Though semtex despises the fuckboy and all he stands for like any last vestige of the romantic, she can also appreciate his purpose in the world. Like a mosquito or a fly, he is both utterly annoying yet somehow utterly essential to the circle of sexual life.
It might seem anathema to everything that I (and most women of sound body and mind) stand for, but the fuckboy, for as maligned as he gets, serves a purpose. That purpose, of course, being to service your pussy, even if it is typically only in a very marginal and largely dissatisfying way. He is there not to express emotional intelligence of any kind, which you should already be well-aware of going into the so-called endeavor of “being with him.” But a fuckboy can only be there in body and never in spirit. That's why he can so often be beneficial to a woman whose heart has recently been broken and/or fully scooped out to the point of no return. She can't get more involved than physically anyway lest she wreaks even further mental havoc upon herself and her potential new boo. A fuckboy may not be the brightest bulb, but he does have the unique ability-almost like a bloodhound for damaged goods-to sniff out when a woman is “like this.” It's the very thing that makes a fuckboy erect, knowing full well that emotional involvement isn't going to be an issue.
He hates that sort of thing, it makes him go from stiff to limp in zero to three seconds. And that's the last thing you want anyway. It's not worth the tradeoff of attempting to engage in any real mental capacity with this walking dildo you've managed to come across. And that is what they are, live action dildos that can, once in a while, bark phrases that are intended to make you feel a little less generic. But you always do anyway, what with the stock aphorisms of the fuckboy being so known as they are (e.g. “you up?”, “you're the only girl I talk to,” “Netflix and chill,” etc.–oh and then there's the modus operandi of him not responding to a text for several days). You can push it aside, however, so long as he's pushing it inside of you. For there's no better distraction from the pains of loss of the one you truly loved than refocusing that energy on the brief sentiment of “pure being,” as Isabelle Huppert in I Heart Huckabees (2004) would call it, that transpires during sex, even when it's not all that impressive, technique-wise.
So yes, the fuckboy is fundamentally diabolical, for there is so much plotting and manipulation behind his harmful to most actions. The thing is, if you use the fuckboy's heartless tendencies against him, it becomes a source of your own power–you've repurposed his heinousness to your own benefit. And sure, that means probably risking an STD (for he always manages to worm his worm dick out of a condom), but it also means taking the gamble on at least, for just one night out of the month–because he's probably going to turn to other pieces in his rotisserie throughout the rest of the month while he lets you, in his mind, pine away for that “virile dick” until he should so decide to bequeath you with its majesty again–not feeling total nothingness (mainly inside your vag).
Little does he know, you've taken a page from the fuckboy playbook and become a bit of a fuckgirl, stacking up options that amount to not even one good one–but still, they're options. No twenty-first century girl likes to feel confined by the limitations of just one choice. And so, in perhaps many ways, the modern woman has out-fuckboy'd the fuckboy. She doesn't need or want him just as little as he needs or wants her. Sexual interactions are no longer about lust, desire or any potential for those two to grow into love. It has instead become tantamount to a hygienic task–or, more accurately, like sneezing (already very similar to the look of a penis ejaculating anyway). It's just another thing to do, an itch to scratch. So thank you, fuckboys, for being so kind as to lend us the proverbial nail that is your pencil-like wang.