Dating, fuckboys and big D(opamine) energy
Some people throw themselves out of planes to get a rush, I tend to romantically fixate on questionable men.
After my last essay about a February fling, I received messages from far and wide; some in the form of voice notes from people I’ve never met; DM’s from friends of friends and emails from both women and men. (This reminds me, if you like what you read here please share and comment below so that everyone can read your thoughts. It will really help grow my readership.)
Anyway, the general feedback referred to relative feelings of longing and desire, also the pitfalls of online dating and how exhausting it can be.
Someone said the essay reminded them of the movie “Cat Person,” another asked if Chris’ real name was Fabio, and a writer in an open relationship asked me out for a drink saying, “I’ll think of somewhere with good Campari Sodas.”
But the word that continuously popped up was, surprisingly, dopamine.
Dopamine, as we know, is a chemical reaction triggered in the brain by having any kind of novel experience - including things we enjoy; from eating chocolate to playing sports, using recreational drugs to dancing all night, scrolling social media to sex.
I’m no scientist, (I’m an experimentalist) but I think I understand the connection between dating and dopamine.
Dating sets off dopamine bursts, especially in the early days.
I mean we all like having a crush; receiving texts along the lines of “Send nudes” at 6.30 in the morning can set a nice tone for the day.
Dopamine is similar to adrenaline but while some people throw themselves out of planes to get a rush, I tend to romantically fixate on questionable men.
“You’re sweet,” I said to the writer in an open relationship when we went for Campari Sodas.
“But you don’t like that, do you?” He said, referring to my February romance.
I tried to explain that it’s not that I don’t want a sweet man.
The fact that he was sweet made no difference to what transpired/didn’t transpire between us that night, the dopamine levels were still moderately high.
I suppose at this moment in time, for me, fuckboys are just more exciting.
And what or who is to blame?
Sometimes I think it could be due to the media I was consuming in my teenage years which glamorised fuckboy behaviour. I was obsessed with Marlon Brando’s character in A Streetcar Named Desire, I idolised Jean-Paul Belmondo in Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless and found myself pining over Dean Moriarty when I read On The Road.
A darker perspective has me wondering if the origins of my penchant for unreliable men is based on a toxic relationship I experienced when I was 18.
I get annoyed by people telling me to “Stop dating fuckboys.” There’s a special place in my heart for them and not all elements of them are bad; in fact there are many things they seem to do right.
Maybe this is why it’s a hard cycle to break out of; once you have started down the fuckboy route it becomes familiar and without realising it you are drawn to the same traits.
If it’s what you’re used to, there is safety in uncertainty, which in my case is supported by a habitual fear of weekly date nights to Pizza Express and matching slippers.
Sam from the van.
When I first moved to Berlin I met a guy called Sam who I came to call Sam from the van.
I was walking home from work after being in the city for only two weeks. I didn’t know a soul and was planning an exciting evening spent cleaning my bathroom. When he cycled past me, we locked eyes. I remember feeling exposed in the expression on my face but thought nothing of it, until he came back up behind me.
We were neighbours, he said and would I like to get a drink that night?
I agreed and half way through cleaning my bathroom he texted me. A few minutes later we were walking with beers around the church behind my apartment. Here we are, he said when we arrived outside a large old Mercedes van. He opened the doors to a perfect, compact apartment complete with a hand painted oven. I was not phased by the van, after all it was vintage, immaculate and painted a soft caramel tone.
After we climbed in and he started to close the doors I protested but he told me he didn’t want anyone to see that he was living there. “If you feel scared,” he said while locking the heavy doors, “you can escape through here” and lifted up a hole in the floor.
For some reason, I was reassured and we spent the evening dancing between his oven and the fold out dining table.
Thereafter began a short but casual relationship. Sam was from Switzerland and wore a rolex with his initials embossed on it. Each time we parted, I didn’t know when I would see him again. Week by week I would see his van outside my apartment before hearing my buzzer go. He would come inside, spend time with me and use my bath. We talked about books because he wanted to know about the female authors I liked. He had long blonde hair which I enjoyed playing with. I remember one morning he was singing along to L’idole by Jacques Dutronc while we lay in bed. It lasted for 6 months.
Sometime towards the end I received a voice note saying, “I’m long gone from Berlin, by the way. I don’t know what you think of me, maybe you think I’m a fuckboy but maybe you’re a fuckgirl too.”
He went on to say that he was happy he met me and that I helped him grow.
I sat on my balcony replaying that message, realising that I didn't even know his second name.
Maybe I am a fuckgirl
It’s hard dating at this point in time. We are exposed to so much information, so many different terms; Fuckboys, dopamine, toxicity etc. There are countless instagram accounts which urge you to delete and block if the guy you are dating doesn’t text back within 5 minutes. Dating seems to thrive on expectations and dopamine, the danger comes when we let our imagination fill in the gaps.
“But can you have fuckgirls?” Chris (aka Crazy Chris) asked me recently as we discussed this piece. “Yes,” I told him.
A fuckboy, according to the Urban Dictionary, is a player; “A boy who plays with girls' feelings, doesn't really like them and would say anything a girl wants to hear to have sex with them or to get something they want. Fuckboys know what girls want to hear but they hurt so many girls. Once they are a fuckboy, they always will be a fuckboy. If you know a guy is a fuckboy, don’t fall for him.”
But is a fuckboy an urban myth? There is also an urban myth that dopamine is addictive but according to science, it’s not.
Back in the day a fuckboy was known as a player or a cad.
Until Sam suggested to me that I could be a fuckgirl, it had never occurred to me.
Maybe fuckboys are just chronically unsure of what they want and I think as women we are predisposed to feeling used and inclined to use words like fuckboy because anatomically it feels as though we are always on the receiving end of our dates.
But I think it is important to rephrase this or to look at it instead as choosing to take someone in. Words like fuckboy contribute to the patriarchal narrative that women are damsels in distress.
In contemplating fuckgirls, at least we are placed on an even playing field. Women are allowed, believe it or not, to make their own choices.
Eyes wide open
There's a saying that every time you meet a stranger you meet a new side of yourself. I believe this.
Amidst the giddy waves of dopamine dating, I refuse to judge my crushes or myself too harshly. I can’t consider myself used if I’m happily, blissfully aware of what I’m doing and why. Afterall, we’re all just trying to live.
If this makes me a fuckgirl, so be it. There’s an obsession in this society with romantic love, labels and lasting forever. But I love meeting different people and falling into an intoxicating rush. I love learning something new about myself each time.
I love that it could be a transient moment or it could last forever.
And I love that I’m finally starting to realise, I’ll be just fine either way.
This piece was edited by the brilliant
.