We've all clicked send when we shouldn't, especially to a fuckboy from far too long ago to even justify still having in your phone. In this Gendercidal, Semtex delves into the consequent discomposure that comes with that error.
For the purposes of this foray into the world of dating (or rather, casual encounters of the dissatisfying kind) shame, let it be known that “ancient” fuckboy in this context does not mean an old man, but some some little shithead you let enter your body long ago and subsequently somehow “forgot” to delete his number out of your phone knowing full well that holding onto it would inevitably come back to haunt you in some foul and humiliating way.
Of course, we all have, sentimental fools that we are, opted to sustain digits that hold the keys only to pain as opposed to pleasure. Though when we're in a certain state, we're so convinced that it will lead to the latter. Or, in the case of this bumbling hand, we can be totally sober and somehow end up conjuring the ghost of sexual indiscretions past.
To add insult to injury, he will pander to the expectation of fuckboy behavior by waiting about twenty-four hours or more to finally respond to you
It happened about a month ago. I was trying to text a friend back something snarky about flaking out on plans (reliable people are so hard to come by nowadays–it's just so much easier to shrug off formerly promised to engagements now that there are this many streaming options). Because I was doing it from iMessages on my computer, I was absently going back through old texts and deleting. In this process I came across an exchange between an ancient fuckboy and myself only to forget that I had left the cursor in that box instead of moving back to the fresher conversation with said friend. I think I typed something to the effect of, “Well consider myself taken off the menu.” When sent to the wrong person–specifically a bloke you've been tossed out by–it sounds like an especially psychotic non sequitur. A highly unexpected way to initiate a conversation that wasn't in any way beckoning to be started on the part of the ancient fuckboy.
To add insult to injury, he will pander to the expectation of fuckboy behavior by waiting about twenty-four hours or more to finally respond to you, with something as trivial and demeaning as, “What up?”–not even acknowledging the weird, illogical utterance you sent him through the strange system of SMS towers ultimately leading the message from your phone to his. Does he even care what you said? Or is it only a matter of gaining the slight sense of achievement from having “won” the contest called: “Who can stay silent the longest?” Obviously, not you. No, you're too desperate. Couldn't hack it in a world without his wang. At least, that's what he's led to glean from your pretend “accidental” text to him, which he will always see as intentional, even if it was a Freudian slip.
So you fall into the old pattern, start texting back and forth again, with his response times increasingly one-upping yours, as though to throw it back in your face that he–unlike you–has all the time in the world. Because he is a guy, and you are a woman whose clock is ticking (is that a fine line or a full-fledged wrinkle?). He doesn't need to be rushed, he can play this game forever if that's what you want to do yourself.
And when the parlance reaches the point of actually making plans for a face-to-face (read: genital-to-genital), you find the knots in your stomach turning evermore, for you know in your heart and in your ovaries that this rendezvous will not be right. That it will not give you what you are looking for even though it probably doesn't even exist: a meaningful connection to another human being who can also sometimes give you orgasms as an additional bonus to making you feel slightly less alone within the confines of this not so soothing amniotic sac called Earth.
So you do yourself a rare favor, exhibit an almost unprecedented sign of self-respect, and you cease texting full-stop before it can come to its only realistic final conclusion: you getting used like a receptacle with the inferable behavior following on his end being to ignore you just as he did before, now that he's made certain he still has some ineffable power over your pussy. But no, it's best that you remain in-F-able. And delete (or better yet, block) the only number that has done you more harm than the one in your bank account.