Francis and I have been friends for as long as I can remember—ever since we were children swapping sweets and tearing up each other’s houses after school. The ‘benefits’ part came many years later. Once we had settled at university and found ourselves attending the same messy house parties. Spilling beer on pre-stained student carpets and occasionally grinning at each other if we had to squeeze past the other one caught in boring conversation. Francis used to mouth ‘help’ if he got stuck chatting to a girl with more enthusiasm than personality: he always did attract the most intense women. It’s something about his eyes. The dark brooding nature of them seemed to captivate people, and I can see why. They certainly draw me in too.
The first time we kissed was at one of those house parties. Followed by a swift realisation—oh, we’re doing this—and a rush to the nearest empty bedroom for a clothed-yet-steamy fumble on one of the beds. I remember feeling this deep pulse of arousal in the pit of my stomach, a kick that told me with absolute certainty that this connection was always destined to be made.
From that point on, our relationship was on solid ground. Not a ‘relationship’ in the romantic, get-married, buy-a-house-in-the-suburbs sense, but the most securely attached relationship I have ever been lucky enough to know. Friends and lovers, without jealousy or protectiveness or that aching insecurity that seems to get its green hooks into so many men. Francis and I, we would cheer each other on in our endeavours to snog other people at these silly student parties. Give thumbs-up to the other if we spotted them disappearing into a bedroom with somebody...
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