What It’s Like Dating A Con Artist, Because It’s Worse Than A Fuckboy

“You never truly know who someone is or their intentions until you are no longer in their vision”

Players or fuckboys, whichever term you’re pleased to use, are obvious and predictable. They smooth you over with cheesy lines, sway you with their flirty mannerisms, and instantly call you beautiful. Luring you in with their ever-so attractive, unforgettable scent that only lasts a night or two; not even long enough for it to linger onto your clothes.

Con artists are different in more ways than anyone can imagine, with the main point being—you don’t see it. You in no way, shape, or form could have predicted their intentions were disingenuous the entire time. Refutal becomes your best friend as you reexamine reality.

What makes con artists the best thieves of love is their determination. They are so well equipped with what multiple different kinds of women want in a man and morph into their words like Ditto from Pokémon.

It will start with their calm effort, showing interest immediately but not eagerly. They’ll take you on a date, and be utterly respectful as they should be. Opening doors, dancing with maturity, firmly gripping hands that feel a little too comfortable.

You’ll be intimate in many ways, but not all ways. Sharing warmth, words, and water with that person become so randomly symbolic and meaningful—I mean, who else would you want to experience it with in that moment?

Then comes meeting important people in their life and citing how “incredible they think you are”, though you never caught the vibe. Even with ones you’ve never met, they somehow instantly loved you through his tales of admiration.

Mentions of insecurities become the easiest target, as they make themselves align with your insecurities. You’ll mention the unhappiness with your body weight, and they’ll shame themselves just so you fall in love with the parts of them they purposely disgrace.

They’ll make you fall in love with every flaw they tell you of themselves, and reply with an over-the-moon reaction, essentially carrying you around like their bride-to-be since they’re “overjoyed” of your acceptance towards them.

You’re softly blindsided by promises, largely plugged pupils, and effortless conversations, making you susceptible for their final bow. The curveball will square your jaw. They’ll become as distraught as you are in the moment, even crying, pushing the “I care” and “I’m sorry” as if they overused the cassette tape.

And that’s just the thing: it’s a cassette tape. They’ve used this before—before you and will after you. Their words become as vacant as their heart. Even after time passes, the answers for closure all concur back to the day you initially broke up, making it all too familiarized.

The relationship could have moved slow like a snail or become a breeze of wild love; there’s no time limit for these plays. It’s simply when they’ve grown bored of one game, and are internally fueled for a new challenge.

The sad thing is that their next challenge will match your hurt eventually, but you can’t show them the blueprint beforehand, even if you still hear that cassette tape running in the back.

Sometimes, they don’t plan to hurt you. Sometimes, they don’t plan to have gotten as involved as they did, getting lost down the feelings path. But in the end, it doesn’t matter because you don’t know who they were to begin with.

True colors prevail in the quality of their departure, through and through.

And no one wants that. No one expects that. All anyone wants in this world is love and to be loved, and so, if you’re treated well and right, is there really a way to tell?