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Even “good guys” are guys nonetheless.

And you can quote me on that one.

We’ve all seen it.  The quintessential “good guy”, with his sharp wardrobe, winning smile, and extensive vocabulary. Or maybe he has a lucrative job, a respectable major, sizable ambition, a habit of talking about the kind of woman he wants to marry, and the tendency to go to church on Sundays. More often than not, he’s got a decent face and a more-than-decent body (not always, but there seems to be a pattern).  And more often than not, there are girls of every color, creed, complexion, hair type, education level, and moral compass swooning over him.  Why, you might ask? Because he’s got something special.  I call it the “Bring Home To Mama (And Maybe Even Daddy) Factor”.

This quality is much coveted among the female species, because, as we get older, our inner Sandra-Dee/Bella Swan dies; we start to see the Danny Zukos and Edward Cullens for what they really are: deadbeat druggies and sparkling idiots who peaked in high school.  We lose the desire to piss off dear-old-Dad, because, let’s face it, someone’s gotta pay that tuition bill on the 15th of the month. And Mom has transformed from a raving lunatic who doesn’t understand us and wants to ruin our lives into one of our closest friends.  We’ve learned by now that the bad boy isn’t just called that because he wears a leather jacket, has a sleeve tattoo, or rides a motorcycle; he also smokes lots of weed (and possibly crack-cocaine), either cheats often or accuses us of the same thing (while simultaneously cheating on us), has a couple of baby-mamas, and has come painfully close to putting his hands on us a few times.

The “good guy” represents to us safety, security, and a drama-free, picket-fenced happy home one day in the future.  Which is why we are utterly blindsided when he has us drinking Captain Morgan out of a champagne glass, while sitting in the bathtub crying to Adele’s “Don’t You Remember”, or going on livid Twitter rants because we just knew he would be different, and he proved us wrong.

He wasn’t supposed to make us feel like we’re special because we’re beautiful and stylish and have a good head on our shoulders, and then like the campus hoe’s profile picture on Facebook.  He wasn’t supposed to lie about his relationship status, and then trick us into helping him cheat on his girlfriend. He wasn’t supposed to only hit us up when he’s drunk or during Booty Call Hours (12am-3am) pretending that he just wants to study or “hang out”, then playfully pin us on the bed, have “one thing lead to another”, and make us swear that we won’t tell anyone in the morning.  He wasn’t supposed to be the one with nudes of big-titted, big-assed, okay-faced females in his phone.  He wasn’t supposed to be the one with the drinking problem and the tendency to call us “fat”, “ugly”, “worthless”, or “a whore” when he gets inebriated.  He wasn’t supposed to try to hook up with one of our best friends behind our backs, because he thinks we’ll never find out.

The “good guy” was supposed to be looking for his counterpart, the “good girl”, who doesn’t show cleavage during business hours, works out for herself, loves children, wants to own her own business one day, and tweets Bible verses every once in a while.  Or at least the “cool girl”, who listened to Kendrick Lamar before everyone else found out about him, makes Youtube makeup tutorials, is an avid basketball fan, likes to draw in her free time, and can rock a pair of five-inch heels like a Victoria’s Secret model.  He was supposed to rise above his unstable home life, not repeat it.  He was supposed to be patient, and sensitive, and faithful, and sweet, and honest, and willing to wait until we were ready.

But therein lies the fallacy of the “good guy”.  We, as females, tend to forget that at the end of the day, even “good guys” are guys nonetheless. If he’s anatomically male, he’s likely to be mentally male also; and, if we’re being honest, that pesky pecker controls just as much of his behavior as his brain.  (Quite often, he adopted all of his “Bring Home To Mama” qualities with the intention of attracting girls who would be blindly drawn in by them, and wouldn’t expect such regular guy antics.)

While the blunt masculinity of his species is welcomed in some cases, it can also be a disappointing reminder of a sad truth that I’m learning very quickly this year: the all around “good guy” is probably a myth.  Guys are guys, that’s it.  When it comes to patterned behavior, there is no hierarchy.  ”Bad boys” may surprise us just as much as good ones; anyone is capable of doing anything.

I’m not writing this from a place of bitterness, I promise.  This is not a “Niggas ain’t shit!” rant.  The funny thing is, I’m actually not bitter about this discovery at all; I’m just a realist.  My aim with all of this is to simply dispel the rumor that these “Bring Home To Mama” types operate on some sort of moral higher ground from the rest of their male colleagues, in hopes that it will save some of you the shock and chagrin that I’ve endured in the past.  I’m not suggesting that you never trust another “good guy” again.  But don’t be fooled by his exterior.  He might just be a plain old, lying, cheating, baby-having, “options”-exploring, relationship-disrespecting, notch-on-his-bedpost-having, booty-call-making, “The only thing better than pussy is new pussy,”-quoting guy cleverly disguised as an articulate, bowtie-sporting, pre-med student who writes spoken word poetry, listens to gospel music, and claims to love the movie Love & Basketball.

Just .. don’t get too comfortable.


About ciceflyyest

If I told you about myself right now, next week it would be a lie. I have so much to learn yet, so much to do, and so much to share.


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