Don’t call my name, Alejandro.
We’ve all been there. Whenever love is unavailable fuckbuddies will be there to make sure affection is. Welcome: It’s Friday night at his house, in his bed, and all you wanted for tonight was good old jungle fever. No talk. No drama. Just sex. You’re taking a drag at your cigarette while contemplating the blank wall of a relatively unknown bachelors pad. Feels empty, but we guess empty felt good enough until you hear him calling you babe.
(A black hole drowns your imagination into disbelief. Oh no, he just didn’t.)
Yes you heard it. Alejandro, the fuckbuddie you wouldn’t even ask out on a date is calling you babe. Your cigarette sets into a slow motion. You’ve just had 20 minutes of sexual intercourse and somehow a stranger jumped into calling you babe – assuming that naked equals available. What’s next? Kissing you? Or worse: hugging you? If that kind of imagination goes unleashed the odds are you’d be in a church chapel by next week.
Your girlfriends say you should probably give him a chance. Not exactly a chance at a chapel – even that would be too wild for catholic girls – but you know, give it a shot. It’s not like you’re seventeen anymore, and he’s kind of sweet thought.
Yet you take another long drag at your cigarette while reconsidering a reply. You think about of what you’ve dreamed and right now none of his body parts has the word dream showing. Yes, some might say he’s a good catch although his brain’s far from catching anything: anything concerning you.
It’s been ages since affection meet emotion. We’ve resumed to Alejandro, Fernando or Roberto in a desperate attempt to keep up with the needs of youth. It’s not like you’re out there for sex, although the slut word came up a couple times. Friday nights are honestly tax free, but nevertheless you can’t ease this recession. Recession sets whenever the buyer faces disbelief towards the market, and right now that’s what we’re facing. The market is in full recession. We don’t even go shopping for love; we shop for affection. Shelves stocked with low expectations and high body contact. We’d hope there was more to it, but after watching thousands of dates being dragged in our eyes to the verbal suicide cockpit, hope is no longer. If at least, they could fill in the blank of our sentences: we’d put our disbelief on hold. But unfortunately men are like chimps: you give them the banana, they’ll respond calling you babe.
The cigarette’s finished and it just might have helped shortening your life and shortening this business. Sex was good, but he’s still a chimp. Thirty seconds goes while you get inside your dress, throw that coat around your arms, grab the Chanel and be done thinking. Sex was fine but,
– Don’t call me babe.
