Oh Henry, what a pity you're not gay. Gay men see this ever so readily and more forcefully. Where straight men have to limit their attraction, avert their gaze, sublimate their fascination with masculinity, gay men embrace it. The power of the male stems from the very thing that makes them male, that defines masculinity itself-- the power of life. From the man comes forth women and men yet no woman carries any trace of the male form within her. We men are naturally the dual sex and, when gay, capable of transcending both.
I think it no mystery that men take life as readily as they seek to create it. We are the irresistible force, the yang, the active, where women are the ever yielding, the yin, the passive. We scourge and run as the violent tornado while they wave and bend but do not break like the blade of grass over which the tornado passes.
As I see men, I marvel at the heart-breaking beauty of us in our youth, sometimes beautiful, sometimes awkward, rarely realizing either. We rush and play and fight and break acting to define our world on our terms, and then just as we might think we have it, adolescents breaks us all over again, tearing our childhood out from underneath us, forcing us to become men, branding us with white hot sexual urges as we lie in our beds naked with straining erections and dark frightening thoughts of how to relieve them. Then we discover the joy of the eruption, the deep wave of the orgasm, and realize much to our too young delight that we're now packing live ammunition. We may not be men, but we can do what any other man can do. In that interregnum, in that netherworld of neither boy nor man, we learn to define ourselves to sever our ties to our parents and stand alone. We examine the men around us, learning from them not so much what they say, but how they live, what we imagine them to be like. Without those men, many boys fall back upon each other and live out short lives defined by the excesses of men: sex, drugs, and violence in the hope that they will prove to be the best man warrior of their tribe.
Surviving that, we leave the last world, entering a new one, proving ourselves against each other and against women too in the working world. We set aside friendships to compete and compete and compete again, taking relief in sex and friends, yet competing with them as well. We build houses, lives, fortunes, gain status and the trappings of status, never showing weakness, never forgetting we are our own last refuge. If we do not believe in our own power, no one else will. In that time we take mates and put our still raging cocks to their purpose, seeding the fertile wombs of lovers and wives, creating life, being men making new men. In those days we work harder, colder, with greater care and desire to compete for families come first. Home comes first, my home comes first, not yours. We become our own monoliths, our own source of strength, sometimes lovingly tended by family, sometimes to lose them when we become monoliths within.
Yet through all that we sense in ourselves an endless awesome power that defines our sex. We are the warriors, the creators, the logicians, the engineers, the brilliant minds that define nearly all of humanity's great achievements. A man invented the gun, a man wrote Hamlet, a man led the Golden Horde to conquer the world, a man became the savior of a great religion, a man invented the computer, a man painted the Sistine Chapel, a man cured polio, a man first walked on the moon, a man created the atom bomb. Our facets seem endless because we see no limit to our desire, no biological clock, no social inferiority. On occasion when women enter into the realms of men, we look askance, we look down, and the woman who proves herself fit to be among them will take on the characteristics of the man. Ask a man whom he respects more, Betty Friedan or Hildy Johnson, Hilary Clinton or Margaret Thatcher, Queen Elizabeth II or Queen Elizabeth I; it will always be the women who thinks more like a man. The reason for that is not so unfathomable either. Either a woman is your mother, your sister, a little girl, or a crone. Any other woman is fair game to fuck and men think about fucking constantly. Soon as a man sees a woman he immediately assesses her fuckability quotient and any woman who is truly fuckable becomes an object of desire. With her, the man must be in control, he must lead, he must dominate, because if he can't then his cock won't respond and he can't fuck so she becomes a bitch, a lesbo, a Lorena Bobbit, a whore. We may be graceful, we may be powerful, we maybe the sharpest of intellects but we are always sexually raw when we admit our true nature.
Germaine Greer called testosterone, "... a rare poison," we call it the source of all that it is to be male. Both are right. With it we can fuck and fart and scratch and belch and not give a damn about our hair or what the fashion is. We can lay out on the beach with our legs wide open and love the gentle carress of the breeze against our warm and heavy hanging balls, we walk feeling the swing of our manhood in our jeans, running our hands along our whiskered faces, feeling sweat drip down our hairy chests. Our bodies are animal. Then there is queer sight, the eyes that sees beyond, the eyes that openly stare at men in open and defiant lust, worships the cock, the mouth that drinks their essence, both fucks and submits to be fucked exclusively by them, one animal fucking another animal who is just as capable of fucking them back. The dynamic in hot male on male sex is electric in the clash of two positive poles forcing themselves together despite resistance, deadly as two black widows mating, each together riding a single wave of male energy that rises so quickly the air becomes thick with testosterone. In those instances we become female, then male, then female again, and back to male. It is all one-on-one, man-on-man, cock on cock. You breed your boy, you brand his hole, you fuck daddy hard, you match his thrusts with your own and together you explode your seed, actually create physical witness to the fuck, to the blow job, to your passion. Dripping from the end of your cock is the most precious stuff your body makes because it's you. Your essence, your genes, you and nobody else's. That it is even there means you grunted it out when you were at your most vulnerable, that you trusted someone just enough to share it. Yet for as precious as that seed is, we drop it everywhere from public toilets to paper tissues, to the floors of seedy bookshops and inbetween the pages of stashed porn, even inside people we couldn't care less about. We can make sperm our greatest gift or our most annoying byproduct; our eucharist or our garbage.
"Yet, there's a place where no [straight man] can see. We [straight men] are repelled by it, terrorized. It is said a [gay] man will come one day and find in the gift of the drug his inward eye. He will look where we cannot — into both feminine and masculine pasts." - Reverend Mother of the Bene Gesserit (paraphrased).
