Grindr? I hardly know her!

I'm sitting here staring at my keyboard, knowing that something wants to get out but not knowing how to let it.
It doesn't help that when I look down at the keyboard, it's only a slight tilt of the head to look at my body. Tight briefs and a pair of baggy shorts, my tuft of stomach hair, nipples (two, obviously) and my arms extended onto the desk. Yes, it's the usual view of myself from up here.
And this is going to be shockingly out of character for me to type, but I'm not satisfied with my appearance right now.
Luckily, I know why, and it isn't some stupid reason. Well, it is, but at least I can identify it and combat it. I hope.
Let's talk about Grindr, shall we? Grindr is a mobile application that effectively tracks any homosexual that is in your surrounding area. It comes up with a little picture of them, and it's basically a chat room that you carry around with you at all times that pinpoints locations. Think of it as a GPS where the G stands for gay. It's about as souldestroying as it sounds. A myriad of thirty plus men with their taglines as perverted sexual fantasies, a few younger guys desperately trying to justify being there, and of course, the 18-25 year olds who just want fucking. All the time. Nothing but it. Right now.
This application, combined with the gay youth forum I also use to augment my frankly pitiful social life here in Melbourne, construe approximately half of my human interaction. The other half is World of Warcraft. One social outlet where nothing but my appearance matters, and another social outlet where my appearance does not matter at all.
I am unsure how to cope with this utter separation. I find myself taking endless photos of myself, discarding them one after another. Pictures that would have satisfied me before are now not seen as 'good' enough - as if I am preparing bait, and the bait must be suitably appealing. I cannot fall back on my charming personality to smooth over an unfortunate physical perception - either I am seen as desireable, or I am not contacted. And, over time, the small satisfaction gained from desperate forty year old men who want my body lost appeal. I am content with my sex life - and my choice of partners; just because I haunt places full of old creeps does not mean I am fucking them - and yet I am not content with my body, and even flaunting it in front of ugly men will not prove to myself that it is enough.
This is a new and unsettling feeling for me. I hope university fixes this.
I seem to believe that university will fix everything. This cannot be good for me. Nothing works that way.
I have listened to Undenied by Portishead 57 times. This cannot be good for me either. That song is not conductive to a good mental condition.
I suppose its the lack of muscle, to be honest. I have never been one to go for muscle - in fact I usually hold muscle-bound individuals in contempt. I am not fat. I am not muscled. I simply...am, I guess. And up until now it was enough.
I will endeavour to remind myself that it is still enough.