Fuck, Marry, Kill.

There was a man I once knew who died all the time.

Chuck was one of those guys that made women uncomfortable. He wasn’t pushy, or touchy, or annoying, or rude. He just wasn’t hot.

Everyone seemed to enjoy his company sober, but at parties—where he drank Jim Beam by the handle and danced until he dripped with sweat—there was a bit of a divide. Straight men regarded him as a rizzler. “I’ve never seen a guy pull as much as he has,” a popular DJ once told me. Women, however, seemed to writhe at the prospect of being his rizzee.

He’d walk up to beautiful girls and offer them an expensive cigarette. They’d smoke and chat and nod and smile. It was pleasant enough, until an awkward flirtation stumbled out of him. A nasally, “that’s a really beautiful shirt” or “you have magnificent eyes!” Mid-drag, the beautiful women stiffened. Then, respectfully, he’d ask to make out. It was the 'respect' that made it awkward. Girls would consent simply because they didn’t want to be rude.

In the mornings after, with a sigh and a rally, friends and I would stumble to a cafe and recap the night over some $8 lattes or overpriced Caucasian breakfast. If those friends were thin, clear-skinned, and included a woman with a throbbing headache, she’d have something to say about Chuck.

“Y’know, I made out with him last night,” she’d tell me.

“Oh… was it good?” I’d push my fingers to my temples to stop the spinning.

“Eh… I didn’t really want to.”

Concerned, I’d lean forward, “Are you okay? Did he do something to make you uncomfortable?”

“No, I’m fine.” She’d reply. “I just didn’t want to.”

---

I thought Chuck was quite pretty. He had honey-brown eyes, slick black curls, and I don’t think I’d ever seen a crease on his clothes. His skin was smoother than mine would ever be, and in the summer it tanned to the perfect shade of bronze. His lips were smooth and freckled. I imagined they tasted like cocoa butter. Sure, he was a bit fat, but I don’t think that was what made people wince when his name was thrown into a Fuck, Marry, Kill. There was just something about him that—despite all of his prettiness—women found unfuckable.

Upon hearing yet another girl lament over an interaction they had with him at a party, I asked with cheeky curiosity, “Do you think—if everything about him was exactly the same, but he was just like 10% hotter—girls would be less uncomfortable around him?”

“Oh absolutely,” she replied. “Without a doubt.”

Was that 10% skinniness? Intelligence? Buffness? It only took a conversation with him to understand. The thing that made Chuck so easy to kill was his transparency—he was pitiably obvious.

His dialogue was unnaturally polite—always asking follow-up questions and listening with an interviewesque nod. He walked like a politician, navigating from woman-to-woman at parties like seduction was a campaign and their lips were his constituents.

Yet, it wasn’t the desperate indivisibility with which he viewed women that was so unsexy. The problem went deeper than that. His propositions for affection lacked excitement—there was no mystery to him, no intrigue, no trouble.

He could ask you on a date and you could say yes and you’d know, with absolute certainty, what came next. See Chuck was the kinda guy that would never break up with you. He’d nod and smile and tolerate anything as long as you stayed beautiful.

After one or six tequila shots, he’d find you lingering in the corner of a party, waiting to be seduced. He’d walk up to you and say something along the lines of “You have a really pretty smile. Would you do me the honors of a kiss?”

With a suppressed belch, you’d think to yourself, “Sure, why not?” and when your lips met, each slimy stroke of his tongue would paint a picture of the future he envisioned with you—a lifetime of missionary and commitment.

In the morning, your phone would buzz and dread would wash over. It’d be a text from Chuck.

“i had a lot of fun with you last night, we should hang out soon :)”

I often wondered how long Chuck waited before realizing he’d never get a text back.

---

One time at a party, I whispered to a friend, “Is it just me, or does Chuck look really hot tonight?”

She frowned at me, worried. “Oh baby, you’re just hammered.” She took my drink away. I shrugged, and watched him pinball from woman-to-woman. Hidden behind their awkward smiles I could hear gears turning—churning in their minds were numerous excuses to walk away. It was difficult to witness, sort of like watching a toddler fail to make friends on the playground.

Writhing in empathy, I snatched my drink back and chugged. I wondered how many times I’d been murdered in games of Fuck, Marry, Kill. If transparency made you unfuckable, then I’d surely died a thousand times.

I prayed to the gods of that party’s ceiling that his desperation wasn’t what repelled people. I prayed that I was wrong. That the source of his unattractiveness was some unknown force, one unique to the minds of women—one I had never been guilty of.

If it wasn’t, then at the very least, I prayed it was something simple. Something shallow, like his weakness for whiskey, or the fact that he was just a little bit fat.