The
long answer is: if the fuckboy fucks around long enough, he eventually
falls—and even then, it’s complicated. No matter how much he fights and
wrestles with it, if it’s powerful enough, it will roll even her under the
waves. The fuckboy who is accustomed to riding the wave realizes that if he’s gonna wipe
out in love, he’ll do it with as much grace as he can—slowly, cautiously,
tenderly, contemplatively—because that’s how she vibes.
Falling
in love with a fuckboy can
be more torturous than falling in love with a “good boy” (or any guy).
Good
boys are
built for it, and they wrap their identity and existence around it. They live
for you; they make it easy for you, fuckboys don’t.
A
fuckboy does the opposite: since his limbic system has a
fast lane (sensation/sex) and a slow lane (emotions), he’s grabbing the “oh
shit handle” and saying, “Shouldn’t we slow down?”
When
you picture a fuckboy falling
in love, imagine a sloth who is also a moody bitch. Obviously, you’d prefer a
puppy dog jumping all over you, tongue hanging out, tail wagging—and that’s
just not him.
The
fuckboy bandwidth for real, deep,
true love happens so slowly for him that he’s expanding to hold it as he’s feeling
it. It’s as if he’s a fish who saw the most beautiful bird—and he can’t evolve
and grow wings fast enough for you. Frankly, he’s also pissed off at you for
yanking him
from his
comfort zone and making him feel such insane things. For making him think of himself in a different
life.
I fall a little in love with all my tricks. Sometimes I imagine them sweeping me off my feet and creating a life together. Then the walls of their house, condo or apartment start closing in on me... And I shower, get dressed and get the hell out.
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