There is a reason for my attraction to this very special breed of men — you know the ones; torn skinny jeans, tattoos, toned arms holding a guitar, cigarette hanging carelessly out of mouth framed by perfectly manicured facial hair. An attitude that says “women throw themselves at me all the time” or “it’s a chore to talk to you babe.” They’re too witty, too intelligent, too jaded, too (insert some other pretentious adjective here) for you. You’ll never understand them. They make jokes about how you should make them a sandwich or whine about all of the “dumb, boring sluts” that bother them on a daily basis. Believe it or not, I actually find a certain allure to guys like this. When you’ve encountered as many of them as I have you begin to realize that they definitely have their perks. There’s the obvious fact that I enjoy a good roughing up from time to time and this breed is particularly authentic in this manner. Or when they roll over, hair all messed up first thing in the morning. Underwear halfway down their ass, socks still on because they were too wasted the night before to take them off. Maybe there’s some drool coming out of their mouth…maybe not. They are suddenly passive, quiet, controlled, and a little bit pathetic. Just like a big baby. They actually become kind of endearing, a little bit cute. And as long as you continue to see them as the self-righteous pig they really are and don’t attempt to “get to know” the “real” “tortured genius,” the “complicated soul” inside them, they serve a good purpose. The minute you begin to try to understand them, see something better in them or want something deeper from them is the minute you have failed your mission.
The real reason I am probably attracted to guys like the aforementioned is the perverse enjoyment I get from the thrill of attempting to break them down. When I see a guy like this my automatic instinct is — I need to crack this cookie. To psychoanalyze and mindfuck him to the point that I will break this monster down for the sake of swooning women everywhere. I need to shatter his manhood. To tear out his heart and serve it to him on a plate like he has done to so many girls before me. I do it for the good of society. Shit, taking on this task puts me practically in the same league as Jesus. Right? Wrong. Because no matter how many times you think you are in control of the situation, no matter how skillful your artistry is, how practiced your routine, how much joy you might get as you start to see a couple minor cracks in his facade…you should really just quit while you’re ahead. You might have a high success rate but there are some guys that simply cannot be broken. Maybe you just met them at a time in their life when this is impossible. Maybe this window of time will never exist for them. Maybe some girl just like you has already broken them in the past and all that’s left is an empty shell. I don’t care if you’re Mila-Fucking-Kunis. If the timing is off, it ain’t gonna happen.
So, you’ve succeeded in breaking him down a bit and now he knows you’re not going to passively stand by and listen to his shit? Check. He’s become somewhat comfortable in your company? Check. He’s started asking you details about your life and interests? Check. You share a few inside jokes? Check. He’s started referring to you affectionately? Check. He’s started to stay the night? Check. He’s opening up to you and telling you about his life, his family, his philosophy on life — girlfriend, stop right there. Do not pass go. I repeat. Do. Not. Pass. Go. It is at this point that you should retreat, with your tail between your legs, back to square one with a new guy. Because if you’ve already gotten to this point, chances are he might become the guy that breaks you.
You’ll start to make excuses for his shitty behavior (“oh but he’s actually a really great guy deep down!” you’ll tell your friends) and you’ll start to slip up. This story isn’t going to have a happy ending. Because despite how much he might be giving off every possible sign that he is ready to surrender, despite how close you might be, if he’s not ready to be broken then it’s never going to happen. And you’ll realize that, somehow, you got so caught up in trying to break him down that you forgot to check your own walls, your own boundaries that were beginning to crumble around you enough for him to slowly but surely creep inside the cracks. And you’ll realize that maybe you are a little bit like Jesus after all in that you’ve pretty much sacrificed yourself in the hope of breaking him down. This guy has become like an inconvenient and painful thorn that has lodged itself into your brain and probably your heart too. And believe me, it’s going to take a lot of squats, a lot of lipstick and a lot of listening to Rage Against The Machine for a resurrection to occur.
One day, years down the track, you’ll see him hand-in-hand with some polite, mousey-haired, Sundress-wearing plain-Jane. Her name is probably Becky or Stephy or some other ungodly, cutesy nickname. There is simply nothing controversial or even remotely special about the chick at all. And you’ll curse Becky under your breath and hate her because what does she have that you didn’t? Becky has Timing on her side. And sheer dumb luck. And you pray that, like Becky, luck is on your side the next time you choose to take on the impossible task of breaking down a Big Bad Man…because, let’s face it: there are only so many squats a girl can do.