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I wrote a poem for a girl once. I had to. She was a sackful of gorgeousness. I left it on the books she studied at the library so she’d find it when she got back to the table. I bolted, of course. Never saw her again. I mean, who can stick around after doing something like that? What would I have done, just sat there across from her with some dorky grin, waiting for acknowledgment? But I did it, anyway. I wish I’d’ve kept a copy of that poem because now I wonder what the hell I wrote. I loved doing that kind of stuff. Wouldn’t it be a great world if a guy could go around telling women how pretty they are?
That’s partly why I didn’t want to get married. Then I wouldn’t be able to pull stunts like that. Wives aren’t too crazy about husbands expressing admiration for other women. They’re totally onboard when their man is gaga about them, but once vows are exchanged, a man’s genetic structure is supposed to completely rearrange and permit the perception of only one beautiful woman. It’s like listening to only one instrument in the orchestra. Husbands and boyfriends don’t like that stuff either—the beaus of the women you compliment, I mean. So it’s really a young man’s game, I guess—this business of randomly praising attractive women. Exclusivity ruins it, so you enjoy it while you can.
I have to say, though: I always felt kind of shameful about attraction. I dated this girl once with really bulbous breasts. They were these glorious capsules of femininity. So glorious, in fact, that I couldn’t deal with it. I kept asking myself how I’d feel about her if she didn’t have button poppers. Would I like her as much? What was I really in it for? And what did that say about me? I had to end it. Too much sex appeal. Then I felt like real scum, because that’s as shallow as rejecting a girl for not having giant jigglies. You can’t win.
What’s the cure for that, anyway? Should I have started conversations with unattractive girls to prove my deep character? Would that have been fair to the ladies? I had to wonder if all romantic relationships were built on something as biological as lust. That’s why I could never approach a pretty girl. I always imagined walking up to her feeling nothing but shame as I put on display for all the world just how oozing with infatuation my actions were. “Hitting on” women felt so transparent. That’s why my style was to leave anonymous poems for the beauties. It got me nowhere, but that’s where the merit was—there was nothing in it for me. No reward whatsoever beyond the picture in my head of an unsuspecting goddess finding my offering of verbal incense and filling with glee.
You think I made things worse for the pretty ones? I often considered what it must be like to carry on your person such elegance. Such raw sexual power. Fine-looking women must not be able to get far without being confronted by how much men desire to mate with them. Because let’s get real here for a minute: that’s what visual appeal is for a man—it’s a signal to his brain that a woman would make a pleasing sex partner. I don’t care how polite you make it. I don’t care if a seven-year-old boy has the hots for a video game character; it means that her visual cues set off a chain reaction in his mind that identifies a bedmate. That’s how evolution set it up. I’m not saying a kid can act on it, or even that he knows it’s happening, but on some level he recognizes sexual bait pretty early on. Anyway, I figured physically appealing women are bombarded by signs of just how much men want their bodies. You can’t tell me it doesn’t go to a girl’s head. So there’s a good chance that any looker you see has it firmly lodged in her attitude that she’s a superior creature, commanding Mother Nature’s charms like a witch at her cauldron.
What these bombshells don’t suspect, as they saunter across the Earth, is that while nature elevates their bodies, it does so at grave harm to their personalities. Did you ever notice that supremely gorgeous women always seem to flaunt it? There’s just something in their disposition that says, “Yes, your vision is fine: I really am this good-looking.” That always spoiled it for me. If your looks make you feel that superior, then sure—you might produce great magazine photos—but you’re not actually a beautiful person. Being in a relationship with a woman like that must be like showering praise on a suit of armor. You’re bursting to tell her how pleasing you find her, but every time you do, it bounces off. No effect. She already thinks she’s Helen of Troy. For your compliments to make a difference, she has to be somewhat unsuspecting. A man gets pleasure from telling a woman she satisfies him, but it needs to make an impact—to make her feel flattered and special. It doesn’t if he’s just number eleven thousand to profess awe. Get in line, buddy. She’s already heard it all.
I don’t think women like that age well, either. As nature slowly recalls their borrowed beauty, they gradually lose their identities until one day they don’t know who they are. They’ve spent so long priding themselves on their pretty outer shell that they lose all sense of self-worth without it. They spend their mature years reminiscing of the glory days and lamenting their loss.
Now, I’m not saying a woman shouldn’t be confident. Actually, a woman being comfortable in her own skin is the primary element of sexiness. That’s what people don’t get. Sure, physical features matter to a degree, but what truly makes an impression is the willingness to let the world encounter an authentic and dignified being. That’s what’s alluring. So few women have this quality that everyone assumes that those who do are the ones who wield the best physical features. Women try to emulate an appearance when what’s really seductive is the confidence—the audacity to smile and say, “This is what I am.”
All the hype over looks was wrapped up in one of the fundamental elements of human nature I hated: that romantic relationships were built on such a flimsy foundation. If we were pure spirits, our bodies wouldn’t get in the way all the time. We’d be free to interact using nothing but personality. I wouldn’t have spent so much time feeling enslaved to wide, curved hips or round, perky ass cheeks. And I wouldn’t have worried that I was too motivated by lusty hankerings to be a good person.
