It’s winter in New York, which means two things: the air hurts your face and the “hey, you around?” texts start circulating like chain mail among New York singles.
I am guilty of it, too. But at least I tried to settle down before the temperature dropped this year, prefacing every date with the “I’m dating intentionally” line. Though even with intention, nothing stuck. I guess I am famously single. I have situationships. A few tasteful arrangements here and there. But a boyfriend? That’s rare for me. So naturally—like all the other New Yorkers who didn’t participate in cuffing season—I’m hitting up my fuck buddies, or what I like to call, my dick appointments.
Every woman has at least one. I just happen to have three. The men you would never date but love to fuck. These guys are also famously single. In New York, it’s usually male models, personal trainers, cinematographers, or directors. I don’t know why, but men in these professions always seem to be single even when they’re taken. They are sexual emergency contacts. The ones you call when you’re dying for an orgasm.
Because the truth is: it’s not always about loneliness. It’s about convenience.
I can go on a date or get laid easily. That’s not the issue. The issue is starting from scratch. Flirting from zero. Pretending we’re mysterious over overpriced drinks, knowing that we would absolutely go to bed with him if the vibe is right. But if the sex is bad? Now he’s just another body you don’t want to count when your doctor asks how many partners you’ve had this year.
At least with fuck buddies, there’s no disappointment, the walls are already down, and you both know exactly what you came for.
I texted my star player, Manny, first. A half-Mexican, half-Cuban film director with dick so good it makes you want to write about it (which I have) just so you can relive it over and over again. We tried dating, but we’re incompatible in almost every meaningful way, which is exactly why I can casually hook up with him. It’s highly unlikely that I’d fall in love—or worse—be dickmatized by him.
Dickmatization is a sickness some women catch when the sex is really good, but the post-nut clarity never arrives, so you start confusing sexual chemistry with compatibility. Suddenly, his red flags are “things you can fix,” and you’re endorsing nonsense because the dick is divine.
I’ve trained myself out of that illness. I don’t let good sex convince me someone is good for me anymore. No dick is worth the drama, but some are worth a seasonal visit.
Manny is the dominant type, which works perfectly for us in the bedroom, but outside of it, not so much. Everything has to happen on his terms. Once, before work, I initiated sex, but he wasn’t in the mood. Fine. I got dressed, did my makeup, and the second I was fully clothed, he finally looked up from his computer, undressing me with his eyes.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked.
I said no. But I was mad. I knew he wanted me to beg for his dick, which is fun sometimes in a slutty, 1 am, kinda way, but it wasn’t something that I had time for right before work.
“Come here,” he says. I reluctantly obey, and when I’m within arm’s reach, he pulls me onto his lap and starts kissing me on my neck.
Long story short, I was late for work.