In an age when toxic masculinity has been more typically connected with blatant, aggressive violations, the softboi (or softboy) often flies under the radar. He has a non-threatening aesthetic — a pastel-toned alpaca grandfather sweater, a weathered copy of The Second Sex in his back pocket — which appears to be a rejection of traditional masculinity and all it stands for. His personality seems to match, at least upon first encounter. In embracing this “softer” look, the softboi’s persona screams, “I’m your antidote to basic male bullshit.” Or so he’d like you to believe.
You’ve likely encountered this elusive breed of male and thought he was one of “the good ones.” Perhaps he captivated you with his offbeat interests, fake emotional openness, ability to play the harpsichord, and far-off, tormented stare. It’s only after you’re completely hooked by the softboi that you learn he just exists to lord his “authenticity” over everyone and drain all he can from an admirer before moving onto the next, like the succubus he is.
He’s a wolf in sheep’s pink-tinted organic clothing. He’s the fuckboi’s cousin, who wised up and changed the game to confuse his prey.
So how can you keep these laborious dudes from infringing upon your life? Here are some telltale softboi signs to keep an eye out for:
He vehemently hates on any and all mainstream culture and ends each diatribe with “But to each his own.”
He refers to himself as a sapiosexual.
Ayn Rand and Gloria Steinem quotes litter his Tinder profile.
He points out the “unspoilt beauty” of modernist architecture every time you go out.
The simple act of listening to music with him turns into a guest lecture on the modern influence of ragtime.
He smokes real cigarettes because e-cigarettes “represent inauthenticity.”
Every other pair of jeans he owns once belonged to his sister or mom.
His middle name is Wyeth, Turner or Hopper, and yes, his parents did that intentionally to inspire creative genius from birth.
He works in media.
He’ll write you 2,000 words over Instagram Messenger on his recent “breakthrough” in therapy, when he realized that his mother’s coddling has made him overly needful of love and acceptance. Then he’ll ghost you for a month.
He carries his grandfather’s pocket watch because it’s the only thing he has that can’t be replaced.
His family summered in an obscure European town throughout his high school career (and he says “summered” and “high school career” un-ironically).
He’s working on a screenplay that’s “too elevated for mainstream audiences, but may get some recognition on the festival circuit.”
He references Proust excessively and inaccurately.
He frequently patronizes you, then compliments you for calling him on it, then bulldozes you for being insensitive.
Yes, he’s seen the latest exhibit at whichever’s the trendiest museum right now. In fact, he goes every month, so why hasn’t he seen you there?
Instagram is his hunting ground. For example, he probably found a black-and-white photo you took of a random vase three years ago and used that to offer you a lesson in chiaroscuro lighting over espresso and a few vintage 45s.
His last seven photos on Instagram are of him at various women-centric rallies with his arm around at least one attractive female rally-goer.
He blatantly judges you for liking Almost Famous and can’t fathom why you haven’t seen Reservoir Dogs — a.k.a. the “perfect film.”
He has a hat rack outfitted with no less than six slightly different newsboy hats and an elaborate story about the “soulful women” who gifted him the last one.
There is nothing else in his apartment other than a mattress, a mirror, and a box of saltines. Oh, and the $4,000 drone he just bought to shoot his documentary on urban sprawl.
His Tinder profile says that he loves animals and frequenting cat cafes but that he won’t adopt one, because “animals weren’t made to be owned.”
He guilt-trips you into giving money to the crowdfund for his documentary but balks when you give him shit for ignoring the homeless man on his block.
One of his tattoos is a Dorothy Parker quote, but he can’t tell you what poem or book it’s from.
His hair is and always will be tousled and longer than two inches.
He’s Timothée Chalamet.
