Ha, ha, ha. Sorry, what? Ha, ha, ha. I’ve spent my entire life looking in the mirror wondering why God didn’t bless me with much in the attractiveness department. And sure, some would argue that looks aren’t important, but you really don’t know ugly until you’ve seen me. The sheer notion of being a sex symbol is so far removed from anything I’ve experienced in my life, I can’t help but find myself hugely amused by such a notion. A sex symbol is someone considered to possess extreme and excessive sexual attractiveness. I cannot even begin to imagine what such a life would be like for little old me. That said, it would save me quite a bit of money. Imagine the savings I’ll make not having to buy a new mirror every five seconds because my ugly mug keeps shattering them…
The big sex symbols were Marilyn Monroe, Brigitte Bardot and Raquel Welsh. After the Second World War, women started to experience a surge in liberation, largely on the sexual and economic fronts. This empowerment was naturally embodied by the likes of Monroe, giving rise to the sexual superwoman, your sex symbols so adored by society. But in a true act of sexual emancipation, the ride came full circle as men started to be sought after, too. Gawping eyes turned the likes of Sessue Hayakawa, Errol Flynn and Clark Gable, into male symbols of sex, before the rise of the 1950s bad boy redefined such a term. Your Marlon Brando and James Dean, rebels without a care in the world.
But it aint just humans, tragically, by some people’s metric. Jessica Rabbit and Lara Croft, two images created by animators and designers, have become sex symbols, too. Even Marge Simpson, what with her Playboy spread. Perhaps a concept alien to some, but certainly not without merit for many men. What man can say a bit of Mrs. Marjorie hasn’t titillated the senses and excited raging hormones? And from fiction we have come full circle. Computers now armed with the internet, an internet bulging with quizzes and questions to discover what sex symbol your average fella is.
I got Rita Hayworth. I’m quite proud of that. She was beautiful. ‘Just like her, you go for things no one else is thinking about,’ the machine informed me. ‘Whether it’s fashion, music or any other under-the-radar trend,’ it continued. ‘You’re so far past everyone else, you don’t even notice them.’ Hmm. That’s probably more true of others passing me by. Whilst such a notion as that of I becoming a sex symbol, somehow, is one of the most amusing things I think I’ve ever heard, I’m now faced with a question of just what my life would be like and whether or not it’s a life I’d want.
No, is the short answer. Eyes constantly glaring at my every nook and cranny. My wardrobe mocked and praised endlessly, often in the same sentence. My hair ridiculed and then lauded after. My every secret, gossip on the lips of those by the water cooler. Intimate details of my private affairs mysteriously leaked to the press, some complimentary, others, almost certainly not. It would be exhausting. Like a burden on one’s shoulders. Perhaps making me grateful I was born an ugly duckling. The sex symbol may have come from an age of liberation and sexual freedom, especially for women, but for me, nowadays, it’s far removed from those days of feminism and masculism. Looks aren’t important, when you really think about it. The only people they really matter to are ourselves when we look in that mirror on the morning and sigh. But who cares, really? We’re all a bit frumpy.
We should embrace our frumpiness, I say…
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