Friends with Benefits

That’s what we are, but we don’t actually say that out loud of course. Especially since a charming Rom-Com starring Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis went by the same name and we all know that ended happily ever after. That’s not what this is. I am occasionally unsure as to whether or not she even likes me. Our nights together always start off the same. I enter her apartment with a bottle of wine/liquor. We pour drinks and sit at her kitchen table. She’ll discuss her well paying job and the luxuries it affords her.

"Thank God I ended up where I did, I could never afford all this working freelance. 12 dollars an hour? Pft."

I take a large gulp from my drink, trying to convince myself that wasn’t a dig. Even if she was referencing the company I work for and what just so happens to be my hourly wage. I instantly regret having ever told her what I make. LinkedIn comes up, because of course it does. She mentions having not had the time to fill out the responsibilities that came with her new position. 
 
"You’ve got to fill that shit out," I say, "Make everybody jealous."
She pauses, "No offense, but what I do is really different from what you do."

I ponder what part of that statement I could take offensively and take another swig. It’s becoming clear this is not a one vodka orange juice kind of night. Later I make a joke about how hard it is to use chopsticks which is met with a "Maybe for you."

I think I hate her for a minute, but I’m horny and it doesn’t matter. Once my body is buzzing from alcohol my anger fades. When we retreat to her bedroom, I’ve just about forgotten each passive aggressive put down. She bites me, a little too hard and maybe it’s just residual anger from our earlier conversation but it inspires me to get a little rough with her. She loves it.

As she grabs hold of my collar she begins to talk again. "It’s wrinkled," she notes. I mumble something about not having time to iron as she untucks my shirt and begins the process of unbuttoning. "I like it because it makes you look messy," she says, licking my neck. "But you’re not messy, not at all."

Her words stay with me as we work to get each other naked. We engage in no hold’s barred sex. I tell her what I want, make her bend in whatever direction I see fit. She talks dirty, more so than anyone I’ve ever been with. I feel free when we fuck. I’m not worried about what’s ok and what isn’t. She’s not trying to impress me anymore and I’m not trying be numb. Our sex is effortless, as effortless as loud, sweaty, dirty sex can be.

When it’s over and we’re tangled in sheets, laughing, I don’t feel messy. I don’t feel bad about myself, but I’m still yearning. I am constantly yearning. I just wish our conversations were as easy as the sex. I wish she "got" me or even knew me half as well as she thinks she does. 

The next morning I return to my parent’s home. My night as a grown up was just me playing pretend. I lie to my parent’s about where I really spent the night and head upstairs to my childhood bedroom. I write a diary entry and try to figure out the next logical step.