By: Missguided Mama Sarah Hosseini for Your Tango.
“How did you two meet?” the couple across the table from us asked while exchanging knowing, sweet looks. They grabbed each other’s hand, and one of them started to recite the romantic “How We Met” story.
I tried not to gag. We were at a dinner party after all. You could tell they’d been through this routine before. Almost every couple has. It’s the same story, told the same sweet, cliché way.
They finished and everyone at the dinner table gave the “awwww so cute” look. Everyone then fixed their eyes expectantly on the next couple: me and my husband.
“How did you guys meet?”
I took a deep breath and gave a nervous-excited look to my husband. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled.
“We met in university,” I said.
My shoulders shrugged down rapidly and air filled my chest that blew out like a tornado. PHEW. I glared at my husband and shot him a don’t you f*cking dare say a word look.
But what was I supposed to say — that it was love at first bone?
Our meeting story and subsequent coupling isn’t exactly a story you tell over tea and crumpets. It’s a story you tell only your close friends after copious amounts of cocktails. What’s the appropriate way to say my hit-it-and-quit-it is now my husband?
By now, everyone should be desensitised a little bit by the idea of f*ck buddies (FBs, for short). Tinder is around. Casual sex is as simple as a swipe. And no one’s ashamed of it. There’s no judgment of one night stands. (Come to think of it, I’d be so good on Tinder. I’d be a Tinderella. It’s a shame I never had the chance.)
We’ve been shagging since before the Internet got involved. Me and my F*ck Buddy for Life (aka my husband) had an epic one-night stand in university that led us down the road to completely un-inhibiting, no-strings-attached sex. We didn’t do phone calls — we did booty calls.
Most people think the man in the FB relationship has the upper hand, the control. They’re getting the goods for free. But that’s only true if the woman wants more out of the FB relationship.
I liked the sex. It felt good. I was studying for exams, working as a bartender and participating in an internship. I didn’t have time for fake niceties or pretending to be a “proper” woman, whatever that means.
I wasn’t trying to be revolutionary; I just wanted to get my rocks off before English class with a guy that was great in bed and didn’t have STDs.
Mostly, I find the dinosaur ritual of dating so daunting. I despise small talk. The time commitment to dating can be painfully wasteful. UGH, and the money? The money to pay for the date. The money you spend on a new outfit. The money getting each other crappy gifts, like flowers that die.
We were banging on a budget. And it felt like I was winning the jackpot. No expectations. No sexpectations, and I could still study for my tests. I didn’t want courtship — I wanted condoms. Lots of ’em. To prepare for a booty call, all I had to do was shave, throw on a cute bra and undies, and stay aloof.
See, there’s this secret competition between FBs. The competition is to see who can care the least, or act like they care the least. I played well but ultimately lost the game.
I dropped the ball by telling my f*ck buddy that I wanted more. I wanted to make my f*ck buddy my boyfriend, which is basically breaking all FB rules. My FB didn’t want to be my boyfriend, but he still wanted to have sex with me. Shocker.
I made it a priority to get over my fuzzy feelings so I could keep this awesome rump ride going. Having unadulterated, uncomplicated sex was enough for me.
I’m not going to lie, I totally fantasised about what our babies would like look like sometimes, which is totally normal for a horny, university girl with exploding ovaries. But I never told him that … until after we had babies.
Maybe in the end I did win. Six months after my pathetic “I have feelings for you” confession, he asked me to be his girlfriend. And now I’m his wife and the mother of his two children (who are more beautiful than I could’ve fantasised about).
To this day we’re not huge daters. We don’t make a point to go on “date night.” It’s just not our thing, and never has been.
When my five-year-old asks me how Daddy and I met, I give her the same line that I give at dinner parties, “We met in university.”
My husband and I smile, and exchange that familiar, married people glance. Actually, it’s more like bedroom eyes. We exchange bedroom eyes, and that’s still enough for me.
This post originally appeared on Your Tango.
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