So you suffer from this modern disease of being an average privileged white male. Heir of the western civilization. And you are chronically attracted to women. Well, you’re not so average, you say. Not so privileged as it may seem. And though you’re as white as Columbian coke, you’re certainly not as masculine as some of them cowboys you’ve seen in the movies. As for the civilization thing, you find yourself on the very frontier of the Wild East. But damn sure you’re attracted to women. You like them, you love them, you care about them, and you treat them with respect. As long as they don’t fuck with you. Metaphorically. In fact, you like them both physically and intellectually. You like them rough, you like them soft, you like them red, blond and brown, you like them tall, you like them short, you prefer them slim, but not as much, because fluffy is healthy, and you like them shaved, and you like them hairy, you like them tight, you like them deep, you like them smart but you accept them silly, you like them bitchy and you like them subtle. You love them at your place, sometimes at theirs, you love them on the couch and in the church, in the kitchen, in the dressing room, in the closet, in the toilet, on the stairs when everyone stares, in rain and on the train, all in vain, over the hills and far away, in the park, why not, damn it, even on the desert. You like their sense and sensibility, their pride and prejudice, their jane ass teen.
Either this is what Mother Nature made you or you just grew up watching too much of James Bond. Nature vs. Culture. But then again it doesn’t really matter for this is what you are. And what you are is not necessarily what women want. You may consider yourself quite male-efficient, however, most of the times, it turns out you’re just maleficent. Now, that’s a killer pun to hit you in the face. You try so hard to fulfill that unattainable ideal of manhood, the knightly phantasm you thought was desirable for it seemed to work out quite well for the special agent 007 so aptly castrating all those impotent mad scientists from the Soviet Union.
So you learn to speak five languages, you play the guitar, you ride a motorbike, you quote Shakespeare, you lift, you practise muay thai, you know how to box, you grapple a bit and, don’t be too modest, you are quite handsome, you dress well, you are one smartass and dude, admit it, you know how to kiss. Besides, you are quite good at hyperbolizing your own qualities.
And you keep saying that sex, as one subversive Victorian dandy would state, is only an excuse for kissing. But it is not. It may be the very essence. This is yet to be explored. So you end up knowing shit. You question your own identity, your blown masculinity. And anything you say – always apologizing, explaining yourself, for you’re an honest man, you say what you think – is offensive, sexist, dirty, childish, foolish, insensitive, evil, and barbaric.
To Whom It May Concern, let us speak up. Let us explain the shit out of manliness.
Let us speak aloud for what we are men-to-be.