To Be Sexy is to Transcend your own Species
An essay on non-reproductive beauty.
A Thought is Enough
For too long, beauty has been confused with potential.
Potential to marry, to please, to breed, to blend in.
A face for the family portrait. A body for continuity.
A walk that says: I can carry children and groceries at once.
We’ve dressed it up, yes — but the gaze remains trained
on fertility, virility, viability.
Even our boldest icons get translated back into “good genes”
when they hit the mainstream.
Beauty that doesn’t want to be touched, kissed, married, or bred — that’s the one that haunts. It leaves no legacy but a glitch in your nervous system. It doesn’t seduce to reproduce. It seduces to survive, to disturb, to linger.
This essay doesn’t concern itself with that kind of beauty
— the soft, saleable, reproductive one. No. I’m interested in the other kind.
The one that smiles like a trap, not an invitation.
Sexy, or rather the Non-reproductive Beauty is Beauty that refuses the Contract of Usefulness
Non-reproductive beauty doesn’t want to be picked.
It doesn’t want to be touched, saved, dated, or decoded.
It wants to be seen — and left unsolved.
It exists outside the logic of selection.
Too old, too young, too theatrical, too late. Too artificial. Too queer. Too much.
It doesn’t serve life. It serves presence.
Think: Marlene Dietrich in trousers,
laughing like she already knows how you’ll react.
Think: a plastic surgery gone uncanny, then iconic.
Think: a silhouette so sharp it cuts right through sentiment.
Think: a garment that makes the body unreadable.
Sacred. Weaponised. Almost post-human.
We call it “cold,” “weird,” “wrong,” “wrong again.” But we stare. Not because we desire it. Because we don’t understand why we can’t look away.
This beauty doesn’t play the animal game.
It doesn’t care about lineage, function, appeal.
It’s not an offer.
It’s not cute. It’s not lovable. It’s not even hot, by usual standards.
It’s beyond.
Beyond mating, beyond genre, beyond need.
It’s the realm of the doll, the diva, the ghost, the machine.
To be sexy, truly — is to transcend your own species. To stop trying to be a better animal, and start becoming a vision. A fiction that walks...
