I did a tally of people in my life right now who have very kindly offered to be my FWB [Friend With Benefits] and realize they outnumber the people who want to date me.
By a landslide.
Darling invisible one, in case you wondered, a FWB is a pal with whom one has sex. No emotional ties, no commitment, no interest in the other person past the parameters of the arrangement. It's a perfect set up for the person who wants the pipes cleaned without the actually investing in the equipment.
Perhaps this is why I have begun to feel like a prostitute. Or at least, like a potential for the job.
I suppose I can count myself lucky that the most of the men on this tally are casual friends or acquaintances. Most of them aren't just looking for a quick roll in the hay before saddling up and riding off. I feel reasonably confident that a few of them might even saunter into the farmhouse for a meal after. Strangely, this does not make me feel better.
Nor does it make me feel any better than so many of these cowboys are married men. I'm not exactly sure why a married man would think to make me such an offer, but there we are. The Desperately Unhappy Married Man. The Contented In All But One Area Married Man. And the delightful Separated But Not Quite Divorced Married Man. [Bonus points if the SBNQD version still has his Merely A Legal Formality Wife still living with him.]
If I think about it too long, my brain starts to bleed.
What about me calls out to this crowd, I wonder? I don't think it's desperation. After all, I know how that feels; I have had the dog under the buffet table feeling before. The eggs are all past their expiration dates, so no rush there anymore. I'm capable of mowing my own lawn and hell, if you dig at a stump long enough, eventually someone will show up with a truck and some chains. So why now? Why the onslaught?
I don't see the benefit.