Death To All FuckBoys
Last Friday evening I had to explain what fuckboy meant to my roommate.
We’d just passed a Radio Shack with a peel-on of Nick Cannon in the window, so there’s your context. Then, on Sunday I spent some overdue quality time with The God Queen Gia Shakur; chopping it up about writing and publishing goals, gentrification and racism in NYC, the glow up, cleansing one’s blood, and the recurring life goal of kicking fuckboys to the curb.
FUCKING FUCKBOYS ARE FUCKING EVERYWHERE.
Fuckboys are the attractive, charismatic, semi-intelligent (read:clever) almost-men-of-our dreams.
Except all their potential for greatness – both personal/singular, and in being one half of a super couple of goal achievement and romantic fulfillment – is squandered like the gas in a car whose driver has their feet on both the pedal and the break. Fuckboys are stuck because they’re not done battling out their mommy issues.
All of a fuckboy’s wonderful qualities grumble like the engine in this car. His charm, his dimples, the innocence that flickers in his eyes, the passion with which he lines his voices, all allude to some exhilarating adventure filled with improbable speed and wonder – the promise of which is literally all that holds you seated and immobile, encased in a vessel to nowhere.
The tires beneath you screech painfully against the asphalt of the open road which was once your vision of the future, but now echoes only the nauseating repetition of your fuckboy’s excuses for inaction, non-commitmentment, calculating and hurtful games, for living at his mother’s house, for not being able to hold a job, for not wanting to grow up.
THE LIST GOES ON.
Fuckboys – like thots, birds, basics, smuts, and all manner of ghetto personas – come in all colors, shapes, sizes, and from the various economic backgrounds. What makes a fuckboy a fuckboy is his blatant and complete lack of respect for others’ time, emotional investment and well being, or personal development.
Fuckboys thrive on attention
They especially love the attention of ambitious, romantic, strong-willed women who dream big and work to make their dreams reality.
The prize for a fuckboy is being a wrench in a strong woman’s plan.
He might not even be fully aware of his motivations, because fuckboys, like thots and birds and basics have deeply embedded parental issues that they more than likely don’t want to face.
Fuckboys don’t want the women they’re involved with to succeed too much.
If a woman seems like she succeeds at almost everything, the easiest way for a fuckboy to control his intimidation is to fail to match her investment in their relationship. Here, he has control. Here, he can check her strength. Because he knows she wants something more – that for the time being she thinks only he can give.
This need to disrupt occurs because fuckboys are angry with their mothers.
Maybe their mothers are overbearing and controlling, maybe weak and unstable, maybe emotionally manipulative, and dependent. Whatever the case fuckboys are harboring very strong negative feelings of guilt, neglect, and resentment toward their mothers. They take this veiled hatred with them into their “romances” and then punish their lovers for it.
Liking a fuckboy triggers him. He wants you to like him, but not too much. But if you stop liking him, that won’t really do either. Once you acknowledge that your fuckboy lover does not, can not right now, and may possibly never love and respect you things get really interesting.
Now we – the ambitious, intelligent, determined dreamers – must do some introspection.
Why did we pick the fuckboy? Were we completely innocent in his foolery? Were we conned? Is he really just that charming that we didn’t know he was a fuckboy, that he’d never appreciate in manhood? Was it the D?
We must be honest with ourselves and willing to get to the bottom of our fuckboy problem.
I have a fuckboy problem. Ferr-shure
It’s gotten to the point that I’m nearly positive celibacy is the only answer. Can’t I just be a sober writer with her two cats, who explores people and life with her legs shut and her mouth devoid of passionate sweet nothings and cock? Most certainly, I should at least aim to be this person.
In less than two years I’ve managed to become involved with four fuckboys. Two of them were obvious: fitted caps, drug dealings, living at home with momma, past 30. The fuckboy status of the other two was less obvious. They were remarkably promising: engaging, intelligent, distinctly outwardly virile, and initially very interested.
What all of these men had in common was that none of them was capable of maintaining a healthy, fulfilling romantic relationship with me or anyone else. And that was exactly what attracted to them:
Our shared inability to emotionally bond to others worked like a siren call to my drama queen desires.
I hate my father. I hate my grandfather. I hate the patriarchy.
In general I think all men are the most basic of creatures and when most of them talk I hate them all a little bit more. It astounds me daily that I haven’t exhausted the depths to which I can hate men. Fuckboys especially.
Fuckboys simultaneously solicit in me my God complex and my inner scarred and rejected little girl. It’s like if I can conquer just one of these schmuck-boys, and break him out of his awful patterns, then I will level up. I will drown my personal Patti in the well.
I will silence the pervasive pain of inadequacy that layers every single corner of my life. If I can make a fuckboy love me then I will become a God, more powerful than my father’s rejection and capable of undoing all of the brutality my grandfather ever unleashed upon his progeny.
If I could just break one…
What fuckboy fuckgirl pathetic weak sauce shit is that, right?
That’s when you get to the root/truth of the problem. Like why are you dating fuckboys when you know full and fucking well they aint shit and they aint never gonna be shit?
What validation is a fuckboy actually going to give you?
Even if – in some alternate dimension where the scientific laws which govern human interaction on planet Earth don’t apply – you managed to evolve and mutate a fuckboy into a man capable of honoring, loving, and respecting you, your lover can’t negate the damage your own daddy issues had already done to you.
And why are you looking to a fuckboy for that fix? Better yet, why are you seeking any validation (of your worth, inherent goodness, loveability) outside of yourself? I know it seems easy and natural to gain self confidence from what others give us, but other people and our interactions with them can only serve as mirrors. All they give back to you is whatever you’ve already got going on inside.
People will always treat you the way you show them they can and should.
Fuckboys cant change the way they interact with women unless they choose to address their mommy issues. And women can’t change their fuckboy experiences without working through their daddy issues.
Until each of us (fuckboys and dreamers) personally examines why the opposite sex makes us feel disposable, inadequate, and unloveable we’re going to continue to gravitate toward the ones who magnify these issues inside of us. We keep pulling them into our lives because ultimately we want to overcome what pains us most. What we want is not to conquer the individuals we date, or even the parental scarring of our pasts.
We want most to change ourselves, and the unforgiving ideas we hold of who we are.
We attract people into our lives who spur on the internal work that will make us grow. In this way the fuckboy is a highly serviceable agent of change. But we must remember he is no more than a tool. The frustration he makes us feel is a necessary step toward our personal evolution.
Nothing a fuckboy gives you will ever be more gratifying than what you give yourself, and that goes for orgasms too.