“We should watch that new show Sexy Beasts together,” Matt said. “It’s very demisexual.”
While it is not uncommon for us to describe particular people as “very demisexual” (e.g. “Wow, the host of the podcast I’m listening to just used the word ‘recalcitrant’ in casual conversation and I’m way more attracted to her now; god, I’m so demi”), it’s rare for me to hear a piece of media described this way, so I was intrigued.
Brief demisexuality explainer incase you don’t know what that word means: it’s an identity on the asexual spectrum. Demisexual people, like me, don’t develop sexual attraction until an emotional connection has formed, or at least until they feel like they know the person in question beyond a surface-level familiarity.
And yes, Sexy Beasts is an exceedingly demisexual piece of media.
If you haven’t seen it, it’s a Netflix reality show where, in each episode, a protagonist has to choose between 3 potential dating prospects, first going on “speed-dates” with all 3 of them, then eliminating one contestant and going on longer dates with the remaining 2. Then, at the end, they reveal who they’ve picked as their “sexy beast,” i.e. the person with whom they are going to walk off into the sunset and, presumably, date for real (although it seems like most of these relationships didn’t actually work out IRL).
However, here’s the twist: all 3 contestants, and the person choosing between them, are dressed up in horrendous prosthetics, wigs, masks, etc. that make them look like animals, or mythical creatures, or extraterrestrials. Only at the end of the episode, once elimination decisions have already been made, do the contestants (and the audience) get to see what everyone looks like behind the mask. It is wild (pun semi-intended).
The idea is to force these singles to get to know each other’s personalities, senses of humor, values, and so on, without being biased by anyone’s looks. I don’t know how well the show actually achieves this goal, especially considering that some people’s costumes are dramatically uglier than others’, but it’s an interesting effort nonetheless.
Watching this show while high (which I would recommend, unless you’re easily frightened) led me to reflect on how much its goofy structure actually felt similar to my dating life as a demisexual person. Of course, when I meet new romantic/sexual prospects, I can assess whether they’re conventionally attractive, physically speaking – but the question of whether I’m attracted to them is much more nebulous at the beginning, to the point that they might as well be dressed as a panda or a dolphin like some of the folks in this show. The “big reveals” at the end of each Sexy Beasts episode hit the same emotional beats as the moments, a few dates in, when I look at the person across from me and suddenly think, “Whoa. I want to fuck you. That’s new.”
One thing that’s hilarious about Sexy Beasts is that, despite everyone’s constant fretting that their dates are gonna be ugly under their disguises, every contestant is TV-level gorgeous, or at least cute. As silly as this seems after watching multiple episodes, I have to say that I much prefer it to the alternative, which presumably would’ve been to cast some people who are considered conventionally “ugly” just to raise the stakes of the whole shebang. We don’t need that shit. This is 2021. Body-shaming and “ugly”-shaming was never acceptable but it would feel especially out-of-touch right now, IMO.
But that said, this aspect of the show actually makes it feel even more like a demisexual fantasy. Of course the lovebirds at the end of each episode react with gleeful shock at each other’s hotness; they’ve already established a rapport, a connection, which (for demisexuals especially) can make hotness radiate from a person’s pores no matter what they look like.
The process of developing that attraction can be gradual, like a dimmer switch, or more sudden, like a lightbulb going on. It’s like seeing a frog transform into a prince. Or a weird prosthetic owl transforming into a beautiful human.