Yet, damn it, handsome is a mercurial thing, regardless.
It does not occur on command.
Look in the mirror, swagger past that tiled wall with mirror-enhanced confidence, enter a room … rebuffed. And fuck it all to hell, they’re right.
Yes, hard as it is to believe, I’m talking about me.
Meanwhile, some of my handsomest moments come when I should be, well, just wrong, as on that recent night when I walked into the world of women in the very clothes I’d been napping and farting in — some of the loudest and longest naps I can ever remember enjoying.
Still, on that very night, I was informed, somewhat reliably, by strangers reacting only to my charm and the remaining redolence of napping, that I was a leading figure of vague fuck fantasies.
I don’t know.
Perhaps my brand of handsomeness is gas powered.