I Hate Being A Beautiful Man

You might think that being called — casually, by everyone from strangers to acquaintances to near-lifelong friends of both genders — that you are “a cutie,” “pretty,” “handsome,” “really good-looking,” “alpha male,” “Scottie Too-Hottie,” “babestation express,” etc., would be flattering and wonderful, and I get that, I don’t wish to be ugly or mediocre-looking but the thing is — if I’m really being honest with you — the real honest truth is that it’s also kind of a complete drag.

Have you ever sat next to someone on a train and he or she immediately got up and switched seats as if you had the Buonic plague or something? That has never happened to me. I literally never have an open seat next to me ever because it’s immediately taken and usually there’s awkward and excessive attempts at eye contact occurring shortly after.

My speeding tickets are all waived as soon as the officer — doesn’t matter if male or female, gay or straight — gets a look at me. A smile and some crack about “just be careful next time” and I’m free to go. I’d like to follow rules like a normal human being, but unfortunately that’s impossible for me because I’m such a Hunky Harry.

I’m almost 26 now and I feel like I’ve barely had a chance to grow and develop in my career because I keep getting promotions I haven’t earned. I have recurring nightmares that my boss will invite me into his office one day and — with an overly friendly smile on his face and maybe a hand on my thigh — tell me that he is bequeathing the entire company to me because I’ve done “suuuuuch a good job” even though, truth be told, I’m an average employee at best. This isn’t what I graduated first in my class from Harvard for — I want to earn my success.

As you can probably imagine, I do well with the ladies but, I gotta say, it’s the thrill of the chase, as we all know, and for me it’s more like the fish are hopping right into the boat — soooo many fish! If I had a dollar for every miniskirted hot-to-trotter threw her unmentionables at me like it was disc golf and I’m the basket, well — I’d be able to afford a second penthouse apartment in TriBeCa. Women squeeze my butt, make alarming amounts of eye contact, flat-out ask if I want to have sex in the bathroom, alley, taxi because they “just can’t wait” — I mean, I’m turning slightly red in the face just remembering the thousands of times complete strangers have practically begged me to “horizontal mambo.”

Even my own parents treat me better than any of my six siblings. Unfortunately my siblings’ physical appearances range from “meh” to “busted,” and so when it comes time for Christmas presents or really any time I see my parents for any reason, I always get thrown a couple extra hundred dollars, never get yelled at, and just generally am treated like their pride and joy simply because I happen to be the only one of their kids who’s a total Panty-Dropper Pete.

I’ve been hit on by grandmas, traffic cops, lesbians, and chubby fathers. I’ve been hit on by Mickey Rourke (this was at Cannes (gay men fly me to France at least once a year); I politely declined).

What is it going to take for people to finally take me — and really, beautiful men everywhere, because I speak for all you bodacious bobbies — what is it going to take for people to stop treating us like big, firm, juicy slabs of steak? I’ve had enough laurels, I’ve relished enough punani for six lifetimes, I’m financially secure for life — when, tell me when, will I find real love and real respect, when all anyone sees when they look at me is “yes please.com.” I might cry actual tears if one more 10/10 college girl invites me back to her dorm room to “watch a movie or something.”

I get it. I’m hot. Can we move on? Thought Catalog Logo Mark

About the author

Charlie Morrigan

More From Thought Catalog