When I first see him, he’s standing in the doorway, stroking the scruff on his cheeks, and he’s got his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. I smile, he smiles, and he pulls me inside. It’s a brand new apartment and he hasn’t moved in just yet so it’s still empty, with a few large paintings in the main space and a few smaller pieces propped up in the hallway. I’m officially the first one to see it.

He shows me around and then we both hop up on his kitchen counter, cross our legs, and start in on the wine before we head out for dinner. He opens a bottle, pours me a glass, and hands it to me. My hair’s pulled back into a loose knot at the nape of my neck, but some of it falls around my face as we talk, and he leans in to brush it out of the way. It’s a surprisingly tender gesture and it makes me look at him sideways. I adore him as a friend but I don’t trust him with intimacy.

He smiles and says, “Alright. Let’s go. Who’re you fucking?”

His suddenness always disorients me, so I smile and shrug. I can blog about my slutty habits day and night but I don’t really talk about them, and for a moment I try to deflect by asking about his vacation, but he’s not having it. I don’t know why I’m reluctant to get into it with him – he’s one of the very few people to know all about my past and present. So I say, “A few people.”

“Well, tell me about the architect,” he says, referring to Andrew.

“I’m not seeing him anymore.”

“Why not?”

“We just weren’t clicking.”

“So, who else then?” he asks. “What happened to the guy who lives in my neighborhood?” He’s talking about the twentysomething, I think.

“I’m seeing him. But he’s young.”

“Like how young?”

“Well, maybe not young,” I say. “Younger. Mid-twenties maybe? Smart.”

“Pass. Who else…?”

“I’m still seeing Matt.”

“Still?”

“The chemistry is good.”

“Love’s different,” he says. Which is true, of course. Chemistry’s just an ignition agent.

He pours me another glass. He asks me about work, about a couple of artists he’s interested in collecting, and then we talk about adulthood, how neither of us seems to be particularly comfortable with it.

I’m feeling restless and a little lustful, so I’m looking around the apartment for possibilities. No bed. No sofa. No cushions. No rugs. Just lots and lots and lots of hardwood flooring. Not a great likelihood that I’ll get laid here, but then, if we go out to dinner, it’s not likely I’ll go back with him to his old apartment either. Fuckbuddy’s phone starts ringing, so he hops down from the counter to shut it off. When he comes back, he stands in front of me and places his hands on my thighs. He’s got that look in his eye.

“Meh,” I say, glancing around. “No furniture.”

Next thing I know, I’m pulled off the counter and pushed against the wall, my arms pinned over my head. This is the fuckbuddy I know.

*

We’re walking through the West Village to make our way to the restaurant and he’s animated, talking fast, occasionally putting his arm around me to pull me toward him as we approach a grate.* I’m rubbing a bruise on my hip from when he let me down from the wall, threw me over the counter, jerked my jeans and panties down around my knees so I’d be exposed, and forced his fingers inside me. I was throbbing for it.

We pass a tiny restaurant and he says, “Great food here – you ever been? – Greek, sort of deconstructed.” I pull my hair back into a ragged ponytail. We’d ended up on the floor in the end, and he kept both hands buried in my hair throughout, pulling just enough to keep my head tilted back and my throat exposed.

While we walk, he says, “I love that I can fuck you in a way I can’t fuck other girls, you know? Why is that? Seriously, I don’t get that. I mean it’s good and it’s different, but I think it’s me, it’s in my head.”

I venture a guess: “Madonna/whore complex?”

“What do you mean?”

“Some men can’t fuck the women they love and can’t love the women they fuck. And I’m the one you fuck.”

I don’t think either of us knows if that’s what’s happening here.

—-

* Most cities have grates in the sidewalk, which are usually the perfect size to suck down a heel and hold it in place, or snap it off, or just cause a massive fall. So it’s chivalrous and attentive and just very cool to be aware of this when you’re with a woman. If you’re walking and there’s a grate coming, it’s helpful to move to the side a bit so she can walk around it. And if you’re exceptionally smooth, you’ll notice when she doesn’t, so when the two of you are walking and talking, and a grate’s coming, just put your hand on the small of her back and pull her towards you. That way you can keep talking and nobody falls and busts a heel, or ankle. And it’s just nice.