other people. For four years after graduating, we’d meet, once a month and play families for half a day before going our separate ways. It helped that there was a minimal crossover between our friendship groups and that when we’d meet, we’d both silently honour that PDA embargo that we’d placed on our dates. We’d text in between meets. Share memes, check in, but nothing more. When we did meet we’d do something coupley like a cinema date or a gallery visit which would always culminate in a quickie. In all honesty, the sex wasn’t the draw. I really and truly loved him but not one inch of me desired to be his girlfriend. When I did, on a few occasions- like the time we went on holiday- suspect that he felt like putting a label on things, I’d go quiet for a month or two.
The second, I met at a party in North-Fucking-London. I say that because I never leave East London, and when the bash at which we met drew me way out North I was particularly disgruntled. That, and because this guy is so north London it’s very important to note his postcode. Did I mention he drives a BMW and skateboards and is 4 years younger than me? The thot thickens. Anyway, huntress that I is, I sniffed out his East London aspirations a mile off and decided I could be his diligent tour-guide at the time he finally decided to un-tug himself from his mother’s breast milk and leave the safety of the family digs (mansion) and make the pilgrimage East.
And, here we are, three years later. I couldn’t care less who else he sees (they definitely wear berets) or where else he goes. If he stopped getting in touch with me, I’d let that yacht sail, but when we do meet up it’s fun, and fun is good for you…I think. The way he texts drives me fucking nuts and his accent is so posh it means I can’t always understand what he’s saying but that’s fine because he’s usually talking about this next project or the holiday he just got back from and I’m busy thinking about whether you can wash pale blues with whites. I’m also so busy that these (kinda ruthless) 90-minute catch ups are actually ideal.
The third has now ceased to exist. He lasted over a year and was somewhat famous. Lol. This one was complicated because his ego was essentially a Fabergé egg that needed to be polished (but not too firmly else it would crack) and laid to rest every night on a comfy bed of compliments (but only ever the left side- the egg’s better angle). Said egg was also sure that almost everyone out there desired it. In reality, everyone did not desire the egg, but I had to do my best to ensure him that I thought they did too. Poor egg.
Anyway, besides the listless boredom of watching him select from his endless rotation of celebrity-airport caps for every trip out into ‘the public’, despite subsequent bellowing coffee orders and in spite of many ear-splittingly loud jokes, it was, all in all, fun. What stopped being fun was his constant paranoia that I was lying about my intentions, and that I secretly harboured hopes for our bit on the side thing to become the real deal. I did not (please refer back to the hat bit). Also, and I will say nothing more on the topic than this, the whole physical nature of our relationship was- nuts.
The natural reaction from most of my friends who know about these boyfriendships is to jump to a few conclusions (although, caveat, I have amazing, open minded friends who on the whole agree that as long as I’m happy and safe that I should go forth). Firstly, there is the concern that one person will get hurt (this did happen with boy one, eventually), the second is that I must be locking off a part of my brain in order to become impervious to feelings and the last is that no good will come of it.
In all honesty, I think that for a long time these boyfriendships kept me sane. It was just so much easier, to be honest with them. We need to discuss the pillow talk that comes with no strings attached sex. ‘Cos that shit is deep! Akin to sitting in a confession box with a priest you know, and being able to bitch about your husband is exactly the kind of solace a woman can gain from a fuck buddy. A strangely concrete sense of trust can be formed between two people who share something incredibly intimate but also owe nothing to one another. I think I know deep down too, that like friends, were I ever in trouble I could call them and ask for help and the sentiment, I hope, is reciprocated.
I think that on the whole, an unwillingness to accept that two people can be physical without someone secretly nurturing nesting plans plays into a larger, more negative dialogue that uses fear mongering to get us all to behave as God intended- in heterosexual two by twos headed straight for the arc. Sex with multiple partners does not lead to death or babies (if protection is used). Not everyone wants a long term relationship. A woman’s vagina is not also secretly her brain and, when penetrated, she does not lose control of her own common sense and free will. I think we need to start acknowledging that something exists between no-strings-attached sex doll passion and full throttle Casablanca love and when we do, people will be a lot happier.
For too long relationships have been about ownership. Relationships, like the people in them, are complicated. The parameters placed on the way we should conduct our private lives are restrictive, nonsensical and miserable. If people read this and assume I’m a slut, I’ll put it down to social conditioning. I have wondered about what happens if I do meet someone with whom I want to be exclusively in a relationship but I figure I’ll cross that bridge onto the yacht when I get to it.
Like this? You might also be interested in:
**Half-Hearted: When It Comes To Dating, When Did We All Start Being So Horrible To Eachother **
**Half-Hearted: It's A Myth That Only Men Are Commitment Phobic **
Follow Nellie on Twitter @nelliefaitheden
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.