I’m Pretty Sure I’m A Fuckgirl (And Like…I’m Okay With It)

Ahhhhh the fuckboy. We love them, we hate them, we LOVE to hate them.

We make fun of their snapbacks and bro-tanks, of their affinity for Vans and Diplo. We joke that we’d like to see them fall off hoverboards or flat on their face when they get out of their “too-big-to-handle” trucks. We laugh at their attempts at rapping, or how they think because they saw 8 Mile they’re “street” when they clearly grew up in a cul-de-sac. Basically, the fuckboy is the favorite punchline of everyone’s joke.

But…what really is a fuckboy?

Is it simply a style, much like a “basic bitch” is, and we’re just ragging on them because it’s something to do? Is it simply a term we heard once in Top 40 or on Buzzfeed and now we throw it out there to sound like one of the cool kids? Is it just a word we came up with to describe ex-boyfriends that unfortunately moved on first? Or is it deeper than that?

According to the now sort of infamous Vanity Fair article, a fuckboy is a guy who has sex with multiple women, but who subsequently has zero intention of pursuing the relationship beyond anything physical. He’s all wham, bam, “thanks I guess, ma’am” — and that’s all you’re going to get before he’s back on his phone swiping through Tinder, ready to find a new conquest to get onto his clearly from Ikea mattress.

Essentially, orange is the new black and fuckboy is the new asshole. The asshole you love to hate, but love to fuck even more.

So what happens when you look in the mirror after casual relationship after casual relationship, SO many one night stands, and the reflection staring back at you is wearing a cutoff bro tank, tinted aviators, and is currently swiping away on Tinder?

I don’t do relationships. I haven’t been monogamous with another human being since early 2013 and I’m in absolutely no rush to change that. The last thing I made a longterm commitment to was my lease and even 14 months sounded a little unreasonable if you ask me. I size a lot (read: most) people up by my level of attractiveness to them and the likelihood of my ability to sleep with them. I have tried (and succeeded) at getting more than one (or two…or three…or six) of my close friends into bed and it never went further than a high-five.

I realized over the summer that my go-to tactic for hitting on people, specifically (read: exclusively) with men, is to “neg” them. If you haven’t heard of negging, it’s essentially when you give backhanded compliments or lightly insult people in order to make them desperate for your attention. Worst part about negging? It fucking works. I once successfully picked up a stranger by calling him Dora the Explorer all night because of his backpack he was openly wearing in public. And he tried to date me. Not just fuck me. DATE me.

I own my sexuality and my body. I don’t think I’m ugly — not even a little. I also drink like a fish (alcohol and Amazon Prime Video are my two favorite hobbies), make zero apologies about trying out trends (I’m currently wearing a suspender skirt and Birkenstocks), and generally just do whatever I want if it feels good and I WANT to do it.

And you know what? I’m not sorry.

The only thing I am hesitant about, with the intent of being truly transparent, is the residual societal guilt placed upon being a woman who owns her sexuality and her preferences.

I’m not SUPPOSED to admit that I like to hit it and quit it. I’m not supposed to send a “u up?” text even though I don’t really give a shit about Chase’s day; I just want him to go down on me. I’m not supposed to enjoy being on my own. I’m supposed to want to commit, supposed to ask, “What are we?”, and supposed to look for the hidden meanings between the lines of drunken soliloquies given at 3 AM after we’re done climbing each other like trees.

But I don’t. I really, really don’t.

I guess there’s one other thing I’m slightly hesitant about, since we’re being honest.

Seriously though! Whether he’s the guy who rides a goddamn IO Hawk and looks like a tool, or she’s the girl unapologetically asking you to leave because she has an early morning, or whether those images are reversed. The fact that they aren’t the picture perfect human that you idealized them to be doesn’t mean that they’re just 1000% a dick. They may have dick-ish tendencies, sure. I’ll give you that. But they still call their grandmothers, still probably get emotional at the videos of dogs greeting their soldier owners when those owners come home, and send thank you cards for birthday gifts just. like. you.

But I digress.

The point is, or the point I’m trying to get at rather, is that I guess…maybe I am a fuckboy. Or a fuckgirl.

I sleep with random people in favor of being in a relationship. I send flirty texts to try and get reactions from people. I openly make fun of strangers to try and make them desperate for my attention. I think I’m pretty hot most days. I also think I’m pretty hysterical. I own white Vans and Doc Martens and am trying to figure out how to make the vintage snapback I bought in Brooklyn work with my current haircut. My current Tinder profile has a serious lack of smiling, and my bio absolutely says, “I’m never going to follow you on Instagram.”

My name is Kendra, and I’m pretty sure I’m a fuckgirl.

I’m pretty sure I’m a fuckgirl, but I also have a pretty fucking sick life.

And if you feel the need to judge me for it, or label me a bad person because of said life, I may be the aforementioned fuckgirl but that makes you more of an asshole than I will ever be. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

About the author

Kendra Syrdal


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