This Is Not the Life I Ordered -- Why Just Being Hot Is Not Sexy

Why do I keep hearing so many hot guys in New York say there are no tops?

This is something I've been thinking about for a very long time.

I don't know who needs to hear this (actually, like everyone who says this, yes I do), but being hot is not enough. And being sexy is not about looks. It's about energy and vibe, intelligence and attitude and sensitivity. I remember when John Legend was voted People magazine's Sexiest Man Alive a few years ago and people were dragging him because they didn't think he was sexy enough for the honor. But what they really meant was that he wasn't "hot" enough. Because no one who makes music like John Legend can possibly not be sexy. He is absolutely sexy. (And very cute.) That's when I realized it: people under, say, late-thirties, don't know the difference between being hot and being sexy. The don't know that they're not the same.

Being both hot and sexy used to seem pretty common. Models and young actors weren't just intriguing and gorgeous in the past but interesting and wild. Bars and clubs full of sexy people also had interesting conversations and witty repartee. The art of flirting was real. The boldness of approaching someone out of your league made your confidence not "sus" (as it would today), but it added at least two attractiveness points to whatever you looked like.

Today, being hot and being sexy seem more mutually exclusive than anything. Because what a lot of really attractive/hot/gorgeous people (or people who just have such a gorgeous ass that no one seems to notice what their face even looks like -- because, today, the ass is the new face) don't seem to pick up on nowadays is that being extremely good looking is not enough to make you sexy. It just makes you look sexuUAL. Being sexY is hotter than how great your face or ass could ever look -- and if you have both, you're the ideal. But, unlike when I was in my 20s and early 30s and people in New York City were equally gorgeous, sexy, and cool (forget cool -- that's asking way too much today. As one friend pointed out so well recently, "Hot guys aren't cool."), nowadays everyone is so fixated on how hot they look that they forgot to work on the personality. I've met some people who seemed to have a void where a personality should be and thought that a top hookup should just walk in ready to go like a car that doesn't need an ignition switch but instead motorizes at will. (I honestly think some women have a better idea of how a man's penis operates than most bottoms.) And would it kill you to be hot, sexy, and nice? Nice on a really good looking person is really sexy. And I don't just mean nice to the person you're interested in, but nice in general. Nice is sexy.

Just thought I'd give some people out there complaining that there no tops in NYC a little heads up on why it seems that way. I get PMs from gorgeous men here that are way out of my league and after I finish wondering why they don't have people tripping over each other to date them, I go to their socials and all I see are selfies. Same pretty, smizy, puckered lipped facial expression, same pouty, poked out ass. Not much said other than how many guys aren't coming at them the right way or aren't offering them enough gifts or travel expenses or don't want to be friends after being rejected (if you don't want to be solicited, then don't show your body all over your socials! Duh!) Well, news flash: it's not that there are not tops. We're here. But no one's doing psychological military training over your ass. We want to be worshipped too. Yeah, your ass is fine as hell, but you already know that. Tell me how sexy you think I am. Tell me how I make you feel. You 10s might be getting the likes on social media, but the the 5s, 6s and 7s are getting laid because they're nice fucking people.

So be nice, pretties. It's hot. And not only does it last longer than your looks, but it makes us last longer too.

This Is Not the Life I Ordered - A Tale of Two Hookups

 A TALE OF TWO HOOKUPS - TODAY IN TMI FROM BRANDON'S DATING LIFE (from a Facebook post)

Yesterday I was greedy. I went on two hookups. (Honestly, this paragraph wouldn't even be necessary if most of my readers here weren't straight.)

I met the first guy on one of these apps, I can't remember which. He wasn't a stand-out looks-wise, but because most of my most bragworthy conquests usually turn out to be really messed up human beings, I've actually come to the conclusion that what I really need in my life isn't a 9 or a 10 but a Classic Six. And this isn't real estate talk.

This guy didn't want to have sex, he didn't ask me how big I was or disappear if I weren't swinging the Eiffel Tower between my legs. He didn't send me videos or photos of himself being pounded by some piece of trade that probably once had a parole officer. (Part of my problem is that I have a look that happens to attract a person who is in the mood for a certain type of guy who is nothing like how I am inside, but that's another rant altogether.) Rather, this guy said he wanted to meet for tea. Wow, I thought, this is either a serial killer or the nicest guy I've ever met on an app in my life! So I met him at his place after the gym yesterday and we chatted about his international background, how many foreign languages he speaks, and his classical music performing hobby. Somehow he even managed to make me less interested in myself than in what he had to say about himself. (If you know me, this is practically magic.) Then he gave me a great, non-X-rated massage for 20 minutes. He was cute, but like a puppy is cute. I wasn't attracted to him, but he was so damn nice that if he had wanted to, I would have turned on the BBC version that people expect of me on these increasingly grating and depressing apps.

