I never set out to be that guy. You know, the one who walks into a room and immediately feels people looking. The one who gets asked for directions on the street way more than anyone else I know—like I have some innate GPS capability wired into my skull. The one people instinctively trust before I’ve even said a word.
It’s not that I’m a 10/10. If I were, my life would be an entirely different social experiment—one where women throw themselves at me with reckless abandon, and I live in a world of free drinks and unwarranted favors. But I’m a solid 8/10. I’m 6’4″, college-educated, reasonably confident, and objectively attractive in a way that doesn’t make me famous, but does make me noticeable.
And that, I’ve learned, comes with a weird set of consequences.
One of the stranger aspects of being above-average-looking is that people take me at my word. If I confidently say something—even if it’s total nonsense—there’s a high chance people will just accept it. That’s probably part of why I’ve done well in business. I can pitch an idea, and people believe in it before they even fully understand what I’m talking about.
The problem is, when people always believe what you say, you start believing yourself too much. It gets dangerously easy to assume that whatever I say is true, just by virtue of the fact that no one is questioning it. And eventually, someone—someone who doesn’t give a damn about how I look—reminds me that I’m not some infallible genius. I’m just some arrogant cock bag who’s gotten away with talking out of his ass for too long.
I’m funny, but I’m not that funny. The thing is, when you’re attractive, people laugh more—even when the joke isn’t great. It’s not about humor, it’s about social currency. I can say something mildly clever, and people will respond like I just dropped a Netflix special.
But the best people—the ones I actually respect—don’t just laugh. They fire back. They try to make me laugh. And those are the people I appreciate most. Because when everyone around you is pretending you’re the funniest person in the room, you start craving the ones who can actually challenge you.
Here’s something nobody ever tells you: women can be just as aggressive as men when they’re around a guy they find attractive. For all the talk about how men are the ones who are too much, women can be just as bold—especially when they assume the usual rules of decorum don’t apply.
I get inappropriate advances all the time. There’s this weird phenomenon where, because there are proportionally fewer “hot” guys than “hot” women, some women seem to think that normal harassment rules don’t apply. The kind of stuff that would be wildly inappropriate if the roles were reversed? Happens to me constantly.
I like being friendly with my coworkers. I like being helpful. But as an attractive guy, being too nice to a female coworker comes with built-in assumptions. If I do a favor for one, if I offer too much help, if I even seem like I’m paying more attention to one person over another—suddenly there are whispers.
So, my solution? I just tell people I’m in a relationship. It’s the easiest way to kill any weird tension before it starts. It’s ridiculous that I even have to think about it, but it’s the only way to keep things professional without turning into some robotic, ultra-neutral version of myself.
People like having me around. That’s not me bragging—it’s just a thing I’ve noticed. I get invited to a lot of parties, events, and random hangouts, and while that’s great in theory, it becomes exhausting.
Because when you get too many invites, you have to start picking and choosing. And when you choose one friend over another, someone always feels slighted. You end up in this impossible loop where if you go out too much, you’re spread too thin, but if you decline too many times, people assume you think you’re better than them.
It’s not that I don’t want to go out. It’s just that I physically cannot be everywhere at once. And somehow, no matter what I do, someone is going to take it personally.
Dudes tend to have one of two reactions to me. Half of them are cool—they see me as someone they’d want to be friends with, someone who seems easygoing and confident. The other half? Oh, they hate me.
They won’t say it outright, but I can feel it. The passive-aggressive comments. The slightly too firm handshake. The way they subtly try to undermine me in conversation. And I get it—some guys see an attractive, confident dude, and it activates whatever deep-seated insecurity they’ve been carrying around since middle school.
I don’t take it personally. I just find it fascinating how easy it is to tell which men are truly confident and which ones need to put me down just to feel okay about themselves.
The worst part of all of this? I can feel people looking at me. Always. When I walk into a room, it’s like stepping onto a stage. It doesn’t matter where I go—there’s this underlying scrutiny, this sense that I’m being watched.
It’s not paranoia. It’s just reality. When you stand out, people notice. They make assumptions before you’ve even opened your mouth. They project things onto you that may or may not be true. And sometimes, I just wish I could fade into the background for a day.
Look, I get it—these aren’t real problems. No one’s crying for the poor hot guy who has to deal with too many invitations and too much trust. But it’s a weird, specific existence. One where the benefits come with strange invisible strings attached, and where everything is just a little too easy—until it suddenly isn’t.
And yeah, I’ll still get asked for directions on the street. But some days, I kind of wish people would just let me get lost.