Tag Archives: Fuckboy

The Guysexual’s Guide To Every Fuckboy In The World

Fuckboy.jpg

Kartik, 28 (my copywriter friend who gets a mention every few weeks) matched with Atul, a senior associate at a top legal firm, about two years ago. They bonded over their love for bad puns, great gin and the fact that they were both self-proclaimed Ravenclaws. What could I say?

Wit beyond measure led them to each other’s treasure trails.

For Kartik (as is usual), it was love at first swipe. Like most millennial love stories, it had its (mostly) highs and (many) lows. But something still seemed wrong — the dates were always at home, friends were never involved and future plans were never made. Their trysts started late, but Kartik was never invited to stay the night (including that one time when he puked all over the bathroom floor).

It seemed strange, but Kartik (being Kartik) decided not to second-guess things. He continued making bad puns, and drinking great gin. Why wouldn’t he?

Atul was a great many things. He was smart. He was handsome. He was successful. He was charming. He was a dipsomaniac.

Atul was also a F**kboy.

The quintessential f**kboy (just like Atul) is not always very easy to spot, considering his adaptive nature and ability to blend in. The F**kboy is everywhere (and more importantly, anywhere). Smiling behind you at the checkout aisle in the supermarket. Making googly eyes in the subway. At the library. In your poetry class. In the bus. At the local pub. In your untouched list of Tinder matches. Anyone who’s traversed through this giant desert of dating knows that finding a F**kboy is like finding a wild Rattata on Pokemon Go — it’s that common — which makes avoiding them that much more difficult. Want to know how to bypass the boys that most bad decisions are made of?

Look no further, kids. Here are some telltale signs the guy you are hopelessly crushing on, only plans to crush your heart after:

The F**kboy only messages you post midnight.

He’ll never disappoint.

The one time he messages you at 8 pm, is simply because his flat mates are away.

He drinks his cold pressed juices straight out of the carton.

Just like he drinks his pre-mixed cocktails straight out of plastic bottles.

The f**kboy is an amalgamation of bad pick-up lines, expensive perfume and template text messages that he broadcasts to his little black book of men.

All three have high success rates.

He hoards up on all his used condom wrappers, because ‘how else will he know that he’s the supreme sex god that he claims to be?’

He addresses you as his bro. Even when he meets you in person.

And he doesn’t mean it in the endearing “I-am-so-comfortable-around-you-I-can-call-you-anything’ kind of way.

He’s always vague about his Friday night plans.

But he already has advance tickets for Tomorrowland 2019.

The F**kboy doesn’t snuggle. He prefers the post-coital smoke to the post-coital cuddle.

His idea of the perfect date includes drinks at a dive bar, and dessert back at his place. Dinner is usually not a part of the deal, unless you offer to eat it off him.

He wears his charm like he wears his signature perfume.

Bottles of it at a time.

He introduces you to his friends as a ‘friend from work that he bumped into’.

Eight months into knowing you. You never see them again.

Or all his friends know who you exactly are, but they act like they know something that you obviously don’t: that he’s seeing other people.

He’s always busy when it’s time to meet your friends.

Once it was his dog’s funeral. Twice it was a late night at the office.

And thrice, it was his mother’s birthday.

In the same year.

The F**kboy rolls up his shirtsleeves to just below his elbows, because he likes to live on the edge.

He likes to drive with his windows open, and uses styling mousse so that his hair doesn’t look ‘too windswept.’ Sometimes he doubles it up as lubricant.

He never lets you stay, and has an excuse ready every time you suggest pulling out your jammies. Sometimes it’s a early morning gym session at 5 am. Sometimes it’s an over inquisitive maid who can’t mind her own business. Sometimes it’s an Uber he booked for you when you were cleaning up in the bathroom.

He likes his boys just like he likes his chardonnay.

Free flowing, and out of his system the next morning.

He doesn’t see the point of crossword puzzles, middle school trigonometry or commitment.

He downloads Grindr Xtra just so he can get unlimited blocks.

And an unlimited pass into everyone’s pants.

At some point in your relationship, he’ll tell you that you are the One.

He’ll also tell the same thing to Rizwan. To Sam. To Kabir. To Nikhil. To Rahul. To Kiran. To Sameer. To Zishaan.

He breaks up with you eventually, because ‘he’s not good enough for you, and you deserve better,’ He doesn’t reply to your texts, phone calls (and that one long winding drunken email) after.

That’s the thing.

The F**kboy will only lead you to another one. And another one. And another one. He’ll lead you through a string of bad decisions, heartbreak and life-altering mistakes.

You’ll sigh every time, but you’ll never learn.

Now go message your Atul.