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"I just want a fuck friend, a really consistent one." I said to my friend Lynn one of our pre-Bikini season excursions to the gym after a three hiatus from physical activity.
"That doesn't exist." Insisted my lovely but nevertheless jaded friend. "You fuck once, you're just having fun. Any more than a few times, and you start getting to know each other. And once you get to know each other, that's when one or both of you starts to get attached. Then you either start a relationship or blow it off altogether."
True. My last "fuck friend" ended soon after we exchanged names of our childhood pets. And I knew I was attached when 3:00am would roll around and, not receiving a phone call, I would become enveloped in jealousy. But there must be some way to make it work, I thought, as my Jell-O legs tried to pick up the pace from a slow jog on the treadmill.
A week later at a work-related party, I waited anxiously in a long bar line-up for a yet another drink to make the socializing more bearable when a person behind me said something in French that I thought meant "What's going on?"
"I have no idea," I said as I turned around to find a very attractive guy standing behind me. He looked at me with a slightly confused smirk on his face. Apparently, he had asked me where I worked, but my limited knowledge of French had hindered the interaction. After explaining that I actually did know where I worked and returning the question, I was started thinking that this might be just what I was looking for. His English was not being that much better than my French.
After we finished our drinks, he suggested we go elsewhere for more. We might have to pay, but at least we wouldn't have to wait in line. "Sure," I said, and we headed for his car. The bar he picked was coincidently close to his hotel, and after a bottle of wine we ended up in his room. We may have had a language barrier issue, but we weren't going to let our clothes get in the way of any physical communication.
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