Dear Mr. White,
It is with an uneasy mixture of consternation and lust that we received, via Instagram, your latest thirst trap. We see that you have finally assumed the mantle of Calvin Klein Underwear Boy, and while we love this for you, we are compelled to say that you’ve done enough. You may have, in fact, done too much.
We appreciate the work that’s gone into creating your perfect six- (eight? Five-thousand?!?)-pack abs. Your shoulders look hewn from the same Carrara marble that Carmy’s ancestors used to build temples. That pelvic line is a perfect road map to [REDACTED]. But, sir, this level of hotness has scrambled our GPS, and we are frankly terrified to explore your highways and side streets, even within the cozy confines of our private fantasy life.
With your huge Bambi eyes and goldie locks that would inspire each of the Three Bears to immediately share their beds with you, you were single-handedly responsible for our midlife sexual reawakening. But your body is too hard, and ours, too soft. Respectfully, this Mama Bear would now like to go back to sleep.
A body like yours telegraphs the sacrifices made to create and maintain it. While your character in The Bear served up testaments to the art of gastronomy, it is no longer possible to imagine you eating anything but air, protein powder, seven-minute planks, and your own tears. The results are impressive, and we don’t mean to make you feel bad, but how can we look at that rippling expanse of man meat and feel anything but shame for our own patchwork quilts of cellulite, chaotic thickets of body hair, and a birthmark that bears an uncanny resemblance to Uncle Jimmy’s face? To engage with you on a sexual level would feel like a desecration, akin to visiting a fine cathedral only to take a dump on its floor.
If we’re being honest, the sight of your perfect three-quarter-size body in those iconic tighty-whiteys has the ironic effect of making us consider the erotic possibilities awarded by, say, Cousin. What a gorgeous mess that guy is! He would never make us feel bad about having visible hemorrhoids and laugh lines that get accentuated by our O-faces. We bet he smells like smoke and whiskey and maybe a little Drakkar Noir, and that’s the smell of where we belong. Ritchie would let us bum a smoke after we mash our imperfect bodies together. He’d tell us about his fucked-up childhood, maybe even shed a manly tear into our gravity-kissed bosoms while apologizing for being a massive asshole to everyone but us, his stretch-mark-adorned sex goddess.
Or better yet, what would it be like to nestle in Marcus’s strong but forgiving arms? A sweet, slightly daffy pastry chef who would present us with a perfect bite of a gourmet jelly-filled doughnut, shyly hoping for our approval, before taking us on a sexual journey that somehow begins AND ends with cuddling? Okay, so we can’t really imagine that Marcus makes love with a great deal of panache. But we would feel so cared for, so loved, drifting off to sleep on that featherbed of a man. Then afterward, he’d call his mom, who’s in a coma, and tell her he’s met two ladies who may have just inspired him to reinvent the cinnamon bun.
But you, Jeremy? You seem to have worked your whole belly button off. Yours is no longer a body that can reasonably be expected to be in conversation with another human form. It exists as a temple to its own perfection; it is complete in and of itself. You might be thinking, “It’s not fair to count me out of your imaginary sex life just because my platonically ideal body intimidates you. Why don’t you try improving your self-esteem?” And while that’s a perfectly reasonable request, we can tell you right now that it won’t happen. Instead, how about we stay in our lane, and you stay in yours? Your character can continue romancing a manic-pixie dream doctor with a single-digit BMI, and we’ll continue eating peanut butter-filled pretzels in bed without worrying that the crumbs will get stuck in your warren of abdominal creases.
Unlike your body, there are no hard feelings here. Goodbye, Jeremy, and thanks for the imaginary memories.
Emily and Miriam