A keen glimmer of things to come
I feel my toes tingle
anticipating the wet chill of snow-crusted shoes
melting in the hushed heat of my home
as I wrap my feet in warm wool
my life a pomander bulwark against gloom.
White city dotted with bundled smiles
Each little hermit crab letting in the light of a stranger’s hello

A compliment requires two sides. It is the proverbial tree in the forest, and simultaneously the scientific answer to that question. There must a producer of the compliment and the receiver of that compliment. I would further postulate that the receiver in this instance must agree to the nature of the compliment for it to actually be so.

I know all this to be true. If I were to approach a strange woman on the street, for example, and tell her that her dress fits her beautifully and accentuates her shapely figure, I would intend that to be a compliment; however, much of how she receives it would be the context in which it was said, primarily — and this is cynical — whether she finds me attractive. The well-worn comic cliché applies here: the line between stalking and persistence is in the eye of the beholder.

Combine this thinking with the more recent (at least to me) rash of male body dysmorphia, and you find me, dear reader, where I sit so precariously, now; that is, invisible to the opposite sex, yet longing for their validation. Nothing I write here will threaten to rock the core tenets of the middle-aged male psyche. Predictably, I wade in the stagnant reflecting pools of the midlife crisis, late adolescence, and male insecurity. As I can all but feel my testosterone waning and the last gasps of my wonderboy charms suffocating under the iron grip of gray-haired, professorial reserve, I watch the admiration of the young transform from emulation and infatuation to smirks and boredom. Seduction now has become a process once again, as it was when I was young and unwanted.

As a descriptor, I have never taken comfort in the word, “handsome.” Much as many a woman would be loathe to labor under that descriptor from a potential suitor, I have always taken it as euphemistic and general praise. Its connotation seems to imply an inoffensive physicality, rather than a desirable one. To that end, I know I must accept my endomorphic proportions. I have not done so, but I know the burden is on me. After all, I shall never be the target of such a word as “beautiful.” Why? Possibly because my cis-gendered, laborer physique might imply to the uninitiated that I should find that term diminishing somehow. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I take similar umbrage when described, quite accurately, with any number of ostensibly complimentary epithets: burly, brawny, strong, muscly, bear-like, virile, etc. While the archers of these particular arrows mean them to have Cupid’s touch, they rather land with a thwack into a raised shield of defensiveness. I know how I look, and, for my own neurotic reasons, I’d rather not be reminded. Precise as these terms may be, I would prefer a more intangible quality to my compliments. I’ve been considered only once to have earned the adjective “irresistible,” for example.

These hangups belong to me, quite clearly, and I do not intend to saddle them onto anyone else. Sincerity accepted, complimenter. Flattery noted. For my fragile ego, however, drawing attention to those things I see as failings in myself only serve to make me feel lesser. I know that large, bald, hairy, funny, bright… all of these can, and have, been made as parallels to sexy. Universally, however, tall, sinewy, dark, with beautiful locks, sharp features, a sly, perfect smile… real sexiness lies there. Te majority agree that Benedict Cumberbatch does not hold up to scrutiny under close examination, but his confidence and the lines of him combine to make something sensually pleasing.

Confidence, of course, is the chief contributor. I submit that confidence originates externally; at least, the confidence that we associate with sexiness does (perhaps not the confidence we associate with Donald Trump, for example.) When I receive validation, unsolicited, from someone with regard to my physical attractiveness, I become supremely confident in it fairly quickly. I stand taller. I smile more. I assert myself with casual charm. I literally lose weight when people tell me I look good. I don’t have to change a thing; by the grace of my sex and my genes, it falls right off. Testosterone is a hell of a drug.

Due to my size, when I assert myself, I am often seen as aggressive. Yet, because I am aware of this, and at heart, want to please people above all, I am seen as weak. When my empathy and foresight allow me to make decisions of a buddhist nature, I sense the women around me judging me as wishy-washy and worthy more of their pity than their desire. Further, when I then, unwisely, tell of the reasons behind my actions, I appear to be defensive and weak, drooping even lower in their estimation of my potential as a mate. Understand here, dear reader, that I am not interested in polyamory, but validation, and validation for men like me must often take the form of sexual attractiveness.

When I don’t receive that validation, or when the validation has to be solicited, the opposite effect occurs. I can hear my therapist and my own knowledge of the human condition ganging up on me here. “It comes from within. Then, people validate it.” I disagree. My self-esteem has always been entirely based on the opinions of others, but that doesn’t necessarily change the self-image. An example: I retain that I am a person of unique empathy and vision, an artist of some achievement, working in successive approximations toward a fully realized version of my art and craft. If someone attacks that, even if their points are valid, the integrity of those core tenets remains. It transforms under my own care, and I take advisement, rather than criticism.

External perception of the aesthetic qualities of one’s self, however, remain entirely the province of the outside observer. If not, insanity reigns. To say, “I like the way a Trilby looks on me,” is all well and good, and such an opinion cannot be disproved. If, on the other hand, no other person, including people that have seen past your Trilby obsession to see the person within, can agree that a Trilby accentuates your best features, while diminishing your flaws, then that is simply not the truth of things. Argument must cease on that front, because your love for the Trilby should be accepted, but its aesthetic value can still be in question.

Similarly, people can see past my lack of fashion sense, or accept my crooked teeth, or convince themselves that baldness drives them wild, but in reality, I am not beautiful. I have been privy to many conversations between people where so many people are described for their beauty, even people in the room. For me, my attractive traits have always been listed as “intelligence, sincerity, empathy, humility.” While I take pride that I am thought of so highly, those are not traits associated with desire. I have never been one to value the warmth of the hearth over the heat of the bonfire. Is that what aging means? Never to be desired again, only settled and settled for?

Any of my past indiscretions, no matter how innocent, have always resulted from a woman tapping into this subconscious need. Sometimes, I have even felt manipulated at how simple it is. When my whole life has been platitudes about nice guys or handsomeness or confidence, even a throwaway of “hot” became a flag for a new world. Dare I consider myself in such terms? Nothing else mattered in those moments. For once, the dark and the dangerous parts of me enticed more than the silly and the safe.

So, how do I respond to the “handsome devils” and “cuddly bears” of my everyday existence? Can I cope with feeling like the nice guy or the big brother? It’s not a friend zone argument. Friends and past loves have blurred the lines of that image of me to similar levels of confusion. My own neurosis, I suppose. But even if you believe that you want to trap a handsome bear, I won’t come calling for that particular bait.

* My first post using the laptop I inherited from Marcee. It feels very Doogie Howser to be able to write from the couch. It seems… right. Probably, it is nothing more than the novelty. Anything that gets me writing again, I suppose.

This is the world we wanted.
All who would have seen us dead
are dead. I hear the witch’s cry
break in the moonlight through a sheet
of sugar: God rewards.
Her tongue shrivels into gas…

Now far from women’s arms
and memory women, in our father’s hut
we sleep, are never hungry.
Why do I not forget?
My father bars the door, bars harm
from this house, and it is years.

No one remembers. Even you, my brother,
summer afternoons you look at me though
you meant to leave,
as though it never happened.
But I killed for you. I see armed firs,
the spires of that gleaming kiln come back, come back…

Nights I turn to you to hold me
but you are not there.
Am I alone? Spies
hiss in the stillness, Hansel,
we are there still and it is real, real,
that black forest and the fire in earnest.

I have become invisible to those who know me, and all too visible to strangers. I am judged on factors I cannot control.

We must learn not to seek, or strive, or want. We must learn to accept, and live, and die.