A REAL MAN

(Original Image by Abdullah Ali)

I am a coward.

Mandi called me out earlier in the evening. She spoke of the last time we had had sex, when I, feeling sicker than usual, had told her immediately after orgasm that I felt like I was dying. She really emphasized that last bit to hammer the point home.

She called into question my manhood, the implication being that a real man would have faced the consequences of his orgasm, whether it be death, eternal damnation, or clocking in late for work. And I, being a man, should have shut the fuck up post-coitus and sucked my air through a straw as the endorphins coursed their way through us.

I don’t know what inspired me to tell her. I only know that when I am honest with someone — too many for my own good — I am honest to the most extreme degree. If the seventh hair on my left ass cheek is itching then, by god, I’m going to let you know about it. So, when I tried to stand, then lumbered towards the bedroom window and braced myself against the wall to keep from falling over, that’s when I opened my big mouth, said the words, and sucked the life right out of the room… now she brings it up days later to remind me that I fucked up. That, while pathologically horny, I am a romantic clod that values honesty over romance, physiological analysis over consummate glow.

This is Man’s cross to bear, not just in the bedroom, but in all aspects of life. No matter how loving or empathic our partners appear to be, a real man is supposed to keep his goddamn mouth shut, no matter how bad things get. On rare occasions, we’re able to vent to other men about our feelings of malaise and inadequacy. But even this exchange must be limited, lest you be considered weak or whiny or insufferable.

The inevitable question one then asks is, if I can’t be completely open with my wife or lover, and I can’t be completely open with my friends or family for that matter, who the hell can I be completely open to? Well, my wayward friend, the best I can do is direct you to a mirror, and only between the hours of midnight and 4am; or, better yet, the living room with the television turned off so that you can see your sorry reflection staring back at you. Only then are you allowed to cry. Only then are you allowed to feel weak and vulnerable. Only then can you admit you have no idea what you’re doing, where you’re going, whether or not happiness will ever enter into the equation again.

Ralph Ellison, author of Invisible Man - perhaps one of the greatest novels ever written - had it right. The only time you can be yourself is by yourself. A wife, a lover, a friend, a family member, a coworker, a complete stranger… they do not want you as you are. They want the idea of you (to varying degrees), and even more so the idea of themselves through your adoring eyes. It is not their fault. It is simply our nature, and a real man must abide.