A phrase that has represented the overall plight of all goods guys in the fight against fuck boy.
We are all infamous for choosing that “special” asshole in our lives. He is the guy that we meet at a frat party, who grabs your ass as y'all dance and shoves his tongue sloppily down your throat. He is pretty average looking with his generic brand Simply Southern shirt and khaki shorts that almost kiss the edge of his knee-high Nike socks. You are charmed by his drunk demeanor and feel flattered when he offers to wipe off the warm Natty he “accidentally” spilled on your cleavage. After he swept you off the sticky floor, you stumble to his big’s room where you have drunk, unmemorable “dead fish” sex. As you sneak out the house Friday morning, you feel exhilarated by the rush of a casual encounter, anticipating a Snapchat when he wakes up. Oh wait, did he ask for my number? If he did, did I type it in right? The cycle continues: The Fuck Boy Phenomena.
The Fuck Boy Phenomena is something that I, an expert in the matter, have specialized, mastered, and researched on for many years. It is the idea that we go out with fuck boy because we love the thrill or the bad boy complex. We love the excitement that these fuck boys give us. We become infatuated with their good looks, nice “sports” cars, and hell, maybe free gifts, that our knowledge of the asshole complex is pushed out of our memory. During my high school and undergrad research and six-year case study on fuck boy, these dudes exhibited the asshole complex, for example, by leaving me to walk three miles home from a party, stealing a 30 rack of Keystone from my house, forgetting about me at a gas station at 4 a.m., trying to have a threesome with my roommate, and messaging me on Gmail chat to say “I miss you.”
Honestly, I could probably write my doctoral thesis on the research accumulated and my findings, which are that: fuck boy ain’t worth it.
In the process of chasing the assholes, we ghost the nice guys: the ones that go out their way to bring us hot tea when we are sick, who text us “good luck on your final, you will ace it," who let us rant about ass holes who don’t know the first initial of our last name or what we order at Chick-fil-a. These are not the boys we fuck and forget about; they are the ones we never truly realize we need until we have been disrespected one time too many.
It’s true, in college and probably the first half of your dating life, nice guys will finish last and your asshole will be the trophy win.
However, when you are sitting alone in your bed on a Saturday, feeling on the verge of a nervous breakdown, who will be there to wipe your blubbering tears away: the fuck boy who is too busy to talk downtown, or the guy who would drop anything to bring you a Kleenex? In the end, assholes will always finish last. That sweet, smart nerdy boy will be on the sideline, waiting to play, while the asshole is on the field, fumbling the ball. Don’t worry, if you have been in the game as long I have, you will learn that these boys have nothing to offer but a night of free drinks and blue balls.
Don’t worry, one day, he will be sitting at home on a Saturday, realizing he fucked up. He will text you wanting to talk, but you will be too busy getting dicked down by the smartest, geekiest, and most loving guy, one that makes your loins water, but not your eyes. The asshole will have to wipe his own tears and lie in the bed he made by himself.
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