Alien construction of the pyramids and Illuminati conspiracy theories aside, the actual age-old question of this great human civilization is, dear readers, whether or not a successful booty call buddy relationship can be had.
A booty call buddy is like having friends with benefits (as what one observes in that Justin Timberlake/Mila Kunis film), where two platonic people who enjoy spending time doing non-sex things together try to throw sex in, too. But a booty call buddy is someone you primarily see for bedtime-only activities. You might throw in a movie or dinner beforehand to hang a threadbare curtain of social decency over the arrangement, but you both know that it’s not as if you actually want each other’s take on “Guardians of the Galaxy” or someone to split an appetizer with.
Everything in pop culture, from rom-coms and their I’m-secretly-in-love-with-you plots to magazine articles advising on how to admit your true feelings while you’re simultaneously trying their 835 tips for _great sex!!!_, insinuate that booty call buddies never work out. At least one person is always frickin’ falling in love. Perfect, dependable, casual sex just can’t be done.
Prior to this year, the sexual partners I had existed in two categories: the kind I secretly created lacy Pinterest wedding boards for, and the kind where I would wait until they were in the shower so I could sneak out and catch my train. But then, because the sex (and Tinder) gods looked down favorably upon me, I discovered the joy of having my first casual booty call buddy.
He was a Tinder match who struck me with his interest in sculpture and penchant for compliments. We grabbed a few beers at a bar one night, chatting long enough to realize we had nothing in common. The week after, I invited him over to watch a movie. The sex that ensued after watching probably the least sexy Tom Hanks movie ever ended up being ridiculously great.
Over the next few months, we saw each other every few days. We decided neither of us wanted a relationship. We pretended to talk about our day and our lives, but then would always shortly get down to business. We saw movies and got dinner, but we paid separately. We never asked to meet each others’ friends. We tried weird things, things we’d never be so bold about with an actual significant other. We cuddled. We were comfortable. We had so much fun.
It was three months of lovely, dependable casual sex — the holy grail to a 21-year-old’s libido — before, well, things naturally fell apart. He started sending flowers and cooking for me; I met and fell in love with someone else. It was unfortunate, though we ended things on sheepish, but good, undramatic terms.
On my part, I regret nothing. Our interactions were an outlet for just being myself with someone who I wasn’t worried about impressing or locking down for a someday-wedding. Which is why, as a result, I believe that not only can booty call relationships be doable, but they can also make you happier and more confident in your own skin, sans emotional drama.
True, booty call buddy relationships are not without their problems. I eventually discovered that mine gave me chlamydia. But I think that’s a story for next week.
_Love,
Edna_
