Queer Relationships: Lookism, Pretty Privilege and Seeing Beyond the Mirror

In this deeply personal and unflinching reflection, Bruce J. Little examines how lookism and “pretty privilege” shape queer desire, dating and self-worth. He asks what happens when the mirror stops giving us the validation we once relied on — and whether we can learn to see, and love, beyond it.

I remember walking into Bronx, that legendary Cape Town gay bar back in the 90s and early 2000s, as a freshly minted homosexual, and immediately doing what I think most of us gay men do in gay male spaces.

I scanned.

Not just the room. The faces (and bodies).

And I could feel the audit happening in reverse too. The quick glance. The split-second assessment. The “maybe” look. The “absolutely not” look. The look-away dismissal that somehow manages to feel like a door being shut without a single word being spoken.

Some guys looked at me and then looked away like I was a bad outfit choice. But mostly, I was… well-received. There were appreciative glances. Occasional open interest. A few looks that were so direct they might as well have been a verbal proposition.

It was addictive

And here’s the part I’m only admitting now that I’m creeping towards 50: ever since then, I’ve basically been doing an ongoing performance review of myself in gay male spaces.

How am I being received today?
How quickly did he look away?
Did he smile or did his eyes glaze over?
Am I still “getting the look”?

Because yes, I’ve always wanted to be loved for who I am. For my heart. For my bizarre mind. For my humour. For the full messy, complicated being that I am.

But I’ve also had to face an uncomfortable truth about myself.

I’ve been just as shallow.

I’ve been just as dismissive.

I’ve been just as quick to decide someone isn’t “for me” purely based on their face, their body, their age, their fingernails, their vibe, their whatever.

I want to be seen and loved in a meaningful way… while also treating people like items on a menu.

Double-standards be real y’all

And lately, it’s become harder to ignore because my so-called “currency” (or as the kids now call it, my “face card”) has been depreciating steadily. Fewer guys give me that look these days. In younger spaces, I can feel completely invisible, which in some ways is even worse than disapproval.

It’s like being a ghost who still has a gym membership. Mr cellophane in the weights section and translucent Gladwrap guy in the gay clubs.

The irony is brutal: I’m grieving the loss of attention I didn’t even fully respect when I had it.

You live by the sword; you die by the sword

And honestly? This might be one of the reasons I’ve managed to dodge proper romantic relationships for most of my life. Because if I’m being even more honest, I’ve sometimes felt pressure to chase men I considered “more attractive” than me, like dating up would somehow fix the parts of myself I’ve always been critical about.

I’ve joked before that I’m not my type.

But I wasn’t joking.

Men who resemble me rarely meet my own definition of attractive, which is… bleak, if I think about it for more than five seconds.

So, what is lookism, really?

At some point I realised I wasn’t just being “a typical gay man with standards”. I was participating in something bigger.

Lookism is basically prejudice based on physical appearance. It’s the idea that if you’re attractive, you get treated better, forgiven more, and welcomed faster. And the phrase “pretty privilege” is the more pop-culture version of the same thing: the unearned perks you get simply because you fit conventional beauty standards.

And the thing is, it’s not just a gay issue. It’s everywhere. Workplaces, social circles, first impressions, even who gets listened to in a conversation.

But gay men? I feel like we’ve turned it into an extreme sport. Or am I just projecting?

And yes, there’s research showing that people who are seen as attractive tend to be judged more positively in general, as if beauty automatically comes with kindness, intelligence, competence, and moral integrity.

Which is wild, because I have met plenty of beautiful men who are absolute monsters.

I have also met plenty of men who are not “conventionally hot” who are emotionally intelligent, grounded, hilarious, generous, and deeply sexy once you stop treating attraction like a checklist.

But do we always give those men a chance?

No.
And that includes me.

The uncomfortable part: hot people get away with everything

One of the most alarming things I’ve come across while reading about this stuff is how far people will go to excuse red flags if the person is attractive enough.

There was even a dating app “social experiment” that circulated online where someone used photos of a conventionally attractive man, but the bio basically made him sound like a walking hazard: hints at violence, criminal behaviour, danger.

And people still matched with him. Hundreds, and in minutes.

Which is funny in a dark way, because it’s basically the dating app version of: “he’s toxic, but he’s tall.”

Now, I’m not saying everyone who’s attractive is dangerous, or that we should be suspicious of hot people like they’re carrying a (other kind of) weapon in their Calvin Kleins. Obviously not.

But I do think we should be honest about the way our brains can go offline when we’re confronted with a face we desire.

What I believed in my twenties (and what I know now)

In my twenties, I genuinely thought prioritising looks was just sensible gay survival.

If glowing skin, muscles, being over six foot, and having a tidy haircut were the currency, I wanted to be rich. I wanted to be safe. I wanted to be chosen.

