Am I a Fuckboy?

…Get out your personality pickaxes, we’re going introspectin’…

Hello dear readers! This week we’ll be traversing the waves of shitty dating behaviours. With Axe body spray billowing in the sails of my polo-necked t-shirt, it’s time to ask myself, am I a bad guy?

First things first, what actually is a fuckboy? Younger readers will hopefully understand, it’s the only bit of slang I’ve absorbed through my ritual smearing of teenage blood across my face (maybe she’s born with it. Maybe it’s Satanism). After some research into the exact definition of the term, I’ve found there isn’t one. Apparently, ‘Fuckboy’ started life as prison slang to describe a submissive partner, something I’m yet to relate to. On occasion I can be passive in bed but that’s more an indicator that I’m probably not into you. Most people wouldn’t have jumped into bed in the first place, I’m just such a strong humanitarian goddamnit.

Through extensive study (I read one article on the Thought Catalogue which agreed with me), I’ve found that Fuckboys are established by poor courting behaviours. Rather than sit and rehash someone else’s work to you, I’ll simplify and say that these types of men have no respect for their partners. They don’t particularly date, it’s more like being mentally kettled into a position where you’re willing to have sex. All conversations are in aid of getting you naked, so keep your opinions on socio-economic policy to yourself and send nudes, sally. 

 

“Fancy coming over to read Leviticus and Chill?”

 

 

So why am I, a respectable and caring partner, comparing myself to such terrible people? Well for starters, I’m about as respectable as drinking tequila body shots, fun but not something to get mum involved with. Secondly, I’ve not been that caring recently. I won’t bother drawing any similarities to the physical characteristics of Fuckboys, my ideal gym would be a bar with tiny weights attached to the glasses.

Top Tip #867: If you are lazy then find inspiration elsewhere. Herpes is pretty inactive and it’s been down on plenty of people’s genitals. 

Like the proverbial frog in a saucepan, the revelation that my heart’s thermostat is set to reptilian snuck up on me. The thought finally boiled over into my conscious after my last liaison with Mr Kitten Sheets. That’s right dear readers, I’m that one Pavlovian dog with a freaky shock fetish. I slept with him for a record third time. For new readers, Mr Kitten Sheets is a guy I’ve ‘come to know intimately’ twice. You can catch up here and here but the quick version is this; I don’t like him but I’ll sleep with him after approximately five drinks. Classy…

First point from the prosecution in the case of Sam Vs Human Decency, I forgot he even had an alias on my own site. For weeks I’ve accidentally called or introduced him as James and had no idea why. After reading my own posts in preparation for this week, I’ve worked out why. James is the fake name I use for him on my sex blog!  When you don’t care enough to use a name you specially constructed to complain about someone online, yet introduce them with that very name in real life, you’re not being a good person. At least when God smote the Israelites he knew what to call them, and they hadn’t been inside him once.

 

It’s been strangely biblical this week on SMM…

 

 

Things only got worse after I bumped into him during a ‘quiet’ cocktail. Bereft of any activities that didn’t involve silently sobbing into a Malbec, I agreed to go out last week with Whorey. As a sly precaution against single-use boyfriends (it sounds nicer than one-night-stand), I wore my frumpiest outfit and refused to wax, the perfect anti-sex measure. Sadly, like all the best-laid plans of mice and mild alcoholics, I broke this solemn vowel to myself. During the twilight hours, a special time when blurred vision and cheesy nineties music reign supreme, James spotted me dancing to B*Witched. Before you write this off as an unplausible situation, I asked for B*Witched and the DJ had relented to the constant requests. Persistence is key in love and life.

James managed to detach me from the dance floor through some wizardry, or more likely, a well-placed Sambuca shot. Following only one attempted escape into the warm confines of a McNugget Meal, he wrangled this stallion back to his apartment. That’s all it took folks. Usually I play coy for a respectable small amount of time before I slide into bed, however tonight I was easier to kidnap than a narcoleptic Princess Peach.

We proceeded to have passionless sex. If I could rate the explosiveness on a scale from dynamite to atomic bomb, it would be that little hiss you get after opening a can of coke (even that’s slightly generous, I enjoy coke). The previous times had been passable or forgettable but this was altogether different. It felt like an obligation screw after forty tense years of marriage…

 

“I wonder if it’s too late to get an uber…” – A thought no one should have with a dick inside them.

 

 

I awoke the next day under those same damn kitten sheets, the air still warm with musk and regret (Eau De Stripper, if you will). With a nonchalance perfected from many unintended sleepovers, I strolled nude towards the largest of my clothing cairns. I got dressed and called out towards my lover. He’d shuffled somewhat when I left the bed but given the evening’s performance, movement was not a sign of life. My social responsibility to ensure my partner hadn’t died over, I said something which I still feel bad about:

“I’m just going to grab a glass of water!”

And then I bailed.

Honestly dear reader, I walked towards the kitchen, thought “screw it” and left his flat without a backwards glance. I don’t like the guy, I don’t like sleeping with him and I don’t care about his feelings. Just because he’s successfully taken me home after a Shamu portion of vodka doesn’t mean he’s entitled to my company. So why do I do it? No idea, alcohol just seems to be the yellow brick road towards a disappointing man behind a kitten-patterned sheet.

 

If only Drunk Sam could…

 

 

This encounter with James is why I think I might be a Fuckboy. Going back to the list I found earlier, I’ve checked off most the boxes:

• I was just in it for the sex (and I was barely there for that).
• I don’t think about how he feels.
• I never contact him outside of his bed (if the sun is up).
• All our interactions are geared towards the goal of sleeping together.

So I guess I am, but James is one too. He knew I was drunk every time he took me home, he never talks to me sober and has never invited me on a date. I may be cold but it takes two to dance this frigid tango and he’s been a willing partner from the start. The issue is the label. Fuckboy as a marker takes a person’s actions at one point in time and applies it to their entire dating career. Yes, I’m shitty to James but I’ve been amazingly supportive to many of my other dates. For all I know James has somone else he cares more about then me, that’s cool because we don’t like each other. It was just emotionless sex that unfortunately turned into a disspointing no-thrillogy. He never messaged me after I took three weeks to find a tap so I’m guessing my companionship isn’t high on his list of priorities.

The take home lesson kiddies, is that everyone has a bit of Fuckboy in them. When you have zero concern for someone, ideally you shouldn’t have sex with them. Sadly we’re only human, you’re going to get messy sometimes. What’s more important is to treat the people you do like with respect, whilst making sure the people who fancy you aren’t strung along like Carrie Underwoods singing career. Will I have sex with James again? Hopefully not but I can’t control happy hour *wink*, that doesn’t mean I won’t pursue the people I do care about without love and compassion.

For now, I guess I’m Schrodinger’s Fuckboy.

Tune in next time, I’ve met someone special…

Stats:

Cigarettes: Are becoming very expensive! I shouldn’t have to pay this much to commit suicide…

Diet: Keeps yo-yoing, it’s a pendulum with salad on one side and a buffet on the other…

Dates: One…