I’m a toy.
Fragile parts especially crafted for assholes.
“I’m spoken for”
That’s the phrase that scrolled across my phone screen, after she propositioned sex for the first time in the initial stages of our interaction. She was a friend-with-benefits who has managed to captivate more than my sexual attention. And she’s not the first. She’s probably the third in the past 2 years.
Like any other male in his twenties, I have a healthy sexual appetite. But conversations where I want more and my partners want less, emotionally, seem to have become the norm. Every woman I have come across lately seems to notice one thing about me at first glance, “he’s hot”. And while it’s the trope of a seemingly arrogant people to be stunned by this, nobody seems to feel sorry for me. If you’re young, smart and attractive, the world treats you as such. People are nicer, and expect you to bestow upon them a piece of whatever you have, even if you don’t quite know how you acquired it. If you express to your friends your disdain about this condition, you’re immediately met with opposition: “You’re 21 and hot, and smart, you can have anyone you want.”, “Why are you whining?” It becomes daunting after a while when you continue to hear more about how attractive you are, and less about how much you mean to someone romantically.
So, I keep my roster of “skiddadlers” on deck; girls who are willing to engage me sexually, pretty much at a moment’s notice. While there’s no lack of respect between us, there’s an implicit understanding that if emotions come into play, we’re dead. Some of these people are in the emotional twilight-zone with me as well, if they admitted more than lust, I’d be forced to end the agreement, purely out of fear of usury. The last woman I got with once admitted, “I didn’t want to like you…If you were in a more stable place, we could have tried something.” Now she’s seeing someone on a regular basis, and I’ve been cast aside as the very-supportive-and-nice-friend. Lucky me.
If Valentine’s day is any indication of this, guess who I will be with? Absolut vodka, Blue bunny ice cream. During my most recent ice cream vacation from life, I got a call from a platonic friend. She wanted to slice through the corset-strings of monogamy with her boyfriend, and use my dick as a box-cutter. Good fucking ice cream. Bad fucking company.
Here I am today, up early, working on a business plan for a start-up(and finishing this post). And I keep getting the feeling that no matter what I do, this will always be my life. I’ll always have to walk the tightrope between being emotionally available, and sexually active. Because, the movies have lied to us. No friend-with-benefits ever wises up and decides to take the next step, after the oxytocin from the last orgasm wears off. At the end of the day, as long as I continue to pre-define my interactions with sex. I’ll never get anywhere. And yeah, it’s scary to interact with people you really like, without the cushion of a mattress. But, it’s better than the sneaking suspicion that…I’m a toy.