If I ask college kids what their ideal occupation is, I’d bet most would drool over a career of cashing in on fame, without doing much work. They’ve been conditioned by reality TV, which features people with good looks and no talent, other than being famous for being famous. This is not good.
Maybe it’s also due to their parents both working long hours and neglecting their need for constant approval. Little Josh didn’t get enough medals. Little Katie didn’t get enough gold stars. Now, a thumbs up on any post they make strikes them right on their cerebral clits.
Fame means different things to men versus women. For men, the most significant benefit is more mating options. An unattractive famous man—even an incarcerated one—can get laid a lot easier than a hidden hunk. So, I blame women for creating these beasts. If you’ve ever fame-fucked a man, you created a horrible disservice to humanity in the form of an ego-maniacal slob with a podcast and a boner.
Look, I admit that if my fame opened the door to younger, hotter ladies, I certainly wouldn’t shut it. But, I’m not famous. I’m a writer. How many writers do you recognize? I could be sitting next to you at the bar right now. I could plant someone on the other side of you. That person could do all the foreplay I’d need.
(I start out a five, at best, on a good hat day.)
“Oh-emm-gee! Do you know who that is over there?”
“He’s Phil Torcivia—a famous author. He has like fifteen books out.”
(And, now I’m a six.)
“Really? He’s kinda cute. What does he write?”
“Hysterical books. Ever hear of the Nice Guy series?”
“Umm, I think so.” (She has not.)
“That’s him. Fuck. He’s so funny.”
(Six point five.)
“Is he married?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve seen him here before. He’s usually by himself.”
(I smile, nod, and send a round of drinks their way, as I become a seven.)
“So, does he write erotic fiction and stuff?”
“Totes. His books are pretty raunchy. Here, let’s check out his Facebook page.”
“Wow, he has a huge following.” (I don’t.)
“I bet he has a huge something-else too, ha ha ha.”
(Seven point five. I walk down and say hello to the fame drunkard.)
“Hi. My name is Phil. What’s yours?”
“Oh, hey. I’m Vanessa.”
“Thank you. I hear you’re a writer.”
“Ah, I’ve scribbled a bit here and there.”
(Fame is best served with a side of humility. I’m now a blushing eight.)
“Any chance I could get a signed copy of one of your books?”
“Aw, you bet. So, what do you do, Vanessa?”
(Having a famous person ask you about you is pretty fucking awesome. I know this. I’m an eight point five.)
“I’m a teacher.”
“See that? You’re a true hero. I’m simply a clown on Kindle.”
“So, Mr. Nice Guy, where’s your woman?”
“My heart is currently unoccupied, my love. Sadly, I’m left to my lonely libations. But, it has given me the opportunity to meet two lovely people here tonight.”
“Aw, you’re sweet.”
“Sorry. I was referring to the bartenders.”
“Ha ha ha.”
(Humor tickles the gates to love. I’m a nine.)
“Well, Vanessa, where’s your husband?”
“Oh, I’m happily single.”
“Not if I can help it. Hand over your digits, pronto!”
(Women also like strength and confidence. This is a hint that my love may come with wrist binds. Nine point five.)
“Sure. Give me your phone.”
You know the rest of this plays out. By the time I hand her the sex towel, she begins realizing that fame doesn’t infer soul mateness.
Like I was saying, though, fame means different things to women. Most aren’t seeking to have more mating options because of fame. For women fame is all about the acceptance and admiration of peers. More fame, more money, more sparkly designer stuff, more envy, more likes, more followers, more envy. Does fame mean more sex, more often, from men with more abs? Nope, and that’s OK.
Fame is overrated. It is no indication of the value of a person to society. Let’s get off the drug, and stop rewarding greedy narcissists for being good at being famous.
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