Sighs of the Beholder
Sexuality, like any facet of beauty, is subjective. I’m a collarbone man myself.
By Philip Gulley
I was in the grocery store not long ago, standing in line to pay, when I noticed People magazine had announced Johnny Depp was the “sexiest man alive.” I’m not sure who assigned People magazine the task of selecting the sexiest, most beautiful, talented, or interesting persons, but it now seems to be the authority on these matters. I make it a point to consult People magazine before I say anything nice about anyone.
Johnny Depp’s picture was on the magazine cover. I hadn’t seen him since his pirate days, but he still looks exactly like Perry Jackson, a thuggish inhabitant of my childhood. Like Johnny Depp, Perry had wispy chin hair that eventually landed him not on the cover of a magazine, but in the principal’s office, where he was handed soap and a razor and ordered to shave. There were certain girls who were enamored with Perry Jackson, and I suspect they are the same type of women who think Johnny Depp is the sexiest man alive. Listen, ladies, Johnny Depp and his ilk are bad news. Save yourself some heartbreak and fall in love with someone like me—balding, a sunken chest, achy knees, but dependable and skilled at home repairs. You won’t think Johnny Depp is sexy when your bathroom is flooded because Pretty Boy Johnny didn’t know the difference between a flapper and a fill valve.
Sexuality, like any facet of beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. For every person enamored with Johnny Depp’s outlaw look, there is someone else who prefers the tousled good looks of a Harrison Ford. This is the problem with crowning any one person the sexiest person alive. There are too many variations on what constitutes sexy. I’m a collarbone man myself. Show me a woman with a smooth, well-defined collarbone, and I’ll roll on the floor and bay at the moon. I dream about my wife’s collarbone.
Sex appeal was God’s way of bringing people together so we would marry and have children, which was a great idea when God first conceived it, but now we could all use a cold shower and a dose of saltpeter. There are way too many of us, and it’s the fault of God, who should have made intelligence the big draw instead of beauty. Instead of having sex, we would have spelling bees and book discussions. The editors of People would put Stephen Hawking on their cover instead of Johnny Depp, and men would drool over Madeleine Albright.
