>>> Primal Urges
By staff writer Nathan DeGraaf
September 14, 2005

Ben: I think the reason I passed out is because Nate’s girlfriend gave me those pills.
Nathan: For the last time, she’s not my girlfriend. She’s my sex partner.
Nick: That sounds like some kind of kinky, corporate arrangement.

It always starts out the same way. You take home some floozy (words from the roaring ‘20s are back, people), screw her until she can’t see (or worse yet, until she sees the light), and in the morning she offers you this doctrine: “I don’t want anything from you. We can just have a purely sexual relationship.” It sounds like music to your ears. You achieve the kind of happiness that Zen masters aspire to teach their students. You want to celebrate your lovemaking ability and thank God for the whorish ways of your newly acquired sex junkie. However, nothing is what it seems.

You see, no woman really wants the friends-with-benefits relationship unless she’s already dating another guy or plans to date another guy (this is a whole different level of whore and may be explored in a later column). So, after the next few times you do the forbidden dance, her doctrine of happiness gets sullied with the following amendments: “From now on, we’re always using a condom. I don’t know what diseases you have,” or “Every time you sleep with another girl, I want to know about it,” or “From now on, you can’t come over to my apartment drunk,” or “You can’t call me drunk,” or “I’m never doing that or wearing that or bringing you that or sharing my girlfriend with you ever again because that kind of behavior is what women do for ttheir boyfriends and you’re not my boyfriend, asshole. We’re just friends with benefits.”

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And after all that bitching and whining, you find yourself wondering what exactly the benefits are.

At any rate, by this time, you’re hooked to the sex and you want to keep the slut-friend happy (though not too happy) so you take her out for dinner and meet some of her friends. Her friends already know you as “great sex guy” so these meetings are always awkward. Your whore and her chums constantly exchange subtle glances and muffled giggles as you feed yourself overpriced Angus while peering around them hoping to catch a glimpse of the game you’re missing just because you’re busy dropping money on girls you hardly know and don’t want to spend time with. Every time you go to the bathroom or up to the bar, you return to find them whispering to each other. Her friends keep throwing you these big-eyed, all-knowing glances complete with smirks that seem to say, “I know all about you big boy and if you play your cards right….”

So the next thing you know, you’re getting your unit waxed in a public bathroom by one of your friend’s friends. Everything’s cool
for the few hours the bitch can keep quiet about it, but pretty soon you’re getting a call from your alleged friend-with-benefits and she’s saying that she hates you and how dare you behave like this and all this drama crap usually reserved for actual relationships.

Then, before you even know what happened, you’re breaking up with a girl you were never even going out with.

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But it’s cool because her friend says that all she wants is a sexual relationship as long as you promise never to cum in her mouth and to always tell her about all the women you’re with and take her out to dinner, you know, once a month or something, just to be nice.

Fucking whores.

Read Nathan DeGraaf daily at The Nate Way. Or don’t. See if he cares. Go on. Break his callous heart.