THE F WORD: Does Being a Friend With Benefits Really Benefit Me?

I met a guy today; a charming, intelligent guy who I really clicked with. I felt like I was talking with an old friend as we jumped from topic to topic with the ease of tree-swinging monkeys. When he asked for my information; email, phone, blood type, I was elated and of course, started making plans in my head for our first date.

But as the conversation moved forward he mentioned how nice it was to make a new friend. And that was it for me. The “F” word had stopped me dead in my plan-making tracks. What did he mean by that? Was he making it clear that his intentions were purely platonic (yawn) or was he trying to approach our meeting from an angle that wouldn’t put any pressure on either of us?

I wanted to believe the later, convince myself that his asking for my name, rank and serial number was the real clue to this confusing approach of his. But the practical, time-worn pragmatist screamed louder than the dreamer. ‘He said “friend” which in no way connotes “girlfriend”!’ And besides, taking the time to read between the lines of the first conversation with him, all be it a long conversation, would have been an exercise in futility, not to mention a big, fat waste of time. The “F” word was out there and there was no taking it back.

Unfortunately the wheels of insanity weren’t about to screech to a grinding halt just yet. Oh no. They had another turn to take. Maybe we could be friends of another kind, the voice in my head continued. Maybe we could be friends with benefits.

Although I know this animal exists I have yet to see it up close and personal and to me it is still an untamed, mythical beast roaming the back alleys of polite society. Even though I have never seen one in captivity, I’ve heard that it could be fun to romp in that realm and I wondered if I could actually pull off a rendezvous with such a creature. Up to this point I have never been able to separate sex and love and frankly, I know few women who can actually pull this off.

But for a moment the idea of having sex with no strings and no emotional kick-back was a tantalizing proposition. Instead of dinner and a movie it’s all about lunch and a lay. “Just Do It” takes on a whole new connotation. And slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am is a much nicer proposition when you can say “You’re welcome,” and really mean it. But could I really mean it?

I guess the only way to find out if this arrangement would work would be to dive in head first (no pun intended) and see how I feel when I come up for air. After all, I have changed considerably since my divorce; I’m a much stronger and wiser woman than I was before I was married when I was single and looking for love. And I actually considered this for a minute. But that little voice in my head (could it be the voice of reason?) was screaming at me to hold my horses; not to make any sudden moves because honestly, I know myself.

And what I know is this: I should leave the “F” word where it belongs: in the land of all things platonic. And I should leave the benefits part where they belong: in the recesses of my imagination.