These days, there are plenty of heartthrobs to choose from. For the younger set, there’s the Jonas Brothers. For the more vampy amongst us, there’s Team Edward or Team Jacob. For my mom, there’s George Clooney and Patrick Dempsey. But for me, there was always one who rose above the rest, a statuesque vision with the face of an angel and a voice that could make any girl melt: John Mayer, of course.
As time passed, however, his angel’s face became more and more obscured by shadowy too-cool-to-shave stubble, and his velvety voice began to pick up notes of cigarette smoke and studied insouciance. Whispers began to surface of his womanizing ways, and his derogatory comments about past girlfriends appeared in major media outlets.
Despite growing hints of douchebaggery, I held on to my teenage vision of him, writing myself longingly into “Your Body is a Wonderland” and weeping over the “depth” of “Daughters.”
I stood by him as the tabloids panned his treatment of ex-girlfriends Jennifer Aniston and Jessica Simpson — both of whom are know known as poor, dried-up victims of cheating boyfriends — refusing to believe that someone capable of such sweet love songs could treat women so badly.
I put up with endless and irritating tweets about his sleeping habits, his love life and Miley Cyrus. (A personal favorite of mine: “Wouldn’t it be cool if you could download food?”). I even managed to live with the tattoo sleeve, customarily a major deal-breaker for me. But after years of looking the other way, his recent interview with Playboy forces me to finally admit it — John Mayer is a giant asshole.
Now that my eyes are open, the visions of my former crush’s douchebag ways won’t stop pouring in. In the interview, Mayer manages to paint himself as overly self-aware, misogynist, arrogant and racist all at the same time. He addresses the tabloids’ treatment of him, calling the stories “85 percent not true” and “social assassination.”
He attempted to compliment Playboy and other pornography by saying, “There have probably been days when I saw 300 vaginas before I got out of bed,” and claiming that his biggest dream is to write porn. In discussing his love life, he devalued every woman he has ever been with by saying that he “runs a filmstrip” of other women in his mind during sex. He insulted every single one of his ex-girlfriends, including Jessica and Jen; he bragged about the money he has made and the women he has bedded; he called one of his exes the n-word — the sickening list goes on and on.
Instantly after reading this interview, Mayer’s entire persona fell into place in my mind. Sure, he writes sticky-sweet melodies about romance, and he scrunches up his face in that too-cute way when he sings, but at the end of the day, he’s no better than the rest of them — in fact, he’s worse.
He gives off the initial impression of being sensitive, deep, insightful — in short, a perfect boyfriend — but, upon closer inspection, he’s the worst guy you’d ever want to date. He’s cocky; he’s obsessed with himself, and he has absolutely no qualms about stepping all over women and then bragging about it.
His type is dangerous — it’s not only celebrities like Jen and Jessica who have fallen for his sensitive-rocker act. Every girl who has ever loved him as I did, who has listened to his misleading melodies through every breakup, make-up and make-out, who has defended him through all his media missteps and misogyny, has been through the same abusive relationship. Well, ladies, I am finally putting my foot down. It’s over, John Mayer.
Original Author: Amanda First