Hot Beauty: Chasing the Illusive “Hotness”

I Wanted to Be Hot for Men's Approval, Now I Long to Be Too Hot for Them to Harm Me.

From seeking approval to seeking empowerment – my journey towards invincibility.

Ruben Chamorro

Like many women, I’ve spent most of my life trying to unlock ultimate hotness, and the rest of it trying to make up for still not being hot enough. It’s like I’m trying to redeem myself for not winning the genetic lottery at birth. But let’s be real, I’m a white, cis, straight-sized, twenty-something woman. Even if my looks fall short of the aesthetic ideal society has set, I’m still more privileged than many. But hey, being privileged doesn’t magically erase my desires to be hotter than the sun!

As an ugly duckling growing up (just ask anyone but my mother), I never placed much importance on beauty. Sneakers? No way! I strutted around in Mary Janes, setting the stage for my lifelong obsession with heels. Somehow, by the age of four, I had already internalized the idea that a woman’s worth was determined by her beauty. Maybe I didn’t understand it fully, but the message was clear: to find love and all the trappings of a fulfilling female life, I had to up my beauty game.

So, I did all the usual things. I subsisted on a diet of Diet Coke, sugar-free gum, and exercise for dinner (I was a real gastronomical mastermind at the time). My bank account and I have had countless fights over pricey skincare, hair dye, blowouts, waxing, and makeup that never seems to cooperate with my face. Let’s not forget my intimate relationship with the back of my throat—the unsung hero that helps me keep up with society’s beauty standards.

But it wasn’t just love and happiness I craved anymore. I wanted power. I saw beauty as the golden ticket to the life I desired. All that time and mental energy I spent trying to polish the rusty chainmail of my existence didn’t seem like a price to pay. It was more like tuition for having been born into a female body. Play by the rules, be pretty, be sexy, and be desirable to men, then gain access to a good life, a normal life. A life that counts because a man has chosen you. Simple, right?

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Well, playing by those rules only got me so far. So, I began cheating the system. Beauty and sex appeal may be cousins, but I learned how to leverage one to cover up for what I lacked in the other. In middle school, it meant flaunting my prematurely developed cleavage and paying regular visits to the principal’s office. High school brought dating guys from the all-boys school, because fewer competitors meant I looked better by comparison. And let’s not forget my excellent skills in the art of oral pleasure—practiced diligently in the back seats of hand-me-down cars. More recently, it meant dating older men, using my youth as the crutch to support my aesthetic deficiencies. I even dabbled in dating married men because sometimes being the “other woman” seemed more attractive than being someone’s wife.

By my early 20s, a series of heartbreaks had shattered my faith in the beauty = male attention = happiness equation. Men and their love weren’t going to save me. Plus, I had caught a glimpse of the harsh truth lurking beneath society’s domestic fairytale. Peeking behind the curtain, I saw the stagnant, sexless marriages and the contempt husbands had for their wives. It wasn’t the happily-ever-after I had envisioned for myself or any woman for that matter.

So, during the first half of my 20s, I embraced a new perspective. I viewed my attractiveness and sex appeal as bargaining chips. Instead of chasing the fantasy of marital bliss, I craved power—social capital. I wanted to use my looks to gain access to a life of my choosing. No longer did I want to conform comfortably to society’s standards and find a man—I wanted the freedom to redefine the game. Short skirts, sky-high heels, and toned, bare legs became my weapons to subvert a system stacked against women. It was time to say, “Thanks, but no thanks” to the status quo and still be respected.

But here’s the brutal truth: no matter how we dress, the male gaze still lingers. We may not dress for men anymore, but we can’t escape the scrutiny of traditional beauty standards. Women are still ruthlessly judged and compared to each other in an endless, losing beauty pageant we don’t even remember entering. It’s exhausting.

Yet, lately, I’ve come to see beauty as armor. I want “fuck you beauty” just like the way people talk about having “fuck you money.” A stockpile of power and privilege that protects me and grants the freedom to live life on my terms. Because let’s face it, the world isn’t kind to those who deviate from the path set before them—especially if they are not men, especially if their lives play out in the public eye.

But is it possible to achieve this mythical level of beauty? No, it’s like chasing a mirage on a scorching desert day. But that doesn’t stop me from crucifying myself for not attaining it. Because deep down, I still hope that being hotter than the sun will shield me from the ugliness of the world.

So, bring on the critics who comment on my looks. You’ll be as wrong as those who claim I can’t write. Bring on the emails from strangers suggesting I settle down before it’s too late. I want to be so hot that random men breaking my heart becomes a thing of fiction. Yes, I yearn for a level of beauty that defies reproach—a level that grants me the ultimate power, the ultimate protection from the attacks of a judgmental society.

But guess what? That kind of beauty doesn’t exist. It’s an illusion that taunts us, and yet we still crucify ourselves for not measuring up. It’s time to break free from this cycle.

Hey, Beautiful Reader! Let’s Chat!

So, how about you? Have you ever felt the pressure to conform to society’s beauty standards? Have you found ways to embrace your own unique beauty and define your own path? Share your thoughts and experiences in the comments below! Let’s support each other and celebrate our beautiful selves, flaws and all.

• Beauty
• dating
• pretty privilege
• relationships
• sex
• sex at 26
• single life