I’m a (former) Nice Guy
I’m a nice guy. Ewww. That’s a sour phrase today.
I’m a nice guy. = I’m too insecure or deceitful to admit I just wanna bang.
As if being nice, or you know, a decent human being, ever got some one laid.
I never realized that’s what I was doing and suddenly (to me anyway) be placed firmly in the “friend zone”. (Another term I hate but that’s a different story.) And it’d piss me off. I’d be like, “How DARE you!” Rather embarrassing and being thirty-five, kind of pathetic.
(IDGAF if you don’t think that’s pathetic. Turning thirty-five and still too afraid or, too dubious, to get your point across to whichever sex you find attractive, should be a giant red flag that something (read: you) needs to change.)
It was surprising how and where it dawned on me that I was being a con, even to myself. I found out at work when the lady-in-question flat-out stated, “Oh, you’re one of those nice guys”.
At first I was offended by the remark but I had to think, “Was I being one-hundred percent honest with my intentions to this woman?”
I wasn’t.