At least I widened my appreciation of physical beauty, though. I used to have a pretty narrow taste in women. But over the years, I really grew to embrace variety. You know what really did it for me? Pornography. Well, that’s what they call it, but that’s such an ugly word for such a blissful thing. Say what you want about it, but I think it provides a valuable service in today’s world. Without it, men go nuts and get themselves into some really unbecoming situations. It really opened me up to the wonders of female diversity, and I learned to value various physical traits, body types, and ethnicities. Some people say smut solidifies a narrow definition of beauty by glorifying only certain types of women, but my love for the female body wasn’t limited to the mainstream material. I found my way to all kinds of beauty, and I loved it all. A bare woman is a wondrous one.
With this mentality, I started to see beauty practically everywhere. And it wasn’t just charming faces, bulging boobs, or commanding hips. Don’t get me wrong—those are great, and I know women today resort to surgery to get those if nature doesn’t oblige—but there are so many ways for a woman to turn heads. People who focus on one or two qualities are missing out. I loved that about women: I kept trying to delineate what was beautiful, and inevitably some anomaly came along to shatter my whole system.
After a while, I had to acknowledge so many facets of female allure that it was time to step back and admit that really all of it was titillating. It was femininity itself. Womanhood is a thing of splendor. God, I marvel at it. I’m not saying I eliminated my physical appetites, but I sure did broaden them. I came to relish looking at white women, black women, Asians, brunettes, redheads, blondes, leggy gals, buxom gals, flat-chested gals, slender gals, pudgy gals, short gals, tall gals, young gals, and older gals. Freckled faces, crow’s feet, heterochromia—I savored it all.
The summer after high school graduation, I worked with a young woman—Marlene, I think—who was a real sweetheart, and her figure was a dream come true. I overheard her telling a friend about her upcoming breast reduction surgery. I wanted to fall at her feet and beg her to cancel such a sacrilegious act. I mean, I know it must suck to haul those things around everywhere, but why not have back surgery instead? Install some steel girders in there or something! Don’t cut the boobs! Those poor, innocent, defenseless orbs of perfection didn’t deserve that!
I get it, though. It’s her body. It’s encouraging what you see today, with more women calling it quits on trying to look the way men want them to. They’re not taking any shit. They’re hitting back, swinging the term “body shamer” around like a club. Finally starting to be content with their natural attributes. I really hope it advances to makeup. Painting over your face is the most godawful thing, when you think about it. And I don’t buy any of that horse shit about it accentuating one’s natural features, like my mom used to say. That women feel so inadequate about their true appearance that they resort to a mask has always bummed me out. It gets pretty gross with some girls. Sometimes it’s like being at a circus, with clowns everywhere you look. They’re learning, though. Pretty soon, they’ll know that a woman’s worth is a lot more personal than what can be conveyed by cosmetics.
My one cousin was always a pretty girl. And yet, a year or two after she got married, she got these breast implants. I had to scratch my head on that one. It would’ve made more sense to do augmentation when she was young and single, still trying to attract a guy. After she found Mr. Right, though? I pondered it until one day it hit me: she didn’t want them; he did. She laid out thousands of dollars, agreeing to pay monthly installments for invasive surgery because she wasn’t sexy enough for him. What an asshole. When you find that one person on the planet to share your life with—the one who should always be on your side, who’s supposed to know you deeply and accept you for who you are—I can’t imagine how it’s not a mortal sin against the relationship when your partner suggests grafting foreign material into your body in order to look better. People have different values, I know. I just don’t get it.
I wish women wouldn’t resort to augmentation, but there will always be those who do. I know it’s built into female DNA to serve honorably in the arms race of beauty, edging out all competitors in the battle for reproductive success. I’ve got to say, though: I think the rule should be for doctors to advise a woman to go just one size above what’s natural. That’s all. I know you want the most bang for your buck (no pun intended…or denied, for that matter) but I think most women go too far with it. They warp their figures all out of whack. Their jugs look out of sync because they don’t match their body frames, so it doesn’t look believable. And fake boobs stick out rather than hang down, so you can tell that way too. It can’t be healthy, either, to carry that unnatural weight up there. Just ask Marlene. So the trick, if you’re going to do it, is to abstain from going so large that it’s implausible. You have to make it seem like old Mommy Nature might’ve actually endowed you with them. Installing massive melons might impress some less discriminating types, but there’s no way you’re going to fool anyone. But hey, I’m a guy, so what do I know? I’m just a single representative of the sex most women try to impress.
