The Epitome of Masculinity

“Most men lead a life of quiet desperation.” –Henry David Thoreau

 

“It’s true. It’s true.” –Kurt Angle

A girl once called me the Epitome of Masculinity. She had huge tits, so it's got to be true.

Girls with huge tits can't lie. And if they do, it doesn't matter. Because they have huge tits. Which is all that matters.

And holy moley, did these tits matter. I’m not talking about just any big tits. I’m talking massive, mammoth mammaries. I'm talking reinforced 8-hook bra, backbreaking boobs. The kind of boobs that haunt your dreams. The kind of boobs where you find out that she finally caved and got reduction surgery, and you weep like you've lost your best friend—even though you never touched them or saw them in all their naked glory, never knew if they were tipped with tiny rosebud nipples or giant dark salami-slice nipples—because it was good just to know they existed, and the world is a sadder place without them.

I first met her boobs in class when I literally got lost in her cleavage. The professor was droning on about Gilgamesh or something, when I spotted them across the table, swaddled in a soft, low cut sweater and firmly supported by what appeared to be a black lace bra. The dark crevasse between them seemed to go on forever. What treasures could be down there, I wondered. Could a man live in that space, surrounded by warmth and softness, cradled by firm yet yielding flesh? I was falling, deeper and deeper into the dizzying abyss between those luscious lobes, when I got the sense there was something wrong. A tingling, not just in my pants but in the back of my mind.

Reluctantly, I looked up and realized that the starer had become the stare-ee. She was looking right at me. And smiling! Now, a more confident man, and more importantly a more handsome man, might have taken this as a good sign. I did not. I choked. Literally. I just started coughing. Then I started taking meticulous notes about Gilgamesh, fifth king of Uruk. Did you know he rebuilt the temple of the goddess Ninlil? Very, very interesting, yes, much more interesting than staring down her shirt.

Her name was Suzanne and I think that name must make boobs grow. I've never met or heard of a Suzanne with an A-cup. Every Suzanne I’ve ever met has simply awesome tits. And no, I will not be naming my daughter Suzanne.

She told me her name after class when she actually approached me. But not to yell at me.

"What's the matter?" she said, "did I freak you out in there? Never had a girl smile at you before?"

"Um, no." I replied.

Smooth. Maybe if I'd said "not by such a beautiful girl," something could have happened. Or I could have been slapped. I didn’t know. Still don’t. I really wasn't used to girls smiling at me and I definitely wasn't used to them hitting on me. Which only now, 15 years later, do I realize is what might have been happening. Or was it? I still don't know. Like I said, not used to girls hitting on me.

Too bad. She was a redhead. Redheads aren't inherently trustworthy, like a girl with a great rack, but they are almost uniformly awesome. And when you combine a redhead with an unbelievable rack and tight pants—did I mention the tight pants—and a lower body that’s actually made for tight pants, well then...wow. You've got something special.

But all I got out of it was a friend. Which was still cool. Because while it was fun watching them hang, it was fun hanging with her. And when my friends and I started our comedy troupe, we brought her in as a stage manager.

There was a skit where I was supposed to play a girl but of course, all I did was put on a wig and a dress and speak with a high pitched voice. I still moved how I always moved, shoulders back and arms swinging, and sat how I always sat, sprawled back in a chair with my legs as far apart as possible and at least one hand on my crotch. I was very clearly a fat man in a wig and a dress. The guys tried to explain, but it wasn’t taking. Besides, it is not easy for a fat man to sit with his legs together.

And that's when she said it:

"Jack, you truly are the Epitome of Masculinity"

I took it as a compliment. A great compliment. But I wondered if it was true. Sure, I was a manly dude. Big shoulders, big balls, big ego, wouldn’t go to the doctor for anything unless a bone was sticking out. But I was no Ron Swanson. I didn't know anything about cars, how to fix them or or tell them apart. I couldn’t build anything. I’d only shot things in video games. I’d never chopped down a tree or skinned a deer or broken a pool cue over someone’s back—although in my defense, the other guy always backed down before it got that far. My biceps didn’t ripple, my belly did. So I wondered if I truly was as manly a man as she thought.

But then I realized that most of the manly things I worried about had pretty much gone away. Most men couldn't build anything. They couldn’t fight. They couldn’t use their hands on anything but themselves.

And now it’s gone even further than that. Men have gotten less manly, and we’re getting worse every day. We’re fatter, lazier, softer. We let our lawyers do the fighting. We drink wine instead of beer, eat vegetables instead of meat. We spend most of our days sitting in chairs, staring at screens. We still brag about cars, but now slow and ugly is better than sleek and powerful. We fill our medicine cabinets, not our liquor cabinets. We’ve never heard of the word discipline and neither have our kids. We think sports are just for fun, losers just as good as winners, so we leave work in the middle of the day to watch our kids stumble around in a circle chasing a ball in a game that no one even cares enough about to keep score. We’d rather be politically correct than just correct. If we get mad, we don’t say anything until we’re on an anonymous message board or our therapist’s couch. We’d rather touch our feminine side than an actual woman. We don’t need to be dragged to the mall anymore, because we can’t wait to find another top to go with the new pants that we just bought online to compliment the new shoes we bought last week. We have an army of immigrants to do all our difficult manual labor while we debate which celebrity “wore it better.” We do dishes instead of secretaries. We don’t hammer nails, we do them. We’ve got softer hands than our kids. We frost any hair that hasn’t already been ripped off by a tiny Asian woman. We put concealer on our zits. We take our coffee with sugar, chocolate, caramel and appropriately named whipped cream. Not dairy whipped cream of course, since we can’t even drink milk anymore because it might give us gas.

But not me. I don’t do (most of) those things. I’m still carrying the manly torch.

I burp.

I fart.

I laugh at farts.

I think it's hilarious to write "eat cock" in the snow (in 10-foot letters or small letters made of pee).

I fucking love professional wrestling.

Until the internet saved me, I’d pay to see a movie just for the promise of a glimpse of female nudity.

I love pie, apple or poontang.

Is it someone's birthday? Beats me.

I only recognize 10 colors. Including black and white, which aren't really colors

I wear the same jeans for weeks. Ok, months.

I only have 3 pairs of shoes (dress shoes, sneakers, boots). Wait, do flip flops count as shoes?

I only buy new shoes when the old shoes fall apart. Completely. Just because my sneakers have a hole by the toe doesn’t mean I can’t keep wearing them.

I do this because I'd rather be kicked in the balls than go shopping. Heck, I'll get kicked twice. Really.

The only moisturizer I need is water

I have more words for “breasts,” “vagina” and “penis” than Eskimos have for snow. 

I don't know anyone's eye color.

I have no idea what anyone wore to anything ever.

I hate talking on the phone.

I’m always right.

Grunt.

Yeah, pretty manly stuff. Sure, I could be manlier, and there are still way manlier guys out there, climbing mountains and building skyscrapers. But those guys are outliers, sadly a dying breed. I’m right in the middle, between the Alpha Males and the Barely Males.

And as I spend another 8 hours in an office chair, middle aged, fatter than ever and now also balder, I know there are still millions of guys like me. Guys driving a dull minivan through a dull marriage, taking care of their families and trying to maintain some semblance of manliness in a world of emasculation. Guys wishing they had turned right instead of left, lifted some weights instead of more beer, guys who can feel their lives slipping away as they dream of the life they always wanted. Yeah, we love our wives and families but even so, we can’t help thinking that our lives could be better, that we could be better.

So even though I’ve never clenched a knife in my teeth before diving into a raging river and even though there is currently more hair on my back than has ever been on my face, I truly am The Epitome of Masculinity.