Breaking Up with My FWB

Breaking Up with My FWB

When I met Kenny he helped me get over the guy I was seeing before him. I was relieved to meet someone who had more time to give. I saw him three times the first week we met. That was more than I saw Blake in a month. I liked that he had no shame in hitting me up to kick it again just a couple days after we hung out. After the first time we hooked up he casually mentioned he wanted to be single for awhile and wasn’t looking for a relationship. His timing was shitty. I really wasn’t trying to get involved in another casual situation after what happened with Blake. I liked Ken though. The next day I told him I wanted to make him come [cum] regularly.

Ken’s LA grit was the antidote to my former polished, preppy Brit. Kenny had a “dad bod”; Blake had a six-pack. Ken talked about crying; Blake mentioned beating people up and a stint in prison. Kenny felt more accessible to me and more transparent. When we hung out I felt like I had his undivided attention. He was enthusiastic, energetic, and educated—in a cultured, experienced way. He opted out of college, something I admired because I never had the balls to drop out of school. All of this was reflected in his intense sexual nature.

He knew how to set the tone. He was a great host and I liked being in his space. He usually had candles lit in his apartment. It always smelled good. It was always clean. One of the first times we had sex he played Sade (a tad cliché but he pulled it off). He was a generous lover. Sometimes I couldn’t believe I met him on Tinder. One time while we were in missionary position he didn’t let me fuck him back at all. “Don’t move,” he ordered. It was challenging not returning his strokes. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.” he reiterated in a voice that was both firm and disarming.

“I feel so lucky,” I said to him.

“I do too. You deserve it,” he said back. 

I knew from the start that his job was demanding. He gave me a heads up that he’d be out of town a lot touring as an audio engineer. One afternoon, after we had sex all night and slept all morning, I sat at the edge of his bed and watched him get dressed. “What’s wrong, you miss me already?” he asked. He was about to leave town for a couple weeks. “You’ll get used to it,” he assured me. I did get used to it. We fell into a rhythm of him reaching out to me when he was home and us not speaking at all in the time in between.

Besides not communicating on a regular basis there were other clear reminders that there were no strings attached with us. When he got back from the tour he was on he told me about a tryst he had in Spokane. “This one bi girl in Washington was so cute. I feel like you’d be super down [for a hookup],” he texted me. Another time when I reached for my phone I mistakenly picked his up instead. “That’s mine!” he said emphatically. He grabbed it out my hand but not before I saw a text someone sent him: I 69, DO YOU?

Later that night we were having sex. I was on top and we both noticed how exceptionally good it felt. He muttered something I didn’t quite catch. “That’s raw,” he said. I was zoned out for a few seconds and then asked myself in my head, did he just say it’s raw? I kept riding him and a couple minutes later he said, more clearly, “That’s no condom.” I jumped off his dick. I wasn’t on birth control...and I thought of the “cute bi girl” he said he fucked recently. I knew he probably didn’t use protection with her.

He half-heartedly said he thought I knew he wasn’t wearing a condom. I wasn’t convinced. But I also didn’t care that much. I was annoyed, but for some reason I still wanted him. He said sorry, repeated that he thought I knew, and promised to never do it again. All these words came out in a light-hearted, nearly sarcastic tone. He put a condom on for real, got on top of me and started thrusting. “Fuck you,” I said. My mind wandered back to the 69 text from earlier. I asked him if he was a sex addict. “No. Are you?” he replied. I told him I wasn’t. But maybe I am. Maybe that’s why I put up with his bullshit.

Maybe I fell in love with his sex. From the time he told me he didn’t want anything serious I wrestled with whether or not I should keep hooking up with him. I convinced myself I was okay with the casual nature of our relationship because he spent real time with me. He was present and engaging and knew how to lay pipe. He wasn’t a “one-minute” man. I made myself believe I wasn’t being sold short.

After another long stretch of not talking—while he was presumably out of town—Kenny resurfaced once again. We met up for a day date at a Mexican restaurant where we ate tacos and sipped micheladas. Afterward we got in his BMW coupe and he drove us to a dispensary where I bought weed and supplies to get high. On the way back to his place he showed me new music like he always did—another thing I liked about him. At one point he used his free hand to interlock his fingers with mine. I knew it was just foreplay but it felt nice. 

Back at his apartment we hung out on his backyard patio. I sat on his lap and he slid his hand up my floral Topshop dress. I turned my head to face him and said, “You drive me crazy.” Then I asked, half jokingly, “What if we hung out and didn’t have sex? Would that be weird?” Kenny wasn’t having it. We had sex right there, outside in broad daylight. Then I left.

A couple weeks later I was craving him. It was unlike me to initiate us hanging out but I felt like our communication should go both ways. So I sent him a simple text: “You around?” Silence. I knew eventually he would reach out. I also knew it was over between us. I figured he was probably not in LA, likely traveling for work. But that was no excuse. I cannot share my body with someone who doesn’t give me the simple respect of replying to a text message, even if there are no strings attached.

Eighteen days later my phone buzzed with a text from Ken. “Did I get a random text from you a couple weeks ago?” He was being coy. I hope my silence was loud. 

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