The Sex Ex

You see, we had been friends for a while, which is probably why eventually we started fucking, because after enough alcohol and a recurring penchant for breaking the friend zone taboo into an awkwardly-casually fucking scenario it just seems like a good idea. But it wasn’t, although at the time it was, because my 2pm fuck fiending was aptly satisfied by the emotionally noncommital “hey, we’re friends” booty text that seemed to come and go fairly regularly. In fact, too regularly, because what started as a relatively nonchalant dick-in-pussy from time to time scenario slowly devolved into, “Hey, wanna go to [fill in the blank bar] tonight?” Texts that became more and more conversational, peppered with little inside jokes and tell tale signs of a waxing affection that would not be explicitly specified during carnal interactions but that tacitly lingered below the surface of “Wanna go to $5 movie tonight?” 

No. No, that’s not supposed to happen. I’m not supposed to get upset when he doesn’t return my texts on time. We’re not supposed to be making out at the bar. My friends aren’t supposed to casually refer to you as my boyfriend. Fuck. 

Which is why, true to form, in an effort to maintain the “Hey, we’re just friends?” distance in the relationship, I go out and fuck someone else, and, in a proper sex-positive performance, I let the bomb drop. Because that’s the “right” thing to do. 

Even though it wasn’t the right thing to do. I knew all along that it would derail our relationship, but that was the point, wasn’t it? Which is fine, because, whatever happens after that, the inevitable conversation bubbles up with the epithet of, “Well, we weren’t actually dating, so what does it matter?” or “You’re not my boyfriend, who cares?” Which isn’t what he wanted to hear, but I guess after three months of casual in-n-out, I’m beginning to look like the bad guy for underrating our mess of a relationship. 

“You fucked someone else?”

“Well, yeah, aren’t you fucking other people?”

“No…”

I grin and bear it and I walk away, and as I recount the conversation to my friends, I come to realize, since you were never my boyfriend, and you never dated me, and we just kinda fucked for a while, does that technically make you my ex? Or just someone I was fucking for a while, and now it’s over, although that’s too long to say in one sentence, so I guess that calling you my sex ex will have to suffice.