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In a few days, I’m going to Cuba on vacation with a guy I’ve been sleeping with for eight years, but whom I've never once called my boyfriend.
We live on different continents, but inevitably, a few times a year, we find each other somewhere in the world, have a few days of romance, and then go our separate ways.
This arrangement would generally be called a friend with benefits, or a fuck buddy, or a romantic friendship, or perhaps even a relationship—with “no strings attached.” But let’s be real: There are always strings, aren’t there?
] out to the sticks Man ah got gyal, man ah got gyal in South, she my PYG, no stigs, if you shoot don't miss Once I'm sitting on the throne then you can't take me down from this shit And I'm not joking, put me on the mic and it's roasting Spitting with these toxic flows, I'll dissolve your clothes like solvents I'm a be the man in your town, I'll invade your cities like Trojans Ayy wait, hold on, what's my man smoking?
Sometimes it feels like we are more honest with our friends with benefits than we are with our partners.
I was curious to know if Malcolm felt the same way I did about all of this, so last week (for strictly journalistic purposes), I paid him a visit.
“Having a friend with benefits is great because it’s just—it’s just less ,” he said, smoking a cigar and dressed in an inexplicable beige silk onesie. It’s not encumbered by obligations, which just lead to resentment.”He then gave me —the one that means he’s about to admit to something despicable and blame it on humanity.
And while I can’t imagine being with my Cuba date “for real”—I mean, he’s a low-key homeless anarchist who once took me on date to his Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meeting; there are red flags—I still value our relationship immensely.
And he actually knows me better than a lot of my partners ever did.