The Boyfriend Experience...
I don't need the boyfriend, just the experience. Not that, you fucking pervert.
Hello, Bitchfaces, and some of you who just come over here to stare at me from the other side of the glass. *smacks glass* Awake now, fuckers?
So, I came to talk about The Boyfriend Experience. No, I’ve not been hiring hookers, you nasty ass, but I have been shaking things up a bit. I think I may be onto something.
As we’re all well aware, I couldn’t get into a healthy, committed relationship if I laid down on the bed to try to zip and button it. I just look ridiculous trying to cram myself into one, so you’ll be seeing quicker results from Ron DeSantis’ diet than me trying to have a boyfriend.
But The Boyfriend Experience? The butterflies, and the dude who actually gives a fuck what you’re saying when you’re talking, and who tells you how great you are and how nice you look and all the other good shit…? Oh, bruh, I gotta get some of that, and STAT.
Up until this point in my life, therein lay my weakness. Because you know who can deliver on The Boyfriend Experience for a day or two? Fuckboys, that’s who. They’re always down to sell you a dream. They just have no follow-through, and they’re fucking diabolical. But those first couple of days, those are amazing.
I have a friend in my non-column life who personifies The Boyfriend Experience. This dude is on point. Listen, I have never felt so attractive, witty, desired, or intelligent at any point in my life, and it’s the same damned dude making me feel all of the above. Not like when I was behind the bar, and 4 different patrons who saw 4 different traits in me and took them as who I am, swore to me their drunken, undying devotion.
No, this is different. It’s different because I’ve never had to tell him anything about myself, he just listens when I talk about anything and has since deduced the important shit. I don’t ask him to text me in the morning, I don’t ask him if I look nice, I don’t ask him if he thought about what we talked about. None of that, because he is already texting me at 4:30a, telling me I look like a million and a half fucking dollars, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation that we had.
I don’t fucking know, apparently, he’s a superhero. I cracked a joke about him being the ultimate Fuckboy. If he were a superhero, he’d be Clark Cunt. We laughed for 20 minutes about that one (not at all offended I called him a cunt and a Fuckboy in the same joke).
Here is the agreement we have made: this is only for the good shit. The butterflies, and the so excited to see me, and texts me all day throughout the day, and sees what I’m sad about and tries to point out why I don’t need to be sad, because I was too good for that dumbass anyway. The part of the relationship where it’s hopeful and amazing and nobody is nursing a wound from the partner, using it as an excuse to be hurtful or shitty to them. The good shit.
We don’t want the other part. The drama, headaches, the accusations, and lies. We aren’t going to take that part as the other side of the coin. Either this coin is positive- positive, or it’s not the coin we’re tossing. So, that’s the other half of the agreement. When it isn’t the good shit, we don’t want to do this. It just isn’t a thing. It’s not going to work for us. So, it isn’t part of the plan.
When it isn’t this amazing, butterflies flip-flopping, can’t wait to talk to him, I had to call and tell you this funny shit, can I see you soon type of thing, it’s just something that didn’t happen. It’s not a relationship. It’s The Boyfriend Experience.
Do I need someone to go to a wedding with me in June? Oh, he’s in. “Fuck yeah, babe, where are they registered, I got us…”. Do I need someone to talk to in the middle of the night because I am feeling sad and thinking about trash-ass human beings? “Babygirl, you sound low, let’s just talk about how fucking fine you looked today, and anything else you want to talk about, but I can’t sleep without hearing your voice”.
So, of course, I know the question everyone has….why? What could be in it for this dude to actually be such a fucking amazing dude to me? Easy. He never has to worry about me bitching him out because he left dishes in the sink. Why? We aren’t ever going to be that.
This will never be that. This will never be anything other than exactly this. Not a boyfriend. The Boyfriend Experience. I’m still alone, still go to bed with my laptop, a remote, and a dog, but the difference is that now, I’m not sad when I fall asleep. I’m smiling. I’m happy. Because I have someone who listens to me when I talk, who makes me feel like I’m worth the effort, and who reminds me I’m not hard on the fucking eyeballs either.
Now, if y’all will excuse me, I need to text Clark Cunt and tell him about a wedding in June. I’ll wear that Vince Camuto dress I bought for some asshole’s sister’s wedding, because that dress makes me look like about 3 million and some change. And if you’re wondering, I will happily write “From The Queen and Clark Cunt” on the card.
I mean, who else would it be from? There are fucking dogs on the wrapping paper. Dead giveaway.
Heck yes, Queen! Get it! Every hardworking body deserves to go to bed at the end of the day feeling satisfied with themselves. And you deserve the butterflies. ☆☆
All we have is today anyway so go rule your kingdom!!!! Cheers!!!!