My FWB Asked For My Friend’s Number And Now My Life Is Over


I like to think I’m a pretty decent person. Sure, I get cranky like the next bitch, but I’m a generally an agreeable lady. I do volunteer hours outside of my sorority’s mandatory philanthropy, and I hardly even bitch about it. I’m the friend who always returns borrowed clothes the next day, dry cleaned and vomit-free. My point is not to brag here. My point is to let you know that Karma should be on my side. So where the hell was that bitch when my asshat FWB was crushing my ego to oblivion?

Before I get ahead of myself, let me establish a bit of a backstory. Like many millennial women, my schedule is too jam-packed for a full on relationship. So, in lieu of a vibrator, I opted for a fuck buddy– let’s call him Charlie. Charlie and I have a bizarre history. We first met about a year ago, when I got into his car thinking he was my Uber. Charlie tried to explain that he wasn’t my driver, that this was the wrong Jeep. I might have registered this incredibly important piece of info if I hadn’t been reading aloud my debit card number and asking if he had an aux cord (and if every college-aged male didn’t own a Wrangler). Eventually, he gave up and asked for my address, while I put on Buttons started dancing. Despite how obnoxious I was, Charlie apparently decided I was at least a solid 7, because he asked for my number when we finally got to my apartment. I bet my Snoop impression was what really sealed the deal.

Fast forward a couple months, Charlie and I were what you would call fuck buddies. We would hit each other up once a week, usually around 2 a.m., when the prospects start getting real bleak. We would drink bottles of shitty beer on his front porch, maybe split a joint or seven, and end up having pretty good sex for 45 minutes. The next morning he would drop me off at home, and I wouldn’t kiss him as I hopped out of his Jeep. I wouldn’t text him an hour later to carry on a conversation, and I wouldn’t tell my friends every single detail of the night. Because I wasn’t falling for Charlie. We got along, had similar tastes in movies, and enjoyed seeing each other naked– but that was it. Outside of our fling the dude was actually kind of an asshole. He made rude remarks about anyone and everyone, and he was obscenely judgmental. For that reason, I never thought he would be some kind of Prince Charming. He wasn’t someone you bring home to mom and dad; he was someone you shove out your back window early Saturday morning when they’ve decided to surprise you with a visit.

So maybe we weren’t the perfect couple. But that doesn’t mean I want him asking to fuck my friends.

It started out just like any other Sunday morning, assuming you’re the kind of person who gets absolutely shitfaced on Saturday nights. Charlie had spent the night at home but came to pick me up from the bar in the wee hours of the morning after a particularly whiney call on my end. When I woke up I was next to a half-finished pizza and my man Chuck, who graciously accepted my invitation for morning sex. After the deed, I was nursing a Gatorade and scrolling through Instagram, when this guy completely flipped the switch and got all serious on me.

“So…you know your friend Grace?”
“Yeah, she’s cool,” I had absolutely no idea where this was going, but I already hated it.
“Um…I’m just gonna say it. I find her really attractive, and I was wondering if you could set something up. Like, maybe give me her number or something?”

I couldn’t tell if it was last night’s gin and tonics revolting in my stomach, or if my own insecurities had suddenly decided to punch me in the gut. All I knew was that I had to puke, stat. My head started to spin, and I could barely process what had just happened as I shooed Charlie out of my room, out of my house, and out of my life. It wasn’t until later that I realized I wasn’t hungover or broken hearted. I was angry.

Part of me was mad because I felt disrespected. This guy wasn’t my boyfriend, but he was my friend. He told me intimate details about his life, he listened to me when I had problems in mine, and he saw me in a way that most people don’t (read: naked). We weren’t official, but I felt close to him. Did he seriously not realize how damaging it would be for a girl to hear the boy she sleeps with verbally declare that he likes her friend better? Could he not have set his sights on one of the other girls at this fucking university? There are literally thousands of them.

The other part of me, however, was mad because I cared about him enough to consider hooking them up. I couldn’t decide if it was a really crazy thing to do or a really decent thing to do. I tried to imagine a scenario where he and I would one day be more than fuck buddies, but I really couldn’t. Wasn’t it wrong to claim a guy I don’t have legitimate feelings for? He was my friend, and friends give a shit about each other. Why shouldn’t I put aside my pride to ensure a friend’s happiness?

In the end, I couldn’t do it. I knew Grace would be weirded out by the idea, and as much as I cared about Charlie, I cared about myself more. We all want to be the cool girl who can toss around guys like they don’t mean anything, but few (dare I say none?) of us actually are. I could’ve pretended like it wouldn’t kill me to see them together, but it would have. Even though I didn’t want to get serious with Charlie, he was more than a friend. He had a special place in my life, and when I heard him tell me that I didn’t have the same space in his, I crumbled.

He sent me a string of texts in the following weeks, but I wasn’t interested in his apology, or his explanation, or his penis anymore. I knew he was ruined in my mind, and I wouldn’t be able to see him without wondering what Grace had that I didn’t. So, for the first time in my life, I ghosted a boy.

I don’t know how I feel about the whole ordeal now. Sometimes I think I’m sad, sometimes I think I’m mad, and sometimes I think I just really need to find a new slam piece. Sometimes I think that it wasn’t a big deal and I just ruined everything by overthinking, which is a dangerous habit when you’re not even dating. Regardless of how I really feel, one thing is for sure: This whole situation really fucking sucked, and my life is effectively over.

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