Welcome home, baby
People are going pretty koo-koo-bananas over boyfriend pillows right now. They're popular because they are empowering in a unique way: by giving women all the physical aspects of cuddling, without the need to "lock down a man." At least, in theory. The whole concept sparked my interest.
As a sex and dating expert, I've tried some pretty interesting toys and tools -- and the prospect of having a fluffy, inanimate boyfriend who never complains, only wants to make you comfortable, and holds you into the night sounds pretty intriguing. Admit it.
I got my own boyfriend pillow for a few reasons, the main being that I'm a complete and total freak with a deep dependency on snuggles. Not just any snuggles, of course. I don't enjoy many people touching me and even give my friends butt-out hugs. I'm like a cat: pet me, but only with your eyes… unless you're going to give me a present. In that case, by all means.
What I DO enjoy is snuggling my domestic partner, Michael. I would crawl inside his skin like an amoeba if I could.
It's fine, I swear.
But since Michael and I both have jobs and lives and can't always be together for these addictive cuddlefests, I figured, "Why not get a boyfriend pillow to fill in the gaps?"
Arturo arrived, dressed in shoddy business casual. He's a half-torso with one arm, stuffed with foam air-beads that were just waiting to to be filled with my adoration. "Why not just have two boyfriends?" I wondered, giving him his name and one-upping my cuddly needs.
I introduced Arturo to my real-life boyfriend, and was totally ready to have the cuddle-threesome most women only dream of.
Maybe it's just me. This might just be my dream. Whatever.
BAE was inspired to "fight" for my love
My boyfriend would most definitely NOT fall into the category of alpha-jock asshole. Michael's rather quiet and demure. He's reserved, sweet, and sexy. These are all things I like about him. He is not the jealous type and never feels the need to remind me how amazing he is. But my, my, how quickly aggression can turn on.
He got weirdly defensive about Arturo, and very quickly. No sooner had I propped Arturo around my neck and interlaced my fingers with his cushy phalanges than did my partner object to his presence.
Michael suddenly wanted to display his superior masculinity to this inanimate object I was fake-dating. "He ain't shit," my real boyfriend said, squeezing Arturo's cotton bicep. He then flexed and squeezed his own.
Let's be clear here. My silver fox, 30-year-old boyfriend was comparing himself and competing with a goddamn pillow.