I thrived on the attention: apps, bars, mirrors, compliments, desire. But even while I enjoyed it, I knew it was flaky. It wasn’t stable. It wasn’t love.

And I’ve learned the hard way that hot guys can be arrogant, mean, boring, emotionally stunted, and cruel, and still be treated like they’re a prize.

Not just by “the community”.

By me too, at times.

Because I bought into the idea that beauty meant value.

And that’s the scam, isn’t it?

The moment it started feeling like a trap

Then I turned forty and my pretty privilege started to dwindle.

Not dramatically. Not like a movie montage where you wake up looking like Gollum and suddenly, you’re banished from society.

But slowly. Quietly.

Like a battery draining.

And I started to gather enough lived experience to question the whole system. The men I was most intensely attracted to were rarely the ones who brought me lasting joy. The chemistry, AKA lust, was there, sure. But the emotional fulfilment? The safety? The softness? The depth?

Often missing.

I suspect that happiness is more than a pretty face

And if I’m honest, some of my most visually impressive relationships were also the least satisfying. They looked good on paper, and even better on Instagram, but emotionally they were like trying to cuddle a marble countertop.

That’s not to say attractive people can’t be kind, emotionally intelligent partners. Of course they can. I’ve met wonderful, gorgeous men too.

But physical attractiveness alone is not a personality.

And it’s definitely not a relationship plan. It’s definitely a shocking self-worth strategy.

I’ve been guilty of this. And I’ve also been punished by it.

This is the part where I need to say something clearly: I’m not writing this as a moral lecture.

I’m writing it as a confession.

I’ve scrolled past potential connections because of an unflattering photo angle. I’ve dismissed someone because they didn’t spark immediate longing. I’ve treated attraction like a science when it’s actually a bias.

And I’ve also been on the receiving end of that same coldness. I’ve been overlooked. I’ve been treated like I’m invisible. I’ve been “not quite right” for someone’s fantasy. I’ve even been stabbed with an “as if!”

It stings.

Even when you know you’ve done it too.

So how do we actually become less superficial?

This is where I want to be careful, because I don’t have a neat answer. I’m not cured. I’m not floating above the gay dating pool like some enlightened mavis monk.

I still like a handsome face. I still notice bodies. I still have my “type”.

But I’m trying to widen aperture of my lens. We can’t always clock love at first sight.

From what I’ve read, therapists and relationship experts often talk about shifting focus towards things that actually predict long-term satisfaction, like:

• Emotional intelligence
• Communication style
• Kindness and consistency
• Shared values
• Emotional availability
• How someone handles conflict
• Whether you feel safe being fully yourself

Because here’s the thing: physical attraction might get you a conquest and maybe even into a relationship.

But it won’t keep you there.

And it won’t guarantee someone who will hold you at 3am when you’re anxious, grieving, spiralling, or just feeling human.

A pretty face is lovely.

But it’s not the same as being loved properly.

What I want now (and what I’m learning to want)

I don’t want to be with someone just because I meet their aesthetic criteria.

I don’t want to be chosen because I look good according to someone else’s standards.

I want to be valued as a person. In my entirety. Not just the parts that photograph well.

And if I want that kind of love, I have to be willing to offer it too.

Which means challenging the shallow parts of myself. The parts that still believe beauty equals worth. The parts that still treat dating like shopping.

It’s humbling.
It’s uncomfortable.
It’s also probably overdue.

And yes, there are parts of me that miss the rush of being desired for my looks alone. There are moments when I still want to be “pretty”. I don’t think that ever completely goes away, especially in a community that rewards youth like it’s an Olympic achievement.

But I’m also learning to feel seen in other ways.

For my laugh lines. For my softness. For my ability to listen. For my weird brain. For my honesty. For the way I show up.

I want a partner who values those things.

And I want to get better at valuing them in other people too.

A small experiment I’m trying (and maybe you can too)

Lookism might always be part of our culture. But I don’t want it to run (or ruin) my love life. So, I’m trying something simple.

The next time I swipe, or chat, or meet someone, I’m trying to ask myself:

Am I actually curious about this person?
Not just “would I sleep with them?”
But “do I want to know them?”
Do they feel as delicious as they look?
Do they feel kind?
Do they feel emotionally present?

And yes, this might sound a bit Pollyanna. I can hear my own inner cynic rolling his eyes. But honestly, I’m tired.

I’m tired of chasing sparks that burn out.
I’m tired of mistaking aesthetics for intimacy.
I’m tired of relationships that look good but feel hollow.

The most fulfilling connections I’ve had were not the ones that looked perfect in a photo.

They were the ones that felt good when I wasn’t at my best.
When I wasn’t winning.
When I wasn’t polished.
When I wasn’t “hot”.
They were the ones where I felt seen.

And that, to me, is the kind of privilege that appeals to me more than being pretty.

Bruce J. Little is a journalist, copywriter and playwright, and currently works as a strategic senior specialist writer at Razor PR.