On Random Musings From Another Fuckboy In Town

Realationships Vs Fakeationships. A call for us to reevaluate.

When they first met, Jack did not think that three years down the line, they would lie entangled in bed. It did not cross his mind that they would kiss and that raw desire would linger in its wake, a lust they would never quench. Nor did the suddenness of their end seem probable, the abruptness and sheer brutality that would leave the girl broken and himself hardly emotionally moved. Jack allowed his mind to think about her, her confident allure and her warm smile that seemed to always say 'It is okay, babe. You are home now'; how right it felt having her tongue in his mouth, and his in hers, her firm tits when she seared with want, and how silent she became when she squirted, so different from all the other girls he had been with. She exuded an aura of a person who knew where she wanted to go and what she needed to get there, but the universe had conspired against her, making her dreams unattainable. Yet, she trudged through life with an astonishing single-mindedness, as if willing the world to know that it could not bend or break her.

He knew he was lucky to have her. This was not a new feeling. He was that alpha male who got all the alpha females. He had grown, quite remarkably, to dislike that he did not chase after girls. He had grown to dislike the fact that he got together with babes just to humor them, to recognize their chasing him with a small gift, like a daddy (pun intended) presenting sweets to his children for conquering a challenge, - a light peck here, a kiss there; heavy flirtation here, a slice of his time there. He never particularly cared about them. Never particularly loved them. He thought nothing much of them, brushing them aside, as he so often did, those topics he had no particular interest in.

On the night he broke up with her, he loathed that he had crushed she who could not be broken by the world. He detested that he was her Achilles' heel and he had, shamelessly, taken advantage of that. He had come to despise how, seated amongst his friends, they would introduce him as the fuckboy, with a particular sugar-coated pride that showed both resentment and admiration, a kind of wishing that they trade places yet knowing they wouldn't. He had always denied these 'accusations', but now, lying in bed, he shuddered at the thought that he had become exactly that person everyone but himself wanted him to become.

Why did he lie to himself? He had, from the onset, convinced himself that he loved her. He had willed himself to love her. He remembered the first date they went to as a couple. After they declared themselves boyfriend and girlfriend (What's with titles anyway?), he had looked at her from across the table, passive. She had talked, most of which he did not listen or care about to recall, as he forced himself to acknowledge her as his girl, his love. He had repeated, "She's my girl now. She's mine now" to his brain, as if to confirm to himself what he did not already know.

He had mastered this art of appearing to listen. He would maintain eye contact, recuperate a spoken word, nudge her on, and use great facial expressions. He disliked how his mind so easily strayed away while he was with her. How he was unable to talk about anything he actually cared about, often because of how casually she would receive it, or how opinionated his thoughts were that he feared she would not have an opinion, and if she did, a weak one that would be consumed by his fire. He hated that he was wired like this, and that he could do nothing to suppress the curiosities his mind held. He abhorred how he would yearn to go while with her, oftentimes inventing places where he was supposed to be.

But most particularly, he felt deep hostility towards all the girls he had been with, for having failed to see beyond him. How they had not stopped for a minute to doubt his attention, or to demand more of it. Not that he thought they would. He had a glib tongue and the gist of a man that people easily trusted, let him lead them and even hailed him the hero. Consequently, he yearned to meet a girl that was different. He wanted a girl that pushed boundaries, that made him feel alive, that defied convention. A girl that was not merely an observer but one that demanded from life, a girl he would never meet, and, if he did, might never have.

Knowing that she never truly belonged to him, he struggled to push back the thoughts of her being with other men. Belong. It was a peculiar feeling to him. How he felt entitled to her. He wondered whether she, too, wanted him to belong to her, or if she, too, was just another player in the game of hearts. Whether she also sensed the insincerity in their relationship, realizing that they were together but not really together. That they were caged in by walls they had developed in their previous relationships, scarred by the ghosts of first loves, hot exes or both. It dawned on him now how oblivious he was to her being, her values, her beliefs, her experiences. He had been too shallow and too blinded to read her emotions between her short replies, or beyond her face. He had not known her and she had not known him. They were strangers in an allusion of love. This realization made him content with his decision and the burden on his 18-year-old heart was lifted.

He was happy that he had chosen the promises of the love he read about in books or watched in movies over forced feelings and false experiences with her. It did not occur to him, for a single moment, to doubt his decision to follow his heart. With it, a hope was born, an old fire rekindled. Maybe they simply weren't lucky enough to experience that wistful, elated feeling of happiness that people so famously branded 'true love'.

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