We acted like fuckboys for a night and now get why guys do it


babe  • 

We acted like fuckboys for a night and now get why guys do it

It’s liberating

Universal female knowledge suggests that when we don’t like the way guys treat us, we automatically label them as a fuckboy. Occasionally we’ll call them “dicks,” “assholes,” “not worth our time,” but until a guy has proven otherwise, he is a fuckboy.

Common similarities among all fuckboys can be seen in the form of: flirting with you to get what he wants, texting you until he gets bored, 2am booty calls, giving his attention to every other girl in a bar but you, having at least five different conversations going with girls, using some form of pickup line from their playbook of tricks, picking up girls like there’s no tomorrow, and after all that wondering where the hell they got it wrong.

We call them out, hate them for it, and even try and change them. But maybe that’s because we don’t really know what it’s like to be a fuckboy.

The rules were simple:

  • Spend 30 minutes at each bar
  • Flirt shamelessly
  • Get as many numbers as we can
  • Use our assets to get perks
  • Don’t give a fuck
  • So we got dolled up and left any second thoughts at home.

    Bar one was a massive fail

    Lesson number one: Hidden bars / speakeasies are not the places to pick up guys. Let aside the fact we had to wait in line for 20 minutes, breaking our 30 minute per bar rule, the bar was full of couples on dates. One on ones, double dates, group dates, heck even a couple of bros who just wanted to catch up with each other because it had been too long.

    And there we were in the middle of everyone having intimate conversations trying to spot our first targets.

    30 minutes and $15 for a G&T later we didn’t find them.

    Biergartens are where the magic happens

    Guys galore. Within 30 seconds of walking in we were already chatting up a group of five Brits. Predicting their desire for a “mad one” and uninterested in anything more than a free drink we exited the conversation with a polite “we’re going to get a drink, we’ll be right back,” only to sit at the bar a few feet away with no intention of going back.

    Our lack of success so far definitely called for tequila.

    “Two margaritas please,” we told the bartender with a flirty smile and gaze that said nothing less than we wanted it to.

    All hail tequila because that’s when the night started to look up. Having ordered our drinks mere seconds after the guy next to us, unsurprisingly he was the only one who got a check.

    Which brings our total to: Free drinks: two. Numbers: zero

    With one eye on the bartender and the other scanning the room, we reassessed our game plan. I would give them the look – the notorious “eye fuck” – to signal guys our way, and Jennie would do the sweet-talking because she’s nice and I’m a bitch.

    Two sips into our margs and we spot two good-looking guys trying to get to the bar. To our advantage the easiest way would be to make their way next to us so while my eyes did their inviting, Jen’s personality did the talking. 20 minutes later we had two more free margaritas in our hands, an invitation to meet up after we “had to meet our friends at another bar for Brad’s birthday,” and a new contact in our phone.

    Fuckboy tip: Leave them wanting more

    Which is exactly why after our 30 minutes were up we made an excuse to leave and promised to meet up with them later. It wasn’t Brad’s birthday. We didn’t have to meet friends at a bar. We just had to keep on being fuckboys.

    The 3/3 at the cocktail bar

    By first walking in we should have known the vibe would be similar to the first bar – harder to crack – but we decided to try our luck anyway. A few walks around the entire place in search of any males with the same intentions and we thought we lost the game. Intimate cocktail bars are not where fuckboys hangout.

    Well at least that’s what we thought.

    Just when all hope was lost we were approached by two men visiting the city with more confidence than we thought we had. It seemed they were playing the same game, as within seconds they had each locked down their target (us) and were pretty upfront with what they wanted.

    We played along until we had to dip out for Brad’s birthday again. But not before numbers and saliva were exchanged. Snaps for Jen who kissed her suitor, bringing the level of the game to a whole new height.

    And as far as the math goes – Free drinks: four. Numbers: three. Kisses: one

    The face of someone who got some (right) and someone who didn’t (left)

    Apparently all you need is to look good and guys will want you in their club. Shocker

    This is where using our assets for perks seemed to work without any of our efforts (unless you take into account the hour we spent getting ready).

    Unable to locate the whereabouts of our biergarten boys, we reconvened with a promoter who offered us swift entry to a club nearby. Unamused with the amount of hands we had to politely shove off our bodies we didn’t bother sticking to our 30 minutes per bar and instead held out for about 30 seconds.

    In search of our next venue, our attention was captured by the music coming from the Gansevoort, a luxury hotel with a rooftop that seemed so elite we probably wouldn’t have even bothered thinking of on any other night. But tonight was different. Tonight we were on a mission.

    With a poise that said “I belong here,” we walked straight to the front of the line and were immediately “with someone” who took us straight to the rooftop – no strings attached.

    We even managed to get a promoter’s number in case we want rooftop entrance in the future. Nailed it.

    Being a fuckboy works up an appetite

    Or it was the fact we hadn’t eaten in seven hours and walked a mile in heels. Either way, we decided the night was over and what better way to end a drunken night than at a 24h diner.

    We debriefed over sweet potato fries and called the night a success.

    Final tally – Free drinks: four. Numbers: four. Kisses: one. Line jumps: two.

    So, do I have a newfound sympathy for guys who are douchebags? No. Will I still judge them for playing with girls’ feelings? Probably. But will I identify with them for not giving a fuck and doing what they want? Yes.

    Because being a fuckboy is fucking fun.