UrbanUpdate

In the two years since the Internet became acquainted with the term “fuckboy” (in its most basic sense: a man who sleeps with women with no intention of dating them) (née: “fuccboi”) (spell it however you want!), some of these majestic specimens have become self-aware. There will always be people—all along the gender spectrum, not just men—with the main mission to get laid and gather no responsibility in the process, but some fuckboys have grown up. Some of them even have girlfriends.

But once a fuckboy, one can never consider himself “reformed” from his fuckboy ways and core. Instead, consider the Recovering Fuckboy: He’s on his way to being a better person—or, at least, to being in a monogam-ish relationship—but his dickish past still rears its ugly head. Sure, he was in a frat and burned bridges with every female barista in a 25-mile radius (which could explain his newly discovered love for Chemex), but he’s different now—he promises. (You can also use the term post-fuckboy.)

He’s not different. He’s still terrible but more self-righteous. Here’s how you know you’re a Recovering Fuckboy. Recognition, after all, is the first step to redemption.

He wears football T-shirts.

If the Classic Fuckboy (the 2010s-born iteration that will likely endure till Apple kills the typing awareness indicator) were a cartoon character, his everyday uniform would center around a deep-V cotton-jersey shirt. But once he learns and starts using phrases like “problematic” and “intersectional,” he moves on to the football T-shirt.

By design it covers more skin area—thus hiding swaths of painstakingly bronzed flesh and/or manly, pheromone-spiking chest-hair tufts—its stripes and structure are extremely flattering. The Recovering Fuckboy knows this and takes advantage of the colorblocking visual tricks the football tee affords, amping up visions of broad shoulders or a slimmed-down version of the beer belly. The football T-shirt also broadcasts an essential air of nonchalance and, given the bonus ripped-looking deception, it becomes a wardrobe staple for the Recovering Fuckboy. Just as it wasn’t an accident that I wore a tattered college-radio-station tee with a convenient tear just over my left boob to a party I knew my ex would be at, the Recovering Fuckboy did not stumble upon coupons for a three-pack of these genius T-shirts.

He gets pedicures and sends Tinder matches the Snapchats to prove it.

In an effort to further assert comfort in his own masculinity, the Recovering Fuckboy has unearthed the joys of paying a stranger to file one’s foot back into a foot shape. But what’s the good in spending money and time on an activity if there’s no semi-public video evidence? As such, he pairs his biweekly pedi with a series of Snapchats: some stories, but usually just snaps sent in premeditated increments to women he’s currently dating, about to date, or would like to date. Remember, recovery doesn’t mean recovered.

He brags about loving to give oral.Read MoreHow Real Women Want You to Go Downtown

Use your ears. (And your mouth, obviously.)

By Rae Witte

Selfishness is a hallmark fuckboy quality, so what better way to counteract than go 180? However—and this might be totally lost on the Recovering Fuckboy himself—dude is just after racking up points and proving the “overness” of his previous fuckboy lifestyle. He is not necessarily good at cunnilingus. He gets down there and then commits to that vagina like it’s an ice cream cone on a 96-degree boardwalk. (He may also stiffen his tongue to use like a syncopated penis during hetero vaginal sex.) Sessions last either 20 seconds or 20 minutes; there is little variance, but a lot of moaning.

He loves Drake.

The Recovering Fuckboy often mistakes awareness of one’s personal emotions as empathy—or worse, Being a Good Guy. He may also get drunk and quote too many John Hughes movies.

He watches at least two Instagram stories before responding to your text.

As part of the recovery process, the Recovering Fuckboy has abandoned his old four-hour rule for text-response rates. However, recovery isn’t going so well as to necessitate real-time responses. To fill up a reasonable amount of time before a measured reply, he’ll reacquaint himself with your charms by watching a couple of your stories on the ’Gram. The Recovering Fuckboy isn’t well-versed enough in technology to know that you know he watched. (Remember: It’s just a click to the left.)

He orders rosé at every bar.

Like public pedicures, this is a pleasant way to show sensitivity.

He makes pilgrimages to landmarks associated with Ernest Hemingway, Bob Dylan, Morrissey, etc.

He read a book, he listened to a record—first of all, congrats. The Recovering Fuckboy isn’t satisfied with enjoying a work of art in a finite sense. After all, no trip to his new favorite music festival (Pitchfork, obviously; Coachella and EDM are deeply basic) would be complete without popping by Hemingway’s birthplace (and museum!). Instead of working to further develop a personality, he leans heavily on accepted pillars of masculinity: the misogynistic, economical lyricisms of Hemingway; Dylan’s low-key yet persistent woman-blaming; Morrissey’s mystery and death euphemisms. Morrissey may be the least concerning of the three, though if you think he’s above the pettiness of sending cease-and-desists to random cross-stitchers on Etsy, think again. Other Recovering Fuckboy favorites include Bill Callahan, David Foster Wallace, and Ryan Adams.

He’s a master of smoothing conflict over iMessage

Annoyingly, the Recovering Fuckboy has retained at least one superpower from his actual fuckboy tenure: hyper-convincing text-based communication. If you need guidance smoothing over a misunderstanding—say, you’re late for drinks with an old friend while you’re in town and said friend is p-i-s-s-e-d—turn to your favorite Recovering Fuckboy. He'll feed you a highly effective excuse bedded in praise (“I lost track of time! But seeing you is important—can I buy the first round? You pick the place”). One day he'll run for office on a platform of "better than before doesn't actually mean good." He'll still win.

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