Eye Candy
JAN–13–2025






Words by: Max A
Graphic by: Midjourney


Sexuality is intertwined within a person's complex identity. Every time we encounter something, a mini data point is mixed into a collection of our prior experiences. Separating one trait of a human from the rest is quite literally impossible. If you opened up somebody's mind, you would see billions of tiny interconnected strings. Pulling one out would involve all of them. As I have grown in awareness of my sexuality, my entire existence has often been limited to that singular aspect of my identity. I have received many assumptions about my role in the bedroom and been an outlet for curious men to “harmlessly figure themselves out,” demoting me to a singular thing: gay.

 In 2020 I began openly talking to guys I was interested in. My first truly queer experience happened within the realms of the viral video game Among Us. After playing for weeks on end trying to entertain myself from the endless boredom of online classes, grasping onto the little dopamine hit I got from beating the imposter, a random guy dropped his socials in the chat. The next thing I knew, I was sneakily flirting with a boy who lived 1000 miles away over snapchat. Conversations became more intense and when the sun went down, he pulled a move that anyone who has snapped a guy before knows all too well. 

“Send me a risky pic.” 

My face went flush and I was suddenly faced with a choice that felt like life or death. Either fulfill his needs, or say no and lose the only guy who ever showed interest in me. After attempting to take a flattering photo of my bare torso, I chose an unhappy medium and ran to my bathroom after leaving his snap on open for over five minutes. I raised my arm above my head until my fingers tingled, dropped it below my waist, and squeezed as hard as I could on the top of my forearm so my veins popped out for a moment. I quickly captured the illusion of a muscular forearm and hand before the blood rushed back. Before hitting send, I changed the photo to black and white, hiding the discoloration of my abused arm. I watched as he opened my photo immediately, hoping he would give me another chance, or even change the conversation, but I never heard from him again after that. 

Older men began following me on social media, commenting sexual innuendos on fun posts with my friends, and people started to ask me why I talked to so many different guys online. I never was able to come up with a reasonable answer, so I was forced to filter through the inappropriate remarks.

When I came to college, wearing a tight fitting shirt and eyeliner seemed like an invitation for men to touch me at parties. Because I had confidence in my masculinity and sexuality, I was seen as an experimentation toy for questioning guys. 

My nuances and personal experiences have been limited down to a single idea: that my existence is purely sexual. Whether that means questioning how I have sex, guys talking to me just to have sex, or assuming how I have sex because of my appearance. I was quickly identified with words I had only heard on social media posts. My slim build awarded me the status of a “twink” and with that came an automatic role in the bedroom: “the bottom,” which comes with dozens of other assumptions, including being clean shaven, having a fiber-filled diet,  submissiveness, never wanting to receive pleasure, etc.

Parts of the community have reinstated binary gender roles within gay men, creating two distinct roles: the top and the bottom. Preconceived notions, built upon by queer representation in the media, have ascribed me a role based upon how I carry myself. My body is seen as a vessel which contains a version of their ideal “twink.” By attempting to separate my sexuality from multitudes of other identities, men have oversexualized me, completely misunderstood me, and assigned me a limiting (and incorrect) role.

Before trying to get me into your bedroom, start a conversation with me first. You may actually find me repulsive.