It was a nice date and I left his apartment refreshed, relaxed...and determined to find an actual hot guy to remind myself that I can do better because, well, I too am a toxic asshole vampire, apparently.

So I go to the dark web of gay hookup apps known as Sniffies and a dude with a booty in two zip codes hits me up immediately. No face, just torso and butt. Immediately, I knew who this was.

Five years ago, this headless Greek sculpture (from Venezuela) and I had had a honeymoon weekend and I left in a glow of crushing infatuation and excitement for the next weekend. Until I found him on the same app we met when he wasn't returning my texts. Hurt but not destroyed, I blocked the dude, ignored him at the gym even when we were working out on machines side by side, and pretended that I didn't miss those golden globes that went from Earth size to Jupiter during the lockdown. For years, when I saw him in the gym I would somehow shut down my peripheral vision without looking away the way one does when they just know that there's a rat over there in that garbage but you have to pass it by.

But time had passed and it was late and I was tired of looking at these nasty kweens so when he said, under the photo, "Do you want to come over?" I just said yes. He asked how long. I said 20 minutes.

It wasn't the first time he'd tried to reel me back in but I usually blocked him. I don't know why this time was different. Something about Classic Six making me feel like I needed to know I could still get Penthouse Suite.

I get on the bus and he's impatient. I tell him I'm on my way. I get there. Five flights of stairs later I try to make light jokes about our past impasse. He's undressed, all gorgeous face and top-shelf bubble ass. I make my two zip codes joke. I make a joke about how climbing five flights of stairs gave him that shelf. He gives me the courtesy laugh and then puts on a porno on his massive screen. Two brothers going at each other like both were a plate of collards. I say, "Do I have to share you with these guys?" He is either not the one for witty repartee or the irony was lost in the English translation so all of my actually funny jokes have to be repeated, explained, or are just ignored.

To his credit, he did compliment me on how much bigger my physique had gotten since our last experience. I'm normally modest, so I attributed my gains to middle age finally putting some meat on my bones. But this gave me the confidence to wrestle back some control and ask him to turn off that ridiculous porno. Neither of those guys looked as good as even I thought I did. Plus, I thought, I'M here. And I'm in the flesh. Why would I want to see another guy's...anything? What did he need that for?

We get down to business. And the crank won't start. Surprise. I tell him I was hoping we could talk, that I'm very psychological, that I can't just walk in and pretend like blah blah blah but eventually I tell him that we have all night before I'm corrected: he has plans in an hour.

How did I allow myself to fall for this again? And why is he so sweaty? Was someone already in here? He was never tight, I remembered. There was always the sense that those luscious, jiggly, clappy cheeks were compensating for enough airspace for Air Force One. But by the time I was able to get going it was ten seconds of the most regretful bliss I had had in a long time. I got ready to leave and asked for his number. I had blocked it before.

"We don't need to go on that stupid app to find each other," I said, leaving him what I though was a witty olive branch text. He got ready to get in the shower to meet his friends, visiting from out of town.

I get home and get a text from him.

"Huh? Who is this?"

"E*&^^%o?"

"This is not E*&^^%o."

So E*&^^%o gave me the wrong number.

Oh well. I ignored my inner voice and I got what I deserved. But what pisses me off, what really bothers me more than anything, is that he didn't deserve what he got, which was my weakness for a body part connected to a nothing of a person.

But... this is dating today. You get your cozy, adorable date and your sick vampire nut. Some people get nada. So I guess I can't complain.

I know some people wonder why I am willing to share so much of this area of my life here in the most unflattering way. I don't know why but it's cathartic. And it's great writing exercise. But I also like having a sense of humor about disappointment or misery. It's one of my favorite things about this medium. When you feel rejected or hurt it can feel really lonely. But when you can talk about it or share it or laugh about it, it becomes insignificant, silly, a funny anecdote. I was feeling bad about this but now I can't wait to go out there and get my little feelings hurt all over again! LOL

So many people love to show how great everything is. How great looking they are, how rich they are, how fabulous their life is, their vacation is, their butt is. (!!!) Well, I kind of like being there for the person who is feeling like crap that day. So they know they aren't alone.

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1Debbie Safran