Challenge #00059: Nice Guy Syndrome
Anywhere in the story: “Fate, it seemed, had a sadistic cruel streak in regards to his love life.”
There had been Jodie. First love. Perfect tits. Perfect ass. Perfect smile. And a perfect already-boyfriend who was five times his size and really, really territorial. He paid for her in bruises and blood, and just when he thought he was going to get luckier than he ever believed, she set him up for a very public humiliation.
Jodie was also the perfect bitch.
His next crush was Tiff. Tiff had a wild streak, just like the purple streak she put into her auburn hair. She wore her skirts short and had legs that went for miles. She always smiled at work, but when he caught her off-duty, she always had other plans.
Plans that were lies.
He believed her, and always found out that she was somewhere else and usually alone. He knew because he started following her. Started surprising her at the places she liked to be. Boring, staid places that no real wild child would go.
Bitch sent him to sensitivity training and got him fired.
Still, he learned something. He learned that you had to play it slow and careful. Girls were always taught to be on guard. You had to get past their defenses. Be nice.
He was nice to Clara. Always thinking of her as she slaved away at being everyone else’s outbox. Always offering to fetch her coffee, snacks. Always offering to do some of her tremendous workload. He invested his time. Made her laugh.
Then the bitch put him in the friend zone. Tried to set him up with her ugly friends.
He turned the dial up, tried to make it clear to her that he wanted more. Flowers. Chocolates. Jewelry.
Bitch somehow got him fired.
He tried speed dating. Those girls had to be some kind of desperate to speed date. He quickly found out that they were also the kind of sluts who had dated at least twice, before.
He tried the clubs. The most action he got was laughter in his face or a drink following the same destination.
He even tried online dating. None of the bitches he contacted ever emailed him back. And some of them used to be dudes. Euw.
Fate, it seemed, had a sadistic cruel streak in regards to his love life.
He found solace in alcohol next to a big, muscly dude at the local bar. The bitches that came and went behind the counter never smiled for him and almost always called him names.
The TV showed some kind of fatspo dating service informercial infotainment thing that would not fucking stop.
“Fat fucking skanks need to loose a few pounds,” he said into his beer.
“She ain’t all that fat,” said the big dude. He had an amazingly high voice for his height.
“Still needs to get the gap going on. And better tits. And a better face.”
“Pot, kettle, black…” muttered the big dude.
“What?” he turned on his stool. “How is my body that any of your business?”
“Bet she’d say the same thing,” the guy gestured with his brew to the screen.
“She’s just another bitch in a world of bitches,” he downed more beer. After his life, he needed beer.
“Ugh,” said the big dude. “Let me guess. You’re a nice guy. You should get what you want because you do the things that anyone calling themselves a human being would do. Meanwhile, you call anyone with breasts a ‘bitch’ or a 'whore’ and wonder why they don’t like you.”
“They don’t like me because they’re bitches.”
“Of course…” the dude rolled his eyes. “And it has nothing to do with your flabby ass, your pasty face, or your creepy attitude.”
“What? I’m in great shape.”
“Pft! Yeah. For a freaking marshmallow. Ever think that women want someone who looks better than you, who acts better than you, who is actually better than you?”
“But those guys are all jerks!”
“Maybe they’re just jerks to you.” Big Dude drained his mug. “Because you’re being a creep to a lady.”
“And what do you know about it?”
Dude turned towards him and unzipped her jacket.
“You’re a girl?”
“Try to say that with less of a sneer,” she advised. “'Bitches’ hate it when you pronounce their gender with a sneer.”
“Did you used to be a man, or what?”
“No, I come from a long line of tall people and I took up muscle-building so I could fend off all the transphobes out there who judge by looking. Listen up, 'nice guy’… You’re not nice. All those 'bitches’ out there who keep turning you down? They can tell. Us ladies have some finely-tuned bullshit detectors and you send them all off into the red lines.”
“That’s crap! If that was true, no real man would ever get laid!”
She laughed. “Attitude like that just leaves you in the Forever Alone club. And for your information, I’ve met plenty of real men. None of them were like you.”
“Slut,” he sneered.
“I said 'met’, genius. Not 'slept with’. A real man views a lady as more than her physical parts. A real man 'gets lucky’ when he finds his one true love and settles down with them. A real man thinks of a woman as a person first.” she sighed. “But you already believe I’m a 'tranny’ with issues. You won’t listen and you won’t learn. Too bad for you.”
She tipped the waitress, who winked and gave her a thumb’s up. Probably a lesbian.
“MOMMY!”
He stared. Three gleeful children ran to hug the muscly mountain. They were clearly hers. The man following them was also clearly their father.
But… he was tubby. And pale. And balding. And a geek.
This was a real man?
“So how was the meeting?” said the alleged real man.
“You don’t want to hear about boring old biker stuff, do you?”
“Yeeeesss,” chorussed the kids.
“We missed it,” said the 'real man’. “If it wasn’t for Vicky’s sniffles, we’d have been there.”
He couldn’t understand. Listening to a woman talk? Was that all it took? But no, that shit landed him in the friend zone. What the hell.
“I see you found another Nice Guy.”
“Yeah. He won’t learn.”
“Pity.”
[Muse food remaining: 7. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]