You’ll know when you see one. They are squint eyed and smell like guilt.
I was sixteen. It was raining that afternoon. The building was so old, so shabby it had road-like potholes, but I was young and a hopeless romantic. Storms were beautiful, not destructive. They would weave wind into my hair and I would smile, looking up at the sky, with rain-kissed skin. I jumped into a puddle. “Hoppipolla!” I shouted…what a wonderful world!
It was such a beguiling day and I was in no mood to solve equations or learn about current electricity but, priorities first. Exams were close, I needed these tuitions. So I walked in, chirpier than usual, and I saw him for the first time in my life. He had such smooth skin – like porcelain, a mole on the upper left corner of his lips, light eyes, hair falling over his head in a way that made him look callous in an endearing way. He looked up at me and I thought I saw a smile.
Who is a fuckboy? Image source: urbandictionary.com
Such was the beginning of a pathetic part of my life. You can’t blame me for not seeing it coming and I wasn’t the only one. I wish I could tell you my name or the city I belong to, but I can’t because ‘fuckboys’ have a way of being known for being one. They dig it. They think it is cool. So if I told you, everyone would know who I am talking about. It’s too obvious. Too risky. But there’s something about risks that makes you want to take them. It is almost like hope. And I took that with him. Blunder of all blunders – I trusted a fuckboy to be my friend.
I should have known how little respect he had for women when he texted me even though I had not given him my number. He noted it down slyly from the teacher’s phone. He had infringed on my privacy, but it was a nice gesture – or so I thought. The fluttering of an idiot’s heart. I blushed and we got talking.
“So, he texted me!!” I squealed excitedly to my friend.
“Man I told you, he is not a good guy. He’s a TOTAL PLAYER!” cautioned my friend, whispering, “He has already had sex with more than one girl!”
It was surprising. Hard to digest for a pubescent, prudish Indian girl like myself, but I threw caution to the wind and drifted away to the sweet little world in my head. However, in less than a week, I began gauging things and hearing things. Sweet nothings had become direct and almost unpalatable messages, wrought with sexual innuendos and unwarranted wisecracks. I was otherwise a smart kid, so although blurred by the typical emotions a teenage crush can stir, it took me little time (compared to others who have fallen prey to him) to understand that he was jerk.
“Let’s have sex,” he texted one day after having ghosted me for more than a week.
“Fuck you, but not the way you’ll enjoy it,” I texted back, and that was it…for a while at least. I heard he had spread rumors about how ‘I was clinging to him’ and other stupid stuff, but I didn’t care. Over and out.
Unboxing a Fuckboy. Image source: Twitter.com
Until almost two years later when he met with an accident that almost killed him. School was over, we were enrolling into college and a long long time had passed. I had a heart, after all. So what if he was cheating on several women? So what if he had broken the hearts of so many of my girlfriends? So what if he was a conniving bastard when it came to women? “He almost died, this will change him for good,” I rationaled, and went ahead and paid him a visit.
Things changed. Through the next three years of my college life we hung out a lot. We smoked, we chilled, I sat for hours and hours listening to him and my other friends jam. We drank. Some nights, when it wasn’t too many people and we’d have to take bong shots in the loo to ensure the clouds of smoke it produced didn’t give us away to the parents, he would talk to me. He would tell me how much he loved so and so and couldn’t help control his urges. How sorry he felt, how helpless he felt. And I would tell him too, how his ex-best friend and soon to be my ex-boyfriend was a controlling, manipulative asshole. I’d cry sometimes, sharing the details of the gross and unjust mental and physical torture I was going through. We’d hug and he’d crack a joke and I’d punch him in the chest and laugh. He was so funny. Still is.
He was my friend. I understood him now. I used to justify him to other girls: “Look man, he isn’t a great guy to date; he has issues with the testicles. They’re too restless! But dude, he’s such a great friend. We almost had something years ago and I was so mad at him but once that was over and we became ‘just friends’, it was great. He’s a good guy otherwise.”
*Cut to my horribly messy break-up*
“It’s good man, you weren’t happy with him anyway,” he said to me one day while Whatsapping and then shortly added, “Look at the bright side. It made you lose weight and you look great!”
I laughed. He was right, I was free. He called me over to smoke some crazy dope he had on him. Sure, I thought, and went over. We smoked a joint, we were sitting checking out some new music and then he leaned in.
“No way! You’re my bro, dude,” I said.
“You wouldn’t have a crush on a bro,” he said cheekily.
He had stirred a forgotten passion. He had opened the box that held answers to questions like ‘what if’ and ‘what it would be like’. I reasoned, “Doesn’t matter, it’s just sex! He can fuck the ex out of my system!”
We did it. When we were done, I didn’t feel too weird. It’s just like two friends getting a beer and then he cleaned up, got up and said one word that catapulted me back to three years ago. He said, “Win.”
Was this a game of some sort? Oh, I understood now. Fuckboys can’t handle rejection. They keep it in their hearts and nurture it for years, carefully planning revenge all along. There wasn’t a girl in the city he hadn’t slept with or didn’t try to at least, be it his friend, his friend’s friend, his girlfriend’s friend, his friend’s girlfriend. It didn’t matter. Fuckboys must put it in everywhere.
They are everywhere. No one is safe. Image source: redbubble.com
In the next few years I understood what fuckboys really are. They say “I love you” when it was not needed. They talk when it isn’t required. They make promises that no one’s asking them to make. They will not just shut the hell up, have sex and disappear. They’ll hang around till things get absolutely screwed up and complicated. In fact, it dawned on me that maybe these guys don’t even want the sex. They want to break hearts because that empowers them in some odd way. Finally I understood the difference between a fuckboy and a promiscuous person. Promiscuous people just want to have sex; that’s their end goal. Fuckboys, on the other hand, want to play games and therefore fuckboys can never be friends.
So, ladies beware! Don’t worry. You’ll know when you see one. They are squint eyed and smell like guilt.
Disclaimer: The views expressed in this article are independent views solely of the author(s) expressed in their private capacity and do not in any way represent or reflect the views of 101India.com.
By Zahra Sultan
Cover photo credit: Twitter.com