I snuck out of the office to fuck the boy on my lunch hour the other day, which, while I could write about it at length (there’s nothing quite like returning to your desk with a guilty secret and tits streaked with dried come), isn’t the main focus of this post. It is, however, related.
I once had an argument with my mum because I’m a massive defender of the need for chemistry in any relationship. She sees no reason why you wouldn’t ultimately settle down with your best friend if your best friend is romantically interested in you, you like them, and your life goals ultimately include things like a steady, monogamous relationship and children. I think there’s no way you should settle down with your best friend unless, in addition to all of the above, they also give you the horn.
However, I’d perhaps find it easier to talk about chemistry with my best male friend than I find it to discuss it with the boy. We’ve known each other for long enough now that I’m slightly uneasy knowing that if I admit here that he still gives me butterflies, he’s almost certain to read it. After all, although I consider myself an affectionate person, when it comes to him, I prefer to brandish the line ‘But I care about you!’ the way some people would brandish a steak knife.
But, anyway, unease aside, there’s no denying that he makes my stomach flip no less now than he did the first time we went to the pub one autumn afternoon. The corridor that leads from my office to reception looks over the street outside, which meant that last week I caught a glimpse of him hanging around waiting for me, and sure as anything, my tummy did somersaults,
as I imagined him imminently spreading my legs with one of those denim clad thighs.
Every time, it confuses me. Nerves, after all this time? And then I realise, nope, not nerves, anticipation. Of the best kind.
I never want to be in any kind of relationship without it.