Posted on 5/15/2014 by Daddy Will

mas•cu•lin•i•ty (m s ky -l n -t ) n. pl. mas•cu•lin•i•ties 1. The quality or condition of being masculine. 2. Something traditionally considered being characteristic of a male. (note: I feel sure that despite the above definition we have all had at least one aunt or girl cousin that was often referred to as being somewhat “mannish,” even prior to her unfortunate hysterectomy and resulting nosedive into menopause.)

I’ve labored over writing about this topic for the past three weeks.   Thus far I’ve accrued a folder full of first drafts, covering masculinity from both humorous and philosophical points of view.  I’ve explored my thoughts regarding my views of masculinity from the perspective of physical characteristics that I find attractive and also examined the personality and character traits that appeal to me.

I’ve written, rewritten, edited, fretted and sweated and in so doing it dawned on me that I was indulging in one of the behaviors that I find least masculine simply by complicating the situation, perpetuating my insecurity regarding my ability to be understood and thus defying the primary components that impress me as the epitome of masculinity and that is; simplicity and a sense of self confidence.

I’m attracted to simple men.  This is not to say that they need be of low intelligence or sans intellect. Au contraire, there is probably nothing sexier than a man that is capable of reasonable and rational thought, creating informed opinions and the passion to defend them. Of course if said man also possesses certain simian features of lesser primates and the appetite of a knuckle dragging Neanderthal in the boudoir then I’m already shopping for new china, nothing too fragile of course.

Now, as for self-confidence, let me state here that I am not speaking of arrogance; there is a distinct difference.  Daily, I’m faced with what may well be incredibly handsome men, yet they choose to navigate the world with an angry scowl. Perhaps they believe that this makes them appear aloof and mysterious, when in fact they just look rather unhappy, unapproachable and terribly constipated.  I’ve personally learned that it’s prudent to offset any antagonistic side effects of my own testosterone replacement therapy with plenty of fiber and an occasional stool softener.

The type of simplicity that I’m speaking of is displayed by a man that doesn’t get too bogged down in the details and petty minutia of day to day life, a man that’s not easily discouraged and disappointed when the cheese slips off his cracker.  I want to be in the company of a man that has a positive outlook, a man that wakes up and greets the day with joyous expectation rather than a sense of dread. Then again, if he should happen to have a dread locks then I’m willing to overlook any number of faults.  I want a man that doesn’t feel put upon or punished and has no need to stomp around when everything doesn’t go his way.

I don’t care how butch and masculine a guy is, if he has a fit because he missed the 1030am cut-off time for an Egg McMuffin, blaming the employee behind the counter, whom he feels a need to point out earns minimum wage, as opposed to owning the fact that his own lack of planning and penchant for the SNOOZE button was the cause of this earth shattering predicament. I have no use for him.  In fact, I have little use for any man that blames rather than take responsibility for his own actions and their consequences.

When you relegate responsibility, you abdicate the power to change the situation. This is not a masculine trait.

There is also nothing masculine about a man that assumes being critical and cynical is somehow a reflection of discernment and exquisite taste.  The attitude of “been there, done that” and a sense of contempt for the world, what it has to offer, and the small pleasures of others is not at all manly. It is not urbane or a sign of sophistication. It’s actually quite tedious and boring. A real man is able to roll with the punches. I don’t care what his profession is or his economic circumstances are.  Give me a sissy hairdresser that can face life on life’s terms over a firefighter that gets his panties in a knot over a kink in his hose.

I did a little survey of my Facebook friends regarding the traits they find masculine. Of course being Facebook and a public forum, they all answered with a bevy of altruistic measures of character such as honesty, integrity, loyalty and courage, humanistic traits that are desirable in any person regardless of their gender or sexual orientation. 

