Fuckboy [fuck-boi]: ‘Asshole boy who is into strictly sexual relationships; he will lead a girl on and let her down, then apologise only to ask for “pics” once the girl has welcomed him back into her trust. Boys like this will pretend to genuinely care about the girl, but always fail to prove the supposed affection. He almost never makes plans because he has to hang out on his terms, which could be the most whimsical of times… He will always come crawling back because he is a horny prick and cannot withstand the dispossession of one of his baes because he has more than one, that’s for sure.’ – Urban Dictionary.

Now that we’re all clear on the definition, welcome to The Fuckboy Chronicles. A series of posts which highlight my experiences of this particular specimen of man. We all know a Fuckboy, most of us have been unlucky enough to meet more than one in our lifetime. Hell, maybe you’re even a Fuckboy! Over the past year of being single, I have had the pleasure of meeting a handful of them, so let’s get started with the first…

October 2018. Since Hinge Guy had stood me up a couple months prior, I’d retreated back into my man-free protective bubble. I reasoned with myself that I didn’t have time to date. The end of the summer saw me turn 30, go on holiday to Dubai, and have a big party with family and friends. My sister also got married, where I was both the maid of honour and makeup artist. I was way too busy to date and that was just fine. I genuinely felt I was at my most content, confident and sexiest than I had been in a long time, and the best thing was that a man had nothing to do with it. However, women have certain needs and over the past eight months the only intimate contact I’d had was my one night with the Adonis, so I decided to re-download Hinge. Enter Brandon.

Brandon was tall, handsome (are you noticing a theme here?) and had a sort of laidback, couldn’t be bothered nonchalance about him. We matched on Hinge just before my sister’s wedding and arranged a date for the day after. I had already decided that if I fancied this guy there was a strong likelihood I was going to spend the night with him. Needs, people, needs. I arrived at a pub in Streatham and watched as Brandon walked through the door. Ding. Dong. Decision already made. We spent a couple hours in the pub chatting and flirting before heading back to his to ‘watch a film’. We spent a whole five minutes watching Netflix in his room (such a cliché I know) before we started kissing, the laptop left discarded on the other side of the bed…

Now let’s talk about boys’ bedding for a minute. Over the years, I’ve seen my fair share of boys’ beds. Correct me if I’m wrong but why is it that they are always faded grey or navy sheets (complete with questionable stains), which look like they were bought by their mum 10 years ago when they first left home. And don’t even get me started on the pillows. Flat, yet somehow lumpy, pieces of foam wrapped in mismatched pillowcases; I swear they must all suffer with chronic neck stiffness. Plus there’s always an odd number. Three pillows? I swear pillows come in pairs as standard, no? I wonder what happened to the fourth… did it disintegrate over the years in their pit or did they originally just have the two, and one time stole the third from a housemate to dry hump one night? Never mind the fact that their bed would look uneven when made (LOL), three pillows is just downright selfish when it comes to sharing a bed. Single men of London, hear me when I say, nothing will turn a girl on more than if you have clean, white sheets and FOUR matching plump pillows. You want a blowjob, you say? Then I would invest in some tasteful scatter cushions and a nice knitted throw too.

Anyway, I digress. Brandon and I did indeed spend that night together. The sex was good and it felt nice to have physical contact with a man again. However, after that night I noticed a decline in Brandon’s messages. He only text when he wanted something (I wonder what). We had a kind of unspoken agreement where I would go his (usually on a Sunday evening), have sex, watch a film together and go to sleep (cuddles optional). The next morning I would kiss him goodbye and head to work, and I wouldn’t hear from him for another week/fortnight before he’d message me again. And repeat. 

Now this kind of arrangement is all well and good if there is an equal amount of effort from both sides, but there wasn’t. Brandon began displaying typical Fuckboy behaviour. He would never commit to plans with me, it was always a last minute: “Hey, what are you up to tonight?” I was always expected to go his, God forbid him actually making the effort to jump in an Uber to mine. And when I turned up I’d never even get offered a glass of water; I’d have to hope he’d left a gym water bottle on the side or die of thirst. 