And that’s what cracks me up about some of the stuff women do to look good. Because appearance helps determine reproductive success, you’d think they’d only be interested in what men want, but what really motivates them is their own preferences. If it were actually about attraction, they’d be out polling men and getting scientific about it, but they don’t do that. Take tall women, for example. How many times have you seen a tall woman walking around in heels? There she is, tall enough to tower over everyone on her own, and then she goes and adds three more inches with her freaking shoes. The motive there is definitely not attractiveness because most men are intimidated by height in a woman. I bet if you did a survey of every man in the country, the results would come back in favor of women no taller than five-feet-seven inches or so. If anything, freakish height is more likely to push a man away. He’s too worried it’d look weird for the two of them to dance together. So the Amazons out there aren’t doing themselves any favors in the beauty department with their pumps. They look like trees walking around. It’s got to be a power thing. Height makes a woman feel authoritative. It might make her feel that way, but to me it means she’s insecure to use a crutch like that—or maybe I should call it a stilt. Napoleon kicked all of Europe’s ass, and he was only five-six. But then, he was a man. I guess it brings us back around to my point that women shouldn’t need specific physical traits to make waves.
Now don’t misread me here: I don’t fault anyone for putting her best foot forward. I don’t expect people to go around looking sloppy just so they can say they’re not hung up on appearance. It’s all right to clean yourself up and stuff. I just think medical operations and face painting and stilts are a bit much. But then, I have to step back and remind myself that I’m not a woman. I don’t know what it’s like. So, whatever makes you happy. That’s what’s important.
Does it really work, though? Do physical enhancements bring genuine happiness? I kind of doubt it. It seems like the desire to upgrade yourself comes from a poor self-image, and I don’t know if remodeling the outside can create the right change on the inside. When you train yourself to find ugliness in the mirror, there’s always another improvement to make.
I accepted that I wasn’t a great-looking guy. I didn’t think I was an eyesore, but I knew I had features that weren’t the most attractive. I figured I was pretty much average-looking, and I made my peace with that. Until the orthodontist, that is. When I was about fourteen, my parents made me see this orthodontist. Maybe he was an oral surgeon. I don’t know. Anyway, this guy put me in a chair and took pictures of my face from various angles. Then we all sat at a desk as he showed the photos and pointed out just how out of whack my mouth was. He explained that I had an “underdeveloped” jaw, so the imaginary line from the tip of my long nose to my chin was too slanted. It was “supposed” to be somewhat vertical, but my nose stuck out farther than my chin. He even compared my face to so-called normal faces to show the difference. He proposed breaking my jawbone and moving it forward to be more in line with the rest of my profile. It would take surgery and metalwork and months of pain to achieve this cosmetic fix, but in the end, I’d look better.
I sat there flabbergasted at the insensitivity of these medical professionals—people you’re supposed to respect—in taking a fourteen-year-old kid who was just trying to get his adult legs under him and acquire some confidence with which to face the world, and showing him how hideous his face was. I’ll never forget it. I told them I didn’t plan to do any modeling, and because I could speak and eat just fine, my jaw was staying where it was. Even disgusted as I was by their values, I don’t think my self-image ever fully recovered from that. I can’t help but see my face the way they did. The real solution was to quit fixating on looks. Everybody has their insecurities—things they’d prefer to change about themselves. I just don’t think you should get carried away by all that. You’ve got to be what you are. I mean, people are starving in parts of the world, so I think my jaw is just fine where it is.
Not to get too heavy on you here, but while we’re on this topic, I need to confess something I’ve carried with me for a while. I know you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself for the mistakes you made as a kid, but this one still stings because it’s a real blemish on an otherwise pretty admirable record of good character. I always thought of myself as a fairly kind person. I wasn’t mean or a bully or anything, but there was this period when I was about ten or eleven when I did a horrible thing. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.
School was just two or three blocks away from most of the homes in our tiny town, so the procedure for the kids in our neighborhood was to wait at this one corner to cross the street together onto school property. A buddy and I were the crossing guards. We were bestowed with the supreme authority to stop traffic when it came time. Pretty important stuff. We even wore those neat orange sashes with the shiny badges. Anyway, there was this girl named Karla who would walk down the street every morning to wait at our stop. She was chubby. Somehow, we got the wicked idea to shout some really cruel stuff about her. We’d say, “There she blows!” It was really rotten, and it still makes me sick even today. After a few mornings of this, Karla did the right thing by reporting it to our teachers. We were scolded and stripped of our crossing guard duties.
The only thing that had enabled me to do it was that I had somehow persuaded myself that our meaning would go over her head, that she couldn’t prove we were referring to her. I didn’t think she’d get it because we weren’t really saying it to her. But of course we did it too much, and she put two and two together. If I had thought that she’d figure out what we meant, I wouldn’t’ve done it. I wasn’t going out of my way to be hurtful; I was just trying to be funny with my friends. So not only did I insult this poor girl, but those insults had been wrapped in another one: the belief that she wasn’t intelligent enough to comprehend it. I was the dumbass for thinking anyone would be flummoxed by that genius code of ours.
To this day, I worry about how Karla coped. I know that must’ve been painful for a young girl. I can only hope she wasn’t scarred by it, that she matured and learned that her worth could never be lessened by the superficial remarks of insensitive boys. For all I know, she might’ve already known it then. If I knew where she ended up in this world, I’d track her down and apologize, even after all this time.
It’s that important.
