Objectivity Makes You Sexy
The seduction of precision, detachment, and a well timed tequila.
You walk into a dark bar at 10:05 pm, alone. You were supposed to meet your friends half an hour ago, but your ribbed white tank top made your arms look too big, and there isn’t enough dry shampoo in the world to convince your hair it’s clean as it slowly succumbs to third-day grease and lost hope. So you lingered. Waited for a version of yourself you liked better. Turns out a glass of red did just the trick. So here you are—late, but beautiful.
Your phone is snug in the back pocket of your denim, pressing against you like a reminder. You could reach for it, text your friend, and find out which side of the bar they’re on. But for once, you don’t. Instead, you scan the room, take in the scene of people drinking like they just got back from war, or worse, a family reunion in the Midwest, clinging to their dollar beers like it’s the last familiar thing they have left.
You are the observer now.
You brush your hand behind your ear, glance down, then back up. To your right, six-inch wooden paneling lines the walls, propping up a lanky man whose marketing job has fused so tightly with his sense of self that it might as well be stitched into the tag of his gray Bonobos.
To your left, a beautiful brunette with no hips and perfect hair in her mid-twenties—seemingly untouched by GLPs or fillers, though these days, who’s to know anymore. Science is good, and we all have our secrets.
The Budweiser neon above her casts a tired glow over her natural-looking face as she leans against the bar and nods along to a not-short man who looks like a Modelo commercial—if not for the stupid Bass Pro Shop bucket hat.
He’s standing in front of her, not too far but not too close, which is important. There’s a sweet spot. Too close to a tired face and you’re hovering, risking the stale smell of dinner on their breath; too far, and you’re wasting precious minutes of her golden-year libido.
She’s enduring the small talk kindly, the way you do when there’s something in it for you. One free pint to take the edge off rent being due today and still coming up $500 short. A woman can always tell when another’s smile is stretched a little too tight like that.
“What are you drinking?” echoes behind you. The voice is low, confident. Hot.
You smile. But don’t turn. You take a breath and let the moment stretch. Eyes locked into his shadow.
You respond without hesitation. “Tequila.” Not because you want it, but because it felt appropriate.
And just like that, your anticipated boredom is gone. Your sexuality is tenacious; nothing seems out of reach. And your life shifts—just slightly, but unmistakably—in your favor.
There’s something electric about a moment like this, and a woman like that. Right? The kind where you are fully inside it. Fully inside yourself—undistracted, neither anticipating the next move nor dissecting the last. Just there. Present. Unbothered. Cool.
I’ve always been drawn to the people who move through the world with an air of knowing. The people who can walk into a space and feel its rhythm before deciding how much of themselves to reveal.
Not the loud ones, not the ones who perform for the room—the observers. The ones who notice the tiny antique brass doorbell on a Brooklyn brownstone, who understand how gravity stitched the universe together one atom at a time but don’t flaunt it as trivia. They just share it with you. Only you. Quietly. When you both look up at night.
There’s something undeniably sexy about people who are tuned in. Who move through a room with quiet awareness, catching every shift in energy, every unspoken cue, and never feeling pressured to fill that damn silence.
Because there’s a nuance to this kind of seduction. A hotness that lives somewhere between watching and knowing.
Observation is outward, it collects.
Self-awareness is inward, it questions.
But when the two meet in perfect balance, you get something sharper.
Something untouchable.
Something delicious.
You get objectivity.
Objectivity moves through the world unbothered, not because it doesn’t feel, but because it doesn’t need to react. It doesn’t flinch at a pause in conversation, doesn’t mistake a fleeting glance for a promise. It takes in the facts, sorts them accordingly, and moves the f on.
When I was 25, I used to think passion was the sexiest thing. The dramatic fights. The Instagram monologues. The breathless devotion in a sticky basement bar, staged just enough for each ex boyfriend to envy.
[Which, disclaimer, must’ve worked because I married one of them lol]
But as I get older, I realize the truth about passion: it clings. It needs.
Watching is an art. Seeing is a skill. But knowing when to look (and when to look away) that is where the real power’s at.
Virgil Abloh, a favorite designer of mine, moved through the world like that—clear-eyed, unbothered, never mistaking noise for meaning. Passion certainly held weight within him, but I think objectivity made him unstoppable. He didn’t create to prove anything. He just saw what mattered and executed. He was intentional. He was always ahead.
And maybe that’s the real shift that happens with age. You don’t soften, you sharpen. The scars of your twenties don’t become less visible, they just settle. They are not rebranded as beauty marks. They are just scars.
Nothing less.
Nothing more.
And there isn’t enough witch hazel in the world to change that.
That’s the difference between the girl who observes and the woman who knows.
The girl who sees a man check his phone twice before answering her question is not the same as the one who clocks his hesitation, measures it without emotion, and understands his mind is elsewhere, and that’s all she needs to know.
Not where it’s going. Not why it went where it did. And certainly not what she must’ve done to repel it.
I think it’s important to note that this is not indifference. That is not the same. Indifference is careless, like a shrug of the shoulders. Objectivity is sharp, like the blade of a razor. It sees everything, weighs everything, and decides intuitively with clarity.
It is a woman who listens to a man explain something she already knows but doesn’t interrupt, just watches him, amused.
It is a person who walks away from a situation without bitterness, because they understood from the beginning that nothing was promised.
Listen, I know—easier said than done. I’m 1000% NOT the poster child for this shit. Objectivity isn’t some divine trait you wake up with one morning; it’s a skill. A discipline. Something honed in the quiet moments between reaction and restraint, pain and acceptance.
I can’t say I am a testament to that, but I can say I definitely feel it pulling inside me. Empathy feels stale, my insecurities bore me, and curiosity is pushing me forward whether I’m ready or not. My new decade is approaching, and I don’t plan on losing my humanity but I do plan to refine it.
Authenticity has been paraded around as the ultimate virtue, and is something I have been sitting with a lot. And as I write this I cant help but to wonder if what’s really being endorsed is just a hall pass for self-indulgence—for being carried away by every fleeting emotion and calling it truth.
But really, there’s something far more captivating about a person who stays grounded. And I don’t mean in some hippy-dippy, roll-around-in-the-grass kind of way (though that do be soundin’ nice thoooo). I mean the kind of grounded that comes from restraint—from affections that are measured and words that are deliberate. From knowing when feeling is useful and when it’s just getting in the way.
And there’s something seductive about that, right? About the woman who doesn’t reach for her phone the second she walks into a room, but instead takes it in, pans the scene, and decides for herself where she belongs.
Who orders tequila. Not to be bold, or cool, or performative, but because it fits. Because it’s precise. Because it’s hers, not his.
That’s what makes her untouchable.
Not mystery.
Not distance.
But the subtle, undeniable power of seeing things exactly as they are. And moving accordingly.
And if all else fails, at least there's tequila.
"never mistaking noise for meaning"
I love how this post is written, poignant and sharp!
it’s insane how good of a read this is. kudos babe