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.
And last Sunday I spent some much needed and overdue quality time with The God Queen Gia Shakur. We shared a few hours chopping up writing and publishing goals, gentrification and racism in NYC, the glow up, cleansing our blood, and recurring life goal of kicking fuckboys to the curb.
Fuckboys are the attractive, charismatic, intelligent almost-men-of-our dreams. Except all of their potential for greatness [in building and being part 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. All of a fuckboy’s wonderful qualities grumble like the engine in this car, promising of some exhilarating adventure filled with epic speed and wonder – the ideas of which are all that hold you seated and immobile in a car going nowhere as 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, for non-committal, for gaming you, for living at his mother’s house, for not being able to hold a job, for not wanting to grow up.
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 complete lack of respect for others’ time, emotional investment and well being, or personal development.
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 they more than likely don’t want to face. Fuckboys don’t want the women they’re involved with to succeed too much. And if a woman seems like she succeeds, the easiest way for a fuckboy to fuck that up is to fail to match her investment in their relationship.
Maybe their mothers are overbearing and controlling, maybe weak and unstable. Whatever the case fuckboys are harboring very strong negative feelings of neglect and resentment toward their mothers, and they take this veiled hatred with them into their “romances” and punish their lovers for it.
Now we, the ambitious, intelligent, determined dreamer, 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.
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? Certainly, I should.
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 interested.
What all of these men had in common was that neither was capable of maintaining a healthy, fulfilling romantic relationship with me or anyone. That was exactly why I was attracted to them: Our shared inability to emotionally bond to others worked like a siren call to my drama queen desires.
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 illicit in me, simultaneously 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 of his awful ways 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 the brutality my grandfather 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, his surrender would never 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 they are only mirrors.
Fuckboys cant change the way they interact with women unless they choose to address their mommy issues. And women cant change their fuckboy experiences without working through their daddy issues.
Until each of us (fuckboys and dreamers) 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 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.