Move Over Fuckboys, The Bad Bitches Are in Town

I’ve been in long-term relationships and am not in a rush to get into another. For the first time in my life, I actually love being single. Not only do I solely belong to myself and always get to do whatever I damn well please *cough* drink *cough*, there is definitely a thrill in the game of it all.

But I haven’t always been this way. Dating can be absolutely brutal. I’ve had my heart broken, sobbed on the street and the subway and pretty much anywhere else you can possibly ugly cry in the tri-state area.

But over time, I had the realization that all New York City men are just strangers, to whom I owed nothing. I was liberated once I knew I had nothing to lose if I acted on every single one of my social impulses. Eventually, my self-consciousness subsided, I spoke my mind, flirted with who I wanted, fucked who I wanted.

I was the girl who used to be terrified to walk into a bar to meet a guy and have now written my number on countless receipts from hot bartenders and demanded that attractive men take tequila shots with me.

How do I do this you ask? By not giving a fuck. If they aren’t interested, on to the next one. If they don’t text me, it really doesn’t make a difference. I don’t know them, they don’t know me (and quite frankly, it’s their loss, I’m a great time). If you don’t throw shit at the wall, how is anything ever going to stick?

My friends would make jokes about my Google Calendar filled with dates, and at one point lovingly referred to my Upper East Side apartment as a brothel. But, at the end of the day, they were at home with a glass of wine watching reality TV, mindlessly swiping on their Bumble app, while some guy I met IRL was buying me a polite martini before going down on me on a Tuesday.

Someone once told me that Manhattan is one of the only cities where men have the power over women in the dating world. Probably because there are attractive, interesting, single women literally everywhere you turn. And it has taken me years, but I finally changed that stigma for myself. And now I think it’s time I spread the power of that thought to my fellow single ladies.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still subject to catching feels. After all, it’s basic science, we as women are wired to be emotionally invested in relationships, no matter how committed or fleeting they may be. Our generation has made it clear, at least in a city like New York, that monogamy can take the backseat for a while. And although I love cuddling and using the word *boyfriend* just like anyone else, we all gotta shake the need to be in a rush for the right guy.

Because guess what? Guys aren’t in a rush to do anything. They are focusing on their careers, their futures, and dating any girl that’s hot, convenient, and will throw themselves at them. It’s 2017 — there are no rules! When dating is this casual, you can actually go out with as many people as you want because it’s likely it won’t even come up in conversation with one of them for at least a couple of months.

And there is some truth to men having the power, because I’ve seen it with my friends and my past self: we cling to anyone that gives us attention. Guys don’t have to worry about that because there are always several other attractive women at any given time waiting for a text back from them. Call them fuckboys if you want, but girls, lets be real — if we had six guys checking their phones constantly for a text from us, we’d be playing the field, too.

So instead of calculating and drafting text messages to the guy you met at the bar last week or counting the minutes until you can watch his Snapchat story, it’s time you ditch the temporary obsession and adopt what I like to call the bad bitch mentality. Because how do you have time to worry about boys when you are a BAD BITCH? You don’t.

So how exactly do you adopt this mentality?

Living your best life. Seriously. There is nothing more attractive than a woman who is in love with her own life. Be busy! Don’t drop your list of priorities for one drink with one guy one time. Be better than that. Tell him when you’re available, and if it works, great. He should be so lucky.

So go do what you love. Kick ass at your job. Go to every bottomless brunch in the city with your girlfriends. Get a tan in the park. Try bougie work out classes to get a hot bod. Go shopping for a sexy outfit. Travel with your favorite person. Buy amazing bedding and finally get more than five hours of sleep a night. Call your family more. Get a cute dog that will always love you.

But most of all: STOP LOOKING AT YOUR DAMN PHONE WAITING FOR A FUCKBOY TO TEXT YOU.

Calling them out on their bullshit. Nothing catches a guy more off guard than a confident woman that can throw shit right back at them. I actually had a guy invite me to his Hamptons house after only one date last summer because of this. We were talking at a party for a while and when he asked me for my number, saying I should meet him at a bar later that night, I said, “I’m not interested in getting any ‘You up?’ texts tonight. Thanks though.”

His jaw dropped before he burst into laughter. Apparently he’s not used to girls being straightforward at first meeting. I did later give him my number and said I would not respond to any ‘fuckboy drunk texts.’ 11:00 AM the next morning, he asked me on a real date. A week after that I was in Easthampton with nine of his guy friends, drinking rosé, tanning on an inflatable swan.

Don’t buy his bullshit. Don’t smile and fake laugh. Deflate his ego juuuust enough. He will be into it. And if he’s not — you don’t wanna date him anyway.

Stalk, but don’t get caught. I totally understand not being able to get a guy out of your head. I mean, if anyone over six feet tall asks for my number I will probably know what year their grandmother died and who their best friend in college was within eight minutes of learning their last name. Technology has given us access to way too much information about each other, and it can sometimes be overwhelming and impossible to ignore.

I have probably creeped harder than you ever have. So if you’re sitting here thinking, man, I wanna be a bad bitch, but I don’t think I can stop checking his Instagram account — sister, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s available, it nags on us, and it is in fact, public. So sometimes you just have to look up his Venmo history to see if he’s actually still alive or just hasn’t texted you. I GET IT.

But the key point here is you cannot get caught creeping. Knowledge is power, but if they know you have that knowledge, you are immediately labeled a psychopath. My ex-boyfriend is such an idiot that he never changed his email password. Does he know I can still see what he orders on Amazon Prime? No. But that’s because I keep it to myself, like the normal little angel that I am.

I know endorsing creeping is silly, but I like to live in reality. And the reality is, we girls are completely crazy but just need to find ways to harness that energy to make it productive and empower ourselves.

Seeing that Amazon Prime order revealed that he’s still living with his parents, and I realized that maybe I don’t need to think about (creep on) a guy who is that much of a loser anymore. I logged out and haven’t looked back.

So if after the first date you find out on Facebook that his sister is best friends with your sorority sister’s cousin — don’t tell him. Let it come out in due time like a normal person. There is no reason to rush the details: play the game and play your cards only when it is appropriate. Be smart. Be a bad bitch who don’t give a fuck (even though you not-so-secretly deep down REALLY care a lot).

It’s not being fake. It’s not putting up a front. It’s living your life in a way that is most beneficial to you in the long run. The guy you’re supposed to be with will take notice if you can be happy independent of him. And the man who wants to come into your life only to add to it, not to distract you or tear you away from what’s already pretty amazing, is gonna be the kind you can drop your roster to be with. Anybody other than that is only good for a night. Or maybe four. Five max.

I don’t know, how hot is he?

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.