One time he invited me over and when I texted to say I was on my way, he told me to hold off for a minute because he had to pop out. I assumed 40 minutes at most; he probably just needed to grab some food (Ooo, could he actually be making me dinner?!) from the shop, right? WRONG. Three hours later, I still hadn’t heard from him, with no answers to my call or messages. Finally at 9pm that night he messaged to say, “Sorry, I fell asleep. My bad.” “YOU FELL ASLEEP!?” Rachel from Friends voice echoed in my head. Meanwhile, I had been sat at home waiting like a mug. What a waste of makeup, shaving foam and a Sunday afternoon.

You’d think that would have been the end of Brandon, right? Wrong again. Any self-respecting human would have cut off contact then and there. Nope, instead a fortnight goes by and he messages me again. I give him some stick for messing me around, to which he acts shocked and goes on to defend himself, saying how he would ‘’never intentionally mug me off.’ Obviously I lap this all up and next thing you know BOOM! I’m swallowed up in his dick sand again. And repeat.

I see Brandon on and off over the course of October and November. The messages still come every fortnight but the meet ups less frequent. I was tired of dropping everything and going over at his beck and call so I mostly declined his last minute offers, suggesting alternative days instead; days that actually worked for me. But being a classic Fuckboy, Brandon couldn’t even commit to a shag, never mind a drink. So I began dating other guys; men that actually wanted to go out with me and took an interest in me. However, they were either a string of first dates where I had zero interest or they were guys like Brandon. I was a self-diagnosed Fuckboy addict. By December I’d had enough of men altogether, deleted Hinge (again) and deactivated my social media apps.

2019 came and so did my long list of New Year’s resolutions which included leaving all 2018 men back where they belonged – in 2018. My sister scoffed at this but I was adamant. This resolution lasted all of 48 hours. Brandon had been messaging me over the Christmas and New Year period and come 2^nd January I cracked. After my first day back at work I went home, showered, shaved my legs, blow dried my hair and did my makeup. Feeling particularly daring that day, I put on some sexy lingerie, heels and borrowed my flatmate’s long trench coat. It was only as I left the flat that I realised that it didn’t have any buttons. Sure. I awkwardly wrapped the coat around myself as I got into an Uber, convinced the driver thought I was a sex worker. 

20 minutes later I arrived in Streatham and awkwardly stumbled out of the car in my stilettos. One hand holding the coat together, the other clutching an overnight rucksack. Sexy. As I arrived at his front porch, Brandon was already at the door waiting for me, idly playing on his phone. I opened the front gate, composed myself into a seductive stance (I think), took a deep breath and flashed open my coat. “Happy New Year,” I said, in what I hoped was a husky, Marilyn Monroe-esque voice. Brandon looked up and grinned. “Indeed it is, come on in,” he said and I quickly tottered inside before his neighbours could get an eyeful.

We had a good time that evening and Brandon even spooned me the entire night (that hadn’t happened before.) I woke up the next morning and got dressed for work only to realise in all my excitement that I’d forgotten to pack a top. Fuck. I texted my co-worker, Margaret explaining what had happened and begging her to save my dignity. I travelled on the tube in trousers, my bra and the button-less trench coat. I walked into work and Margaret handed me a novelty Christmas jumper. It was 3^rd January. “Cheers,” I said as she grinned at me. 

Only three days went by before Brandon messaged me again. So then I wondered…could Brandon actually like me and could he actually want to date me? Maybe… Eh, WRONG! He stopped messaging again and the fortnightly ghosting/texting cycle resumed. So naïve, Jess. The last time Brandon and I messaged I received the extremely appealing offer of going over to his for a ‘good spanking’ for a couple hours on a Saturday afternoon before he left London to go see his family. Surprisingly enough I declined that particular offer and I haven’t seen Brandon since. 

Now I’m not saying Brandon is a bad person, he just was never going to give me what I wanted and quite frankly what I think I deserve. Maybe he thought if he were too nice to me I’d get the wrong idea and want him to be my boyfriend. The fact of the matter is I didn’t want a relationship with him or anybody else at that time, I just wanted to find someone with whom I could occasionally hang out and have some good sex. Is that really too much to ask?! I don’t want a Fuckboy. I want a boy I can fuck who is genuinely nice, interested in me, and respects me enough to be honest and not ghost me. Can I get an ‘Amen sister!’