How many times have you heard one of your straight friends drunkenly slur to you, “lesbiansnsssss have it SoOoooo EaasSsSsyyyyy, I WisH I waS OnE.”
And you’re like “Oh honey, if you only KNEW.” While we undeniably have it better, we definitely don’t have it easier. Aside from pesky discrimination and whatnot, queer girls have one struggle that we share with our straight counterparts, though they might not realize it. Queer girls aren’t immune to the epidemic of f*ck-boy-ery.
Side effects include: sex that doesn’t meet your expectations (JK that’s only for men f*ckboys), ignored phone calls, “U up?” texts, misuse of fedoras, smirking and eyebrow-raising, and general f*ckery and objectification of women.
But I say this with love, because I am not immune to the lesbian f*ckboy. In fact, I find them and flirt with them everywhere I go. Just last month, I was minding my own business at a lez party, slurping back white wine with Zara Barrie when I spotted her: a lesbian f*ckboy, in all her swaggy menswear glory. Now, this party was teeming with sweet pretty femmes but I have a gift for zeroing in on a f*ckboy if she’s there.
Because here’s the thing about lesbian f*cboys: they radiate sex. They’re confident. They know what they want. And most of all: They know how to talk to a lady.
“I noticed your boobs from across the room,” she said to me (legit not exaggerating at all.) And you know what? I appreciated TF out of that compliment because it was genuine. I was wearing a bra as a top, obviously, I wanted people to recognize my tits.
That’s the thing about lesbian f*ckboys. Their compliments aren’t steeped in bullshit or innuendo — they’re honest. She was looking at my tits so she said so. It’s refreshing. And it’s honestly what I wanted. Sometimes a girl wants to feel objectified. (Bad feminist right here, lock me up and throw away the key. As long as you handcuff me first. And wear a uniform. Wait, what was I saying?)
Lesbian f*ckboys let me be my true, slutty self.
As the music pounded throughout the party and she grabbed my hips, I told myself don’t bend over don’t bend over, and boom, the next thing I knew, I was bent over, grinding my ass all over her. I knew I was being ratchet, but I didn’t care. Not to get all political, but owning your sexuality unabashedly without worrying about it, is a radical act. Two women being blatantly sexual is a big deal. And an unapologetic f*ckboy allowed me to be an unapologetic slut. Beautiful, no?
Lesbian f*ckboys are also fearlessly butch. To be a masculine-presenting woman isn’t easy. Sure, in the queer community, maybe masculine women are favored, but in the world at large, masculine women are sometimes treated like a conundrum, a problem that needs fixing, or with blatant disrespect and discrimination. I respect the hell out of lesbian f*cboys for going out into the world visibly queer and rocking the hell out of it, slaying the patriarchy, and picking up hot girls while they’re at it.
Anyway, back at the party where I was gyrating all over the real-life Shane, I whipped my hair back and turned to the f*ckboy’s face. “I think I love you, let’s get married,” she said to me. F*ckboys are also good at being ridiculously hyperbolic in the name of flirting.
But let’s not get them off the hook so easily. She went off to dance with another girl and maintained eye contact with me the whole time (okay fine I was doing the same exact thing, and enjoying it.) She never asked for my name, come to think of it, because she’s a f*ckboy. For all their charm and sexuality, beware of their games.
F*ckboys also suck, because, well, they’re f*ckboys. They can treat femmes poorly, and are usually unbearably cocky. The one time I actually dated a f*ckboy, instead of just feeling my initial fleeting attraction and letting it go, she cheated on me with me a girl we had a threesome with. Then lied to me and gaslight me the whole time! Good times.
Now that I’m in a relationship (shook), the appeal of the f*ckboy has definitely dissipated. Being authentically connected to someone has made me realize how shallow my attractions have been in the past. But I’ve been around the block with f*ckboys I once fell in unrequited loved with the most dangerous, rarest kind of f*ckboy there is: the femme f*ckboy. She had all the accessories and beauty of a femme, but all the dangerous charm and games of a f*ckboy. She broke my heart, obviously.
I’d advise baby gays who keep falling for f*ckboys to embrace them for who they are, and have no expectations. If they are going to objectify and use you, objectify and use them. Appreciate f*ckboys for their charm, sex appeal, and swag but don’t let them get away with murder. If you feel disrespected, say so. If you feel hurt, say so. If they are playing games, break it off. Don’t. Catch. Feelings. And once you master the art of this, you will have the time of your life. Everyone deserves to have a f*ckboy love lust affair at least once in their lesbian dating adventures.
F*ckboys, when taken in small doses, can help you embrace your sexuality, learn how to speak up for yourself, and surrender yourself to being helplessly attracted to someone (not the healthiest thing but a formative part of every young lez’ love life.)
BUT if a f*ckboy falls for you, they can be the most intense and beautiful connection — if they stop their f*ckboy ways for you, then you know it’s real. They can be vulnerable and sweet and gentle once they let their guard down — which is even rarer than only buying one thing at Target. Don’t expect a f*ckboy to open up to you, but if it happens, appreciate how naked they’re getting for you. Not like that.
So next time you’re at Henrietta Hudson, and an impossibly swaggy babe comes up to you — accept the vodka soda, make out with her on the dance floor, let her take you home, but please remember this v important message brought to you by Carrie Lezshaw, retired f*ckboy addict.