This is one of a bunch of random fiction pieces loosely gathered under the concept of ‘emotional fucks‘. Most of them are a bit vicious and harsh – hate fuck, pity fuck, spite fuck – because those are the ones I enjoy writing most, but very occasionally my heart becomes squishy and I have to write something nice. This one’s a friendly fuck…
When she tells Anna what she’s up to this weekend, she braces herself for that little grimace of distaste. The slightly-puckered lips or that raised eyebrow which says ‘I do not approve of this.’ They’ve had conversations before about it, and Anna’s made clear her disapproval. ‘It’s just weird,’ Anna says ‘to be that close to your friends.’
She fucks her friends: that’s the problem. It’s not the hugs or the touching – piling in together on a mattress they’ve dragged into the living room so they can snuggle together in PJs and eat toast. Those things are fine. They constitute a normal sleepover.
It’s the fucking that Anna doesn’t like.
And perhaps Anna doesn’t like it because she feels left out somehow. After all, she isn’t one who fucks. The first time she was invited they nearly fell out. ‘Why on Earth would I want that?!’ she shrieked. Enough to turn heads and raise eyebrows even in a crowded pub on Friday night.
Ever since then, there’s been tension. This undercurrent of fear, as if just by remaining friends with her, Anna will become tainted. Peer-pressured. Corrupted.
Yet Anna will insist on asking her, each Friday: ‘what are you up to this weekend?’
And she doesn’t like to lie, so she replies ‘I’m fucking some friends.’
Is it really that weird, truly? To fuck your friends? It doesn’t feel odd to her. When she sits on the floor, with her back leant against the sofa where her partner and good friend snuggle up together, it feels right. Comforting. Sometimes each of them will reach out a hand to stroke her back – running fingers beneath the soft fabric of her sweater, matching each other on opposite shoulders, competing to see whose technique is the best for rubbing out the stresses of the day.
Is it weird that the hands which undo the clasp of her bra are the same ones which held her tightly when she was told she was being made redundant?
Odd that the person whose eyes light up with joy when she swallows his dick is the same one she first tried smoking with, behind the bike sheds outside geography class in year 9?
Now she thinks about it, so much of what appeals to her about fucking her good friends nowadays echoes that first explosion of discovery when she was young. The curiosity of learning how new people like to be touched. The playful, almost competitive discussions about who’s shagged who and where and when and why. Games of strip poker or I Have Never, now in adult bodies with adult desires, and none of the insecurities that came hand-in-hand with being sixteen.
Is it really so wrong to want to fuck your friends?
After all, your friends are the good ones. They’re the ones who’ll turn up at your house with a power drill when they know you need help putting up shelves. The ones you can send maudlin WhatsApp messages to when you’re drunk, without needing to apologise or feel shame the next morning.
She feels comfortable in front of her friends. Knows that her friends understand the parts of her body she feels shy about, and the ways they can make her feel good. Not just with touches and kisses and the skillful application of lubed-up dildos, but with their compliments and kindnesses too.
Anna doesn’t like it, yet still she insists on asking: what are you up to this weekend? As if she hopes for a different answer. As if she wants her to turn around and give a speech about how she’s realised she’s wrong, and that friendship should only ever be platonic. That the cuddle-party fuckpiles she looks forward to on Saturdays were a terrible mistake all along.
She won’t say that. Of course. But neither will she tell the full truth. The full truth is that she’ll turn up at Max’s house on Saturday, likely tired from her long shift at work, and the first thing she’ll do is open a bottle of white wine and lie down, fully-clothed, on the sofa. She’ll listen to the stories of other people’s lives, and chip in with advice or comfort or jokes when the timing’s right. She’ll warm herself against whoever’s sitting beside her, and they’ll whisper to each other to check who’s up for what.
She might or might not fuck.
Might, at some point, want to join in with the two friends who are getting someone off. Providing fingers and tongue to stimulate a left nipple here while someone else works on the clit.
Maybe she’ll roll a condom onto someone else, then fetch lube from the coffee table and pass it to them for ease of entry. Perhaps she’ll be the one needing lube, and she’ll click her fingers because her mouth’s too full of cock, and one of her other friends will be ready to thrust it into her hand.
Perhaps she’ll be chasing oblivion: lying on her back on the sofa with her head tipped over the arm, getting fucked in the cunt and the mouth by whoever has a willing dick.
Perhaps she’ll just watch as everyone else has fun, and afterwards she’ll tell them all how beautiful they looked, while putting the kettle on for a post-shag tea.
The fucking happens, or doesn’t happen: there’s no schedule. No pressure. No obligation. And perhaps that’s what she likes most about the idea of fucking her friends. Her friends are careful with her feelings in the way no one else could get close to. There’s no guilt if she’s not in the mood, or pressure if she doesn’t fancy oral, because she’s never the only other person in the room. If she’s feeling lively, she can perform for them all. If she’s feeling quiet and fragile, she can bury herself in the comfort of the crowd.
At the end of the evening, when they’re spent, they can lie together in a cuddle pile, stroking and touching and whispering and holding. Being present, and together, and close.
And perhaps, if she could only find the words to explain it, Anna would see that it’s not just sex: it’s love. Closeness. It’s the fact that these things only ever leave her feeling warm and happy: she could never say the same of any date. The greatest romance in her whole adult life is the one that she has with her friends.