As soon as I saw Bobby I ran to him. I practically threw myself at him. He saw me and was ready. He threw his arms wide and I pushed myself into his arms, let him feel every part of me that he might have forgotten about, and I gave my mouth to him and let him kiss me, taste me. His hands reached up into my hair (I’d just gotten it done the day before) and I listened to him take a deep breath of my perfume.
“God,” he said when we broke apart, “you look amazing.”
I smiled at him, half with lust and half with what I’m sure looked like wonder. He was back and he loved me.
He’d flown in the night before and I’d had to work. I would have loved to have seen him then but without a car and with his place one too many el stops for comfort, we put off seeing each other until the next day, which turned out to be the same day as a back-from-college kickback we were all more or less socially obligated to attend. He told me he was jet lagged and had to see his family, otherwise he would have driven to see me. I didn’t care; he was here now.
I would have dragged him upstairs, but we didn’t have the time; plus my parents were home (but would be gone later that evening). So it was just a few minutes of merciless making out in the doorway and then I was clinging to his arm as he led me back to his car. We drove up to Evanston at about eight o’clock, chattering about everything we hadn’t talked about, things we had.
I was playing the part of the perfect girlfriend. As soon as I saw him, I wanted it to be true. Little annoyances were marginalized, his taste in music was not a big deal, nothing was wrong. And I looked good. Obviously I’d done my time at the gym and I was wearing a tight but tasteful black dress that hugged my hips and reached nearly to my knees; it was pretty conservative overall but the slip in the side and the ample decolletage balanced it out (I suppose that is to say: a tight bra and my tits balanced it out). I liked Bobby looking and I told him to keep his eyes on the road. But he put his hand on my thigh and squeezed and I laughed.
(A few weeks ago on the back of Tom’s motorcycle, he’d slipped his free hand down to the same leg and laid his hand on my knee. It was a smooth, comfortable gesture. There was certainly something possessive about it but it happened so naturally, as if that was exactly where his hand needed to be. It bothered me at the time. I guess it bothered me now.)
When we got to the party it was full, and since we were all at least graduated from one university it was a laid back affair, one where we saw a lot of friends we hadn’t seen in a while and no one got too drunk or made too much of an ass out of themselves.
Though towards the later end of the evening Tom (who I’m convinced was dragged there by Allison so she’d have someone to drive her home – though she ended up going home with a random rugby player from UPenn) went down to the kitchen to grab a beer and Allison started talking about his idea to pay a girl for S-E-X.
By the time Tom returned to the group nearly the whole party was talking about the plan and whether or not it was a good idea. Bobby thought it was a great idea. “We all need a few more prostitutes in our life,” he said. Some girl laughed. I can’t believe she laughed.
Tom looked into his beer and said, “It’s not really prostitution.”
Bobby took that as a challenge. “Um, paying someone for sex? Yeah, Tom, that’s prostitution.”
“Well I won’t quibble,” Tom said congenially. He raised his glass and made to saunter away.
“No, let’s quibble.”
Bobby loved to argue. He used to joke that he would have majored in law but he could make more money in business just telling people what to do. It was probably true, one of those traits that simultaneously attracted me to him and made me furious. But that’s how it works.
Tom just stood there and regarded him. “Okay.”
“You’re saying a woman – or, okay, a guy – who takes money for sex is not a prostitute.”
Tom licked his lips and took another swig of beer. “Yes,” he said.
“How are they not a prostitute?”
Tom cleared his throat. “Suppose you and I decide to fight this out. Mm?” He took a moment to think. “But instead of us fighting, we hire two other guys to fight for us. Boxers, right. And they fight, and one of them wins, and he gets paid. He’s a boxer.”
Bobby nodded and gestured for him to get on with it.
Tom gave a smile that I recognized. “Now suppose the same scenario except this time instead of my guy, I pay my guy to be in the fight. I mean, I want to fight the guy who’s fighting for you, but that’s against the rules, so I’ll pay my guy and take his place. Am I a boxer?”
“Well, no, but- Technically-”
“Yes,” Tom replied. He took another swig of beer. I don’t think anyone else at the party at that moment realized how much Tom was enjoying himself. And I was actually interested where this was going, much to my dismay. “Yes, technically I am a boxer because technically I am boxing. But I’m not a boxer. That’s not what I do. But I did it for this match because I wanted to.”