I can only say that I happen to know some of these respondents (tramps) personally and am well aware that their main measure of a man is the size of his penis and his willingness to top.  I dare say his willingness to top outweighs his ability, propensity, or even skill in doing so.  Truth is, they wouldn’t actually give a damn if he was a psychotic, cross-dressing serial killer provided he could get it up, keep it up, and plow them senseless.  Hell, they wouldn’t even care if he had punctuality issues.  In fact, they’ve already had enough men fire the cannon prior to seeing the whites of their hungry bottom eyes, a tad of tardiness here would be quite desirable and welcome.

While I’ll pretty easily jump into bed with most anybody when I’m horny enough, there are times that intuition tells me to err on the side of caution and be a bit more selective. 

In this case, I general arrange to meet a man for a cup of coffee, careful to choose a location that is convenient for both of us but yet somewhat off the beaten path for me, as opposed to one of my regular haunts lest I appear too familiar with the locals. I don’t want to give the impression that I’m a bit of a whore and have nothing better to do than hang out and drink coffee all day (even though both facts are common knowledge and quite accurate). I also don’t want to afford my coterie of friends and acquaintances an opportunity to cast judgment on my latest acquisition or attempt to snatch him up for their own less than admirable purposes. 

I make it a point to arrive at least 20 minutes early so as to get the lay of the land, secure a good vantage point and be at the ready for his arrival so we can order coffee together.

You see, I want to witness him interface with the barista in order to see how he treats service people and whether or not he presents them with a litany of questions, requirements and stipulations regarding where the beans were grown, at what altitude, the pH balance of the soil, any possible presence of pesticides or herbicides, the integrity of the grower. He continues to question whether the beans were harvested by machine, an indigenous worker receiving fair pay or by some itinerant field hand from an adjacent village or neighboring third-world nation, and in either case whether or not said picker was circumcised.  He may then go on to question the caffeine content of the blend, darkness of the roast and whether or not the beans were roasted over an open fire and with what type of wood. Provided he’s not lactose intolerant, this inquisition will most likely be followed by a several questions regarding the quality of the milk used, and will certainly include it’s status of being organic and produced by cows of proper lineage that are free roaming and regularly tested for any use of steroids, hormones or antibiotics. This may be followed by exacting specifications regarding the temperature the milk is to be steamed to and the degree of foam that will cap off this creation. In the event the he is lactose intolerant you can expect a thorough exploration of all other options available not to mention his struggle to find the proper formula or probiotic supplements to calm his sensitivity.

Fortunately when it comes to sugar he’s more or less on his own and will be presented with a variety of choices at a little side bar. This, however, does not guarantee that they will have his preferred sweetener.

OK, all of this has taken longer than I generally allot for foreplay.   Seriously, I’m way too exhausted to want to fuck this clown.

Oh, and as far as him having at my ass? That so is never going to happen; he has already demonstrated that his refinement and ladylike standards eliminate him ever having the opportunity to plow my lower forty.  I rarely, if ever bottom, but when I do I don’t want to take the high hard one from a guy with his pinky extended. I’m just not that proper. Hell, I don’t even watch Downton Abbey.

Give me a simple man that orders a cup of coffee and exchanges a smile and a few pleasantries with those that are waiting on him.  Gimme a man with a sense of humor, and an ability to overlook that Maxwell House may be the café du jour.  I fear that a man that is too particular about the percentage of fat in his coffee creamer may also be concerned with his own body fat and thus my BMI.  No, thank you!I want a man that enjoys man-size portions of substantial food, that has no idea what a Port wine or balsamic reduction is, a man who is not going to be too terribly put out if the basil in the Marinara is of the dehydrated variety and not a chiffonade of some locally grown crop with a provenance that can be traced to Umbria. In fact, I don’t even want a man that can determine the difference between a chiffonade and a julienne and I’d actually be quite content if he’s unfamiliar with the term Marinara.  And if he is savvy of such lingo, please let him have learned it in a culinary class that he took in prison or as a condition of his work release program.

Oh, did I mention that having a good relationship with his parole officer is kinda hot?




Copyright 2010 by W.F. McConahy Terms Of Use  ·  Privacy Statement