Dateline: NEW YORK—A growing number of beautiful single women curse their physical charms, fearing that worthy men aren’t attracted to them so much as intimidated and liable to defecate in their pants before even thinking of approaching them.
Suzanne Kroener is a model and considered a ten on men’s “hotness scale.” Instead of reveling in her facial symmetry, luxurious hair, flawless skin, long legs, and hourglass figure, however, she laments these physical features.
“In some ways, having perfect breasts is an advantage,” she admits. “When I want to manipulate a guy, my beauty comes in handy. But what if I want to attract a mate, a potential husband? In that case, my hotness works against me. It’s actually a nightmare.
“The only guys who will approach me in a bar or a supermarket or anywhere else are the slicksters and sociopaths, the arrogant and vain assholes who are too dumb to deal with their flaws.
“Sure, they’re fearless and they think they deserve to date a woman like me, because they’re usually fit and handsome. The problem is they’re able to approach me not because they’re courageous or confident, but because they’re douchebags. They’re con artists, selling lies and interested only in the ‘conquest,’ in hooking up with a trophy girl, using her up, and then moving on to their next prey.”
Michelle Bordeaux agrees with Suzanne. A lawyer and also widely considered a smoking hottie, Michelle can scan the men at a bar and tell who will approach her and who is “pissing in their pants.”
The irony, she said, is that those who are cowed by her beauty are “the nice guys who would make for the best boyfriends or husbands, if only they had more self-esteem. But the more self-esteem a guy has, the closer he is to being a jerk.
“It’s no accident that the nice guys piss themselves as soon as they see me looking at them in a bar. They’re hypersensitive and overly familiar with all their weaknesses; all day long they’d apologize for being unworthy to breathe the same air as I do. And so the only guys left standing are the game-playing phonies. They may have money and good looks and so they’re great for hooking up with, but if you’re looking to form an emotional connection with a guy, you’ve got no one and it’s all because of your slamming, smoking hot body.”
Michelle once tried approaching a nice guy at a bar, but before he could stammer his response to her flirtatious remark, he ran screaming to the restroom. He died of a heart attack ten minutes later, sitting with diarrhea on the toilet.
“I literally have looks that can kill,” Michelle said, “which is fine if I want to seize power as a tyrannical queen like some babe out of Game of Thrones. But that’s a fantasy. In reality I just want a nice guy for a life partner. And sooner or later every guy I hook up with reveals himself to be a scumbag. Again, that’s no accident, because a nice guy couldn’t even say hi to me without urinating all over the floor or dying from anxiety.”
Frustrated by “the irony that feminine beauty doesn’t belong in this godless world,” as their manifesto states, Michelle and Suzanne teamed up to form Hotties for Nice Guys, an association of women who train to disguise their heart-stopping beauty so as not to burden ordinary men with a vision of womanly splendor.
“Instead of dressing up for the bar scene, we dress down, way down,” said Natasha, a recruit of HNC. “I wear busted-up glasses and the grossest baggy clothes to hide my assets. I wear no makeup except for fake scars, warts, and pimples I apply to my skin to look hideous. Then I walk into that bar with bed head and nauseating body odour, and I hit on the nice guys for all I’m worth.”
No longer compelled to lose control of his bodily functions, the “properly-shielded nice guy” feels as though he’s on more equal ground and the pair can engage in a meaningful conversation.
“Eventually, however, the moment arrives when I have to reveal my true form,” said Natasha. “I dated a nice guy a few times, thanks to my homely disguise, and everything was going well.
“Then I showed up at his place for dinner, all dressed up, my disguise left in my drawer at home. When he saw I was in reality a smoking hottie, he screamed and fell to the floor, pulling his hair out of his head. Then he ran around the room breaking everything he owned. He kept shouting that he could never keep me, because of the competition from superior men, and that he could endure seeing beautiful women only in porn. I tried to comfort him, to build up his confidence a little, but he fainted like he was a little boy and I was the monster creeping out from under his bed. So that was a bust.”
“We babes who want nice guys are caught between a rock and a hard place,” said Michelle. “First, we have to build up the nice guy’s self-esteem slowly, before revealing our outer beauty. But we can’t build it up too much or he’ll tip over into sociopath territory and lose his niceness. So it’s a delicate balancing act.
“Honestly, I never thought I’d have to work so hard to land a good guy.”
Men, however, doubt the very existence of “alleged hotties who want nice guys,” said Todd Gunderson, an auto mechanic and a nice guy who maintains that the assumptions of HNC are absurd.
“They’re just out to take your money,” he said, “these babes with a so-called heart of gold. Then when your guard is down, they’ll laugh in your face and move on to the next sucker. The nice guys who don’t hit on the smoking hotties in bars or who run away screaming? It’s not because they’re scared; it’s because deep down they know better, not to believe in something that’s too good to be true.
“If good looks usually corrupt guys, why would it be any different for good-looking women?
“That’s why I prefer to date women who are genuinely threes or fours on the hotness scale. Leave the beautiful women for the hunky guys. They deserve each other.”