Bobby shook his head vigorously. “That’s a terrible analogy. You’re paying the boxer. He’s not paying you for a service.”
“How are things supposed to be?”
“What?”
“How is the boxing match supposed to work?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“The rules are: two boxers enter the match, they fight, they get paid, they go home. The rules are not: two boxers enter the match, one of them pisses off and some other guy grabs a pair of gloves. Right?”
“Okay.”
“That’s not in the rules. So, what were we talking about?” Tom seemed to genuinely search his memory. “Right. So I meet a woman, say, and I say, I’m strapped for time, strapped of personality, strapped in all ways except cash. If you’re into it, I’ll pay you, we conduct a transaction, that’s the end of it.”
“That’s a prostitute!” Bobby laughed. Most of the group laughed along with him.
Tom nodded and swigged his beer. “I suppose, one who boxes is a boxer, right? One who fucks for money is a prostitute. Call a spade a spade, I get it.” He made to walk away.
“No,” said Bobby. He was incredulous. “Hold on, how do you think that’s not a prostitute? You’re not right.”
“Okay,” said Tom, “let’s think about this. If I spend a day digging ditches am I a ditch digger? If I look through a telescope am I an astronomer? Two people who sleep together sleep together because they want to, presumably. But say there’s something wrong with the picture. One of them doesn’t like the other, one of them doesn’t know the other. There is no incentive for this union to take place except one which is universally valuable. Money. A prostitute makes exchanging sex for cash her profession. I just think there’s a difference in degree.”
“Okay, I kind of get it,” Bobby said. “But difference in degree doesn’t make the girl not a prostitute.”
“I guess not,” Tom replied. “I think of it more as an understanding. You ever have a fuck buddy in college?”
Bobby looked at me. My eyes went wide and my face hot. “Why the fuck are you looking at me?” I exploded.
He gave a sheepish smile. “I just don’t think it’s appropriate to say with you here-”
“Oh for God’s sake,” I said, “I don’t care.”
“Really?”
“Get on with it!”
Bobby turned back to Tom. Before he could open his mouth Tom stopped him, “We know what fuck buddies are, is all I’m saying.”
“Yeah.”
“Great. Anyway, fuck buddies, right? Clever name. Again, it’s two people who share an understanding. They’re not friends, they’re not lovers, they’re definitely not in a relationship. It’s one thing: sex. Or how about friends with benefits? There’s a transaction going on there. Two people who are platonic friends who… occasionally sleep together.” A few in the group mumbled at that. Tom nodded to them. “No, it never really works out, in the end.”
Bobby was past impatient at this point. “I’m sorry I asked.”
Tom considered him and sipped from his beer. “Then I guess I’ll just finish by saying this: There is always something to be gained from a relationship. And usually the two sides are not balanced. Friends with benefits are trading loneliness and an easy lay for long term feasibility as friends. Fuck buddies are trading sexual openness or lust with trust and and a long term relationship. Two people who have an agreement to sleep with each other on the condition that one is paid are balancing an equation: one’s need with the other’s need.”
A girl in the crowd looked at Tom quizzically. “But if that’s the case then one of them can still get hurt.”
Tom replied to her, “All three of those relationships are imbalanced. You’re right. It’s a fine line between that and prostitution, but it’s a line, is all I’m trying to say.”
Bobby frowned, not from anger but in thought. I could see the girl sizing Tom up. She drank theatrically and smiled at him. “So how much are you offering?”
He smiled and reached into his pocket. “I got twenty-five cents. What’s that buy me?”
The girl rolled her eyes. “Half a hand job. My name’s Beth, by the way.”
Tom extended his hand. “Tom.” He moved closer to continue conversation with her and then stopped and turned back to Bobby. “Does that answer your question?”
Bobby smirked and shook his head. “Yeah, sure.”
“Nice meeting you.” Tom happily went back to talking to Beth and Bobby returned to me, putting his arms around me and swinging us back to Sara and Allison and the people we knew.
Sara started talking about someone she’d seen from college and how fat they were now. I sighed and nestled up against Bobby, thinking, tuning Sara out (it wasn’t hard). It certainly was a line, wasn’t it, Tom?
But which side was imbalanced?