It was Tuesday, when I got a call from an ex-boyfriend. He was nearing the typical semester-ending Hell Week at Drexel and needed to drill off some tension after a week of finals. “Eric” was a senior whom I had met three years prior on OkCupid and dated for five months. Unlike most of my failed suitors, I have yet to mock him up in a faux plane crash over the cusp of the Virgin Islands! After the relationship ended, we had an extended tryst. It started off as an invitation to “just talk”, which led to a weekend filled with headboard-banging-christening-every-inch-of-his-dorm-room-make-up-sex. By Sunday morning, we figured we could give “us” another shot. Three weeks later, we discovered this was a bad idea. Ultimately, with time and gnawing urges, I became Eric’s post-Hell Week fuck buddy.

Casually sleeping with Eric caused me to unravel some oddities about him, more so than when he was my boyfriend. “I want you to wear that underwear that I like… the purple ones,” he confessed over the phone with an aroused conviction. Eric indulged in a blossoming affection for my rich array of underwear, which quickly grew into a full-blown fetish. Within a few months, he began to fund my entire fall brief collection, solely for our bedroom extravaganzas. I don’t know what made me climax more: him or his American Express card. I liked keeping Eric around, and not just for the incentive of cashing in on free AussieBum. Behind the lust and the seven inches, Eric was the closest thing I had to a gentleman. Good guys are impossible to find; so if you meet one that can prepare your favorite blue-and-raspberry pancakes the morning after world-shattering sex, you keep them on standby!

We scheduled for Saturday evening at nine, and I made sure to comply with his request by sporting the purple ones. As I was getting ready, he texted me: “You’re lovely, with your smile so warm and your cheeks so soft, there is nothing for me but to love you – Frank. Undress you in an hour, kid.” Only Eric could somehow manage to quote Sinatra and express his eagerness to rip off my undergarments while still sounding refined. It was a toss-up between endearing and creepy. When I arrived at his place, Eric welcomed me with a slap on the rear and a gesture to hang my jacket. After settling in, downing shots of Bacardi, and making brief conversations about boys and the weather, we quickly made our way to his bedroom.

I initiated the undressing by unzipping his pants and to my surprise, he was going commando – quite ironic for an underwear enthusiast. Moments of groping ensued as Eric descended below my torso and to his delight, I was wearing the briefs. He instantly turned into a matador in heat as he proceeded to roll down my underwear while blowing me off. I briefly closed my eyes to bask in the oral foreplay only to then witness Eric wearing my fifteen dollar attire on his head. I knew snickering would’ve resulted in blue balls. Therefore, I did what any gracious bottom would do: make their man feel like a man. I got on top of him and laid him down as my body language expressed: “I understand the freak in you. Now, please take me and don’t go slow.” Beaming with confidence and a boner to match, he ripped open a Trojan. Round one was finally in commencement – underwear helmet and all.

It was 9:45 in the morning when I woke up. The apartment smelled of blueberries, and I could hear Ross and Rachel breaking up for the second time. I got fresh-faced and joined him in the living room. “Morning kid, pancakes are on the stove,” he greeted. (Remind me again why we aren’t seeing each other?) I fixed myself a plate and joined him in the NBC nostalgia. After an hour of making out, catching up and reminiscing about the good ol’ days; I decided it was time to leave. “Call me, okay? Let’s do coffee or something,” he offered as he walked me towards the door. Before I stepped over the wooden threshold, Sir Briefs-A-Lot had one simple farewell request: “So, do you think I could borrow the purple ones?”

“Absolutely not,” I laughed off as I regained all recollection as to why he’s ex-boyfriend #3. I then headed out and promptly caught a cab. I never did call Eric back. As much as he could whip up appetizing breakfast pastries and charm the pants right off of me, we were two different people. I wanted somebody who liked me for me; not me and what type of colorful underwear that would get them off that night. Our ship has sailed and I was content with that. Why ruin a great rapport? Why ruin great sex? Why ruin great pancakes? A coffee date didn’t make sense to me. What did make sense was this: he and I will always have fond memories of several post-Hell Weeks together. And, if one day he decides to take that big leap, Eric will make some lucky European underwear model very, very happy.