I have it written all over my face. I used to be pretty like a Disney princess. Big brown eyes, ample bosom and porcelain clear skin. I put a lot of stock in my appearance, more from people’s consistent reaction than any personal value. Being traditionally pretty has its advantages no matter what your actual flaws are. Pretty people are allowed more chances, shown more forgiveness and generally treated better by professional society. That’s why I like desperate people. They don’t give a damn what you look like.

That statement isn’t referring to my love life. I still do fine getting laid by people I consider worth my time. One of the benefits of being a butter face. The people I’ve noticed the difference with are service related mostly. That individual who only sees one face after another. They tend to be nicer and have more patience with pretty people. I don’t blame them. Aesthetically speaking, beautiful people are the only break to the monotony in their day. Every other schlub is just another schmo off the street.

I remember the treatment I received in my 20s, aka the pretty times. I now know the number of lines I didn’t stand in, the drinks I didn’t pay for and the treatment I didn’t deserve. The main difference between now and then is the number of red bumps on my face. Trust me, I wish it was something more significant. The truth is, I got old and developed an acne problem around the same time. That one-two punch is enough to knock my social status down two units. If I wear a V-neck shirt I get upgraded to a level 2 pretty person.

I spend most of my days reminding myself how little appearance matters. It’s only a band-aid on the gaping wound in my ego but it gets me through the day. My intrinsic value has never rested on my looks, I just got comfortable with the idea that I’m pretty. Watching people I have crushes on continue to choose younger, fresher versions of me is just another nail in the coffin of my self-confidence. I shouldn’t care what any of them think. Their dicks aren’t any more satisfying than my own personal dildo. All signs indicate I am ready for my first lesbian lover. Someone that can show me how useless the dick is.

Alas, I’m old fashioned and keep waiting for a girl to proposition me. The decline in my appearance strongly indicates that I should be the one doing a pick up in this situation. Thing is, I’ve yet to encounter a woman that starts my engine who also seems amenable to my advances. My attractions are fickle, no matter what gender. At this age most of the ones I encounter are already spoken for. My strongest crushes right now are for a coworker and a guy that addresses me with, “Hey man.” It’s not a fertile stomping ground.

I don’t need a partner to feel whole. I do crave the affection of a like-minded individual. I don’t want to find someone that proposes moving in after a few weeks. I do want to find someone that won’t mind coming home with me once a week. Or vice versa, I’m flexible. Someone that knows how to do everything right and then gives good post-coital cuddles. Intelligent repartee is an added bonus. I don’t require much pretense. Tell me you gotta get up early or your dog needs walking. I don’t really care because I don’t want you spending the night anyway.

I don’t think I’m a modern woman. Most of the time I feel trapped by my past. The level of candor I maintain has been a life-long effort, so that don’t attribute that to the era either. Mostly I think of myself as jaded. Done with the hype and immune to the bullshit. The people I choose to like aren’t always popular or charismatic. Most of them are genuine and, when vetted, honest enough. We all put up guards after a certain amount of experience with humanity. Recognizing the people behind the walls is what I like to do with my time. I don’t make that many real friends but I totally weed out posers on the reg.