Fuck boy meets fantasy girl

F*ck boy meets fantasy girl

We all know the f boy.
The charmer,
The sweet talker,
The fantasizer.
The one who knows all the right things to say,
To trick a woman’s heart,
So she’ll open her legs.

But what about his counterpart?
The charmed.
The one who buys the lies.

We like to make her weak.
A strong woman would never fall for that.

Foolish.
Silly girl shouldn’t be so gullible.

Innocent.
Poor girl who got toyed with, or taken advantage of.

But she is not those things.
That is simply the infantilization of the feminine.
Poor weak small feminine.

No.

She is the gamer herself.
The perfect receiver of the lines.

Just like f boy knows the right things to say,
She knows the right things to do.

She knows just how to hold herself to make him want her.
She knows just how to giggle and smile at the right moments to amp him up.
She knows just how to present herself as the fantasy in his eyes.

So much so,
That some of his lies become true.

And as he feasts on the fantasy of attaining her,
She feasts on his desire.
She f*cking loves it.
She soaks it up.
She pulls it in.

Want me.
Like me.
Need me.

She lets him drool,
Teasing him,
Savoring his hunger.

F*ck boy meets fantasy girl,
A perfect match of performative lies.
One making way for the other.

But then,
Somewhere
Somehow,
The truth hits.
The fantasy breaks.

He doesn’t mean what he says.
She doesn’t mean what she does.

And we say
Poor her.
And f*ck him.

And we judge her.
And blame him.

And we make her so small.
The victim to his games.
Just a pawn in his scheme.

But she is not small at all.

It is she who convinced him.
It is she who lied with her smiles, and her giggles, and her eye gazes.
It is she who pretended to be down.
Who pretended to be easy going, obedient.
Who pretended to be cool and carefree.

And
It is he who bought her lies.

She wasn’t any of those things.

_

I always thought I was the one getting played.
Turns out
The player is me.