Fuck Buddy(3)

By: Scott Hildreth

For a long moment he glared at me, which was something he often did when he wanted me to continue talking about something I wasn’t necessarily willing to talk about. Eventually he grew tired of waiting and broke the silence. “Really? That’s it? Nothing weird or funny happened?”

Lacking the desire to continue talking about it, I sat silently, hoping it would satisfy him enough to move on to another subject.

“How’d you figure out he was married?” he asked.

I set my cup of coffee down and picked up the bowl. One glance at the cottage cheese and I felt like I was going to barf. The three hours of grieving after my botched date was wreaking havoc on my stomach. I had come home angry and disappointed with myself. A bottle of wine and two romantic comedies later and I was ready for bed – and to swear off dating. Lying in bed, half-drunk and irritated, I texted Luke a few rambling paragraphs explaining my disappointment with mankind in general.

I extended my arm and offered him the cottage cheese. “You want this?”

He shook his head lightly as he reached for the bowl. “I’ll eat it. But what I want is for you to answer the question. All of a sudden you’re done dating, and all you can say is that he was married.”

I gave my signature response. I shrugged.

“He sure wasn’t the first married guy you met on there.”

“It’s just…I don’t…I don’t know,” I stammered. “He was so perfect. He had a great job, a nice car, seemed to have his shit together, and he was so fucking good looking.”

“A hot married guy.” He chuckled.

I nodded. “I just kept staring at him, thinking it was all too good to be true. I guess in the end, it was.”

“Sorry it didn’t work out.”

I pursed my lips and shrugged in return.

“So, once again, how’d you find out he was married?”

I tapped my index finger against the ring finger of my left hand. “His ring finger had an indentation on it from his wedding ring. I noticed it, asked, and he answered truthfully. He said they were arguing. I mean, really. Who doesn’t argue?”

“Everyone argues,” he replied.

I shrugged. Again.

“Other than being married he sounds perfect,” he said in a sarcastic tone.

Yeah, he was. He reminded me a lot of you.



My incompatibility with others made coexistence almost impossible, however, living a life free of conflict was simple for me. I had one true friend, I rarely offered an opinion to anyone, and I didn’t involve myself in other people’s business. My embrace of technology consisted only of a telephone, and I had no desire to ever watch television or utilize any facet of social media. As a result, my thoughts and my life remained private, allowing me to live without much influence or objection from outsiders.

Keeping my mind occupied was important to my mental health, and my entertainment came from watching people, reading, and above all, surfing. For me, surfing was more than a leisure activity or sport; it had become part of who I was. It kept me alive, and allowed me to focus on being instead of doing. It was my belief that my continued existence was reliant upon surfing as much as it was anything else.

No two waves were ever alike, and each day of surfing was an experience different than the last. Although waiting for a wave allowed my mind to wander, often leaving me with thoughts of activities or events well beyond my grasp, paddling for a wave filled me with hope, and finally catching a wave was one thing and one thing only.


Cleansing to my mind, spirit, and soul.

Scrubbing my mind of the lingering sexual desires that seemed to so freely inhabit it was much more than something I hoped for, it was a necessity. Without surfing, I had little doubt I would be able to exist amongst the masses of inhabitants in the state I so proudly called home. Surfing allowed me to live a life between each wave I caught, one with minimal desire to do anything else but catch the next wave.

Summer was now in full swing, and although Liv and I often ate dinner at her home, we had been doing so more frequently since she swore off dating. I enjoyed our meals together, and always looked forward the odd conversations we had.

I peered across the table and admired her choice of clothing. Shorts, flats, and a tasteful turquoise tank were a simple choice, but seeing her arms exposed satisfied me greatly. She told her stories with her hands, tossing them about as she spoke, and I enjoyed watching her lean muscular arms as she did so.

“Being single sucks,” she said.

It seemed I ate a Liv’s home more frequently than my own. If it wasn’t for her, I would probably be forced to survive on fruit, vegetables, yogurt, and cottage cheese.

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