Tim Dowling read Samantha Brick's article in the Daily Mail about women resenting her beauty and knew just how she felt. Here, he tells how men hate him for being too handsome

Last week I was waiting at a bus stop when an attractive younger woman reached out, touched my elbow and pointed at a pound coin lying on the ground near my foot.

"That yours?" she asked.

"Probably," I said. "My keys sometimes make a little hole in my pocket." She giggled nervously as we both glanced down at my slim-fit chinos. I blushed a little as I bent over, with her watching, to retrieve my money.

You're probably thinking: "What a selfless act of random kindness!" It may have been kind, but it was hardly random. Ever since the hole appeared just after Christmas, this has been a regular, almost weekly occurrence.

As a fit, good-looking man I'm used to women coming up and finding excuses to talk to me, to touch me. In fact, if I had a pound coin for every time it happened, well, you can do the maths. Don't forget to factor in all the pounds I would have lost if those women hadn't said anything.

This other time, when I was caught travelling on a peak-time train with an off-peak ticket, the (female) train manager smiled and said to me: "I should charge you the full single peak rate, sir, but this time I'll just charge you the difference." My savings, in this case, amounted to nearly £12.

It's not always about money, though. There was the lady on a flight to New York who, apropos of nothing, suddenly turned and offered me a breath mint. Just last November a woman I've never met stopped me outside a supermarket to give me a poppy. The incidents may be varied, but the reason is always the same: my exceptional outward appearance. While I admit I'm no Philip Schofield, I'm tall, slim, brooding – and very easy on the eye.

If you're a woman reading this – or, more importantly, looking at the pictures – you will know exactly what I'm talking about: you probably feel like telling me there's a wasp near my hair, just so you can reach out and muss it up a little.

If you're a man, on the other hand, you've doubtless already formed an opinion about me. You almost certainly find me a threat – a threat to your career, your relationship, your masculinity. It's not something many men will dare to speak publicly about, but being terribly, terribly handsome is a double-edged sword. For every female Starbucks employee who made it her business to remember my name, there was a male employer telling me to do up my top three shirt buttons in the office. I can't tell you how many male acqaintances have stopped speaking to me over the years for petty "reasons" (unpaid debts, being alleged source of unpleasant rumour, refusal to appear as character witness), when jealousy is the transparent cause. I'll probably never know how many women have been too intimidated by my looks to talk to me, but I know exactly how many men have been angered enough by my face to try to punch it.

I don't invite the attention. I've come to dread the sarcastic, whispered comments in the gym about my physique, my chiseled jaw, my loose-hanging tank tops. At times I've found it so stressful that I've even taken steps to play down my physical beauty. I tried wearing a hoodie all day, but they wouldn't let me into Harrod's food hall, where the lady at the cheese counter sometimes gives me free samples, even though I hardly ever buy anything. More recently I decided to grow a beard, just to blend in with "normal" men. It helps a little, but there are only so many parts of a face a beard can cover. You can't grow hair on soulful, beseeching eyes, for example. Also, stuff gets caught in a beard – food, small leaves, postage stamps – which just gives women another excuse to strike up a conversation, and their jealous partners another reason to roll their eyes.

Perhaps you're quite a good-looking bloke yourself, and have experienced a fraction of the bastardness I've encountered at the hands (and once or twice, the boots) of insecure, embittered males. Maybe you can in some small measure empathise with how difficult it is to live in a society where a man is constantly expected to look his best, but is then punished for looking better than anyone else. Is it any wonder that Piers Morgan has moved to the US?

I know some people (men) will feel obliged to cast aspersions on my looks – believe me, I've heard it all before – but I won't apologise for the truth. I can already anticipate the global backlash my courageous honesty will generate: the nasty tweets, the threatening emails, the bad-mouthing from Jeremy Vine (it's beneath you, Jeremy, it really is). That won't stop me. I'm prepared to meet my critics face to face, on social media, to put my case. I've dug down and exposed an issue very few gorgeous men are prepared to talk about. And I intend to keep right on digging. After all, your hatred only proves my point.