“I was nice to girls. They all used and ignored me. Then I became a bad boy, insulting and abusing them, and oh how the poon did flow.”
That’s one of a thousand generic, whiny essays decrying “The Friend Zone,” where a man who is Too Nice For His Own Good finally learns to Be Mean and tells you all the lesson that Stupid Women Don’t Like Nice Guys Be A Dick Hurr Hurr Hurr.
Except you were never a nice guy.
Because hey, did you tell her when you met her, “Hey, I’d like to date you?”, even though you secretly went back home and masturbated so furiously you could have used your smoking dick to start a fire? No. You instead hung around her, pretending to be her friend when friendship was actually the last thing you wanted.
Hey, if you really wanted to be her friend, you wouldn’t be sitting here decades later, spilling tawdry confessions of how awful it was not to fuck her, right? I mean, I’ve had friends who were just friends, and I don’t weep bitter tears about how “Oh, what I wanted was friendship, and that’s all I got?”
No. You started right off by lying. You figured hey, I’ll sneak in the friendship door, and then once I’ve fluffed the cushions in the friendship lobby I’ll mash that glowing button to Love Tower!
And it didn’t work out for you, did it?
Well, that’s because you were a crappy friend. And not just because you lied.
Because you sucked at being a person.
See, “friends” bring interesting shit to the table. When I get together with my friends, male or female or somewhere in-between, they tell me about the interesting things that happened to them. They recommend television shows I haven’t seen, talk about restaurants, have great stories that make me laugh. They go, “Ugh, that’s not for me” and they contradict me and we tussle and it’s fucking awesome.
What you did was to sit there, rabbitlike, and nod your head to everything she said.
I know you think you were a friend, but probably you were more like an unpaid valet; agreeing to everything she said no matter how stupid it seemed, doing all of her chores because that’s what friends do, contributing precisely nothing to her life except as a rug to walk on.
I mean, you couldn’t have offered any real useful advice, because your hidden agenda was “Sleep with me, sleep with me, sleep with me” and everything got filtered through that straining urge. And you probably didn’t bring up your interests, going, “Hey, let’s watch The Avengers,” because introducing your tastes might have hinted that you were incompatible, and we can’t have her disagreeing with you, can we? Just… stick to common ground.
So you ran all her errands, and went to those awful girl movies that nobody but you wanted to watch (and you hated), and listened to all her terrible music, and went shopping with her even though you fucking hated the mall…
And then you have the gall to get astonished when she got bored with you?
No, buddy. You weren’t a nice guy: you were a boring sack of Silly Putty, pressing yourself up against her and coming away as a warped reflection of her image. You were an empty space, a computer program that said “yes yes yes” no matter how stupid the question was, as predictable as a faucet: turn you on, and bullshit spilled out.
And when that awful plan collapsed, instead of concluding, “Say, suppressing my entire personality to try to appeal to someone else is a mug’s game,” you instead blamed it all on them and went, “THEY ONLY LIKE BAD BOYS!”
Cue the Barney Stinson transformation.
No. I know a lot of nice guys who date, and date well. They have opinions. They have their own agendas, new activities they can bring dates to and have them go, “Oh, I’ve never tried this!” They have things they won’t do, because sure, they’d love to help you move, but they have enough of a life outside of their date that they’ve promised to babysit or have a party they’ve committed to or something.
And they tell their partners what they want. Because they’re not ashamed of having wants.
What you were, son, was a box with a mirror in it. She kept opening you up and finding her reflection, something she’d seen a hundred times before. And chances are she secretly pitied you, inviting you along on these mall-expeditions not because you were her friend, but because she sensed your crushing loneliness and was hoping you might accrete an actual goddamned personality at some point.
The lesson here is not that “Women want bad boys,” but rather, “When presented with a choice between a cringing sack of suet and an asshole who can carry on his half of the conversation,” she’ll reluctantly choose the asshole. But there is a middle path, one I know many men have trod successfully, where they somehow manage not to treat women like shit and somehow still get laid.
Look, it hurts to be in the friend zone. No denying. I’ve had plenty of people I wanted to sleep with who found me unattractive, and it sucks. But when you went so far out of your way to make yourself soulless, uninteresting, and dispensable, you can’t complain about being placed in the friend zone when you did everything you could to put yourself there. You didn’t tell her you wanted to date right away, you didn’t stand up for yourself, and you didn’t tell her that if you can’t sleep with her, you don’t really want the friendship, you’ll just take it as some limp consolation prize.
And you never respected those women the way you claim. If you did, you wouldn’t be writing vitriolic essays years later on what stupid whores they were.
Sorry, buddy. You were the stupid whore. You sacrificed your self-esteem, your opinions, and your labor, masquerading as someone you weren’t in a vain attempt to entice a client into your boudoir… and you couldn’t even manage to do that.
Really, who’s the stupid one here?
Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.
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