"I have nothing to declare except my genius."
You, a Man, Have Questions
Self-image problems are just like exfoliating creams, bling, and “Delilah After Dark”: they’re not just for women anymore. Yes, we men too have fallen victim to a culture that celebrates physical attributes above all else. Don’t believe me? Turn on some reality TV. Count up all the pretty people. Now count up how many of them are actually smart, engaging, useful citizens of the world.
Exactamundo. That being said, we hear you have questions; furthermore, as is often the case with testosterone-inflected, crooked-brow queries, we can see that they are typed (i.e., screamed) entirely in caps:
1. AM I TALL ENOUGH?
2. AM I STRONG/MUSCLEBOUND ENOUGH?
3. AM I ENOUGH OF AN ALPHA MALE?
4. IS MY COCK BIG ENOUGH?
5. WHY DO I SMELL LIKE GARLIC?
These are the vaguenesses that vex our inner Hamlets like ghosts in the mist. Or like rabid squirrels gnawing on our emotional testes. Especially with regards to that fourth question.
According to a blind test a la Folgers Choice, 95 out of 100 people will posit that there are few things less sexy than a man who:
A. won’t take his shirt off during sex
B. would rather you felt, but didn’t really see his wiener
C. obsessively reads ass-wipe periodicals like GQ, Details, Maxim, the way some women read Cosmo, Glamour, and Marie-Clare, and then wonder why he’s not hot enough
D. won’t take his goddamn socks off during sex
Obviously there’s a problem here. So what exactly is it?
Your Beloved Author Would Like to Tell You a Story
Me, I come from a long line of cheerily hard-drinking Russian peasant folk. We’re all scrawny and blond, with features that suggest deep, brooding anger or an inclination to suddenly begin spouting out Shakespeare. And while no one in my family can find any proof of baldness, we all have exceedingly high hairlines. My forehead, for example, is large enough to screen a movie on. Imax, no less.
And then there is the matter of my ass. Or the distinct lack of one, as it were. I am quite sure that I, as all humans, was born with an ass. However, over the years, my ass, much like my hairline, has also receded into the ether of wherever it is that assorted body parts go. (I like to imagine a sort of celestial organ farm, where species from all over the universe come to be implanted with human hair, asses, breasts, and musculature.)
I have no ass. There, I said it. But it doesn’t really bother me. I mean, there’s not much I can do about having absolutely no ass. I can’t steal one from a bubble-butted guy. Well, not without him being awfully sore about the whole thing. And I can’t make one, unless I resort to wearing ass-falsies. And the idea of having silicone-baggie gluteal implants stitched into my hind regions isn’t terribly appetizing, nor is it cost-effective. Because I need that money for porn and Diet Shasta.
So what do I do about it? How do I cope with the stunning ignominy of my apparent asslessness?
Well, I take my cue from the Fonz. I sit on it.
The Body Impolitic
There are three versions of you. The first you is the hybrid image of what the culture around you has placed worth and value on, fed through your receptors, and etched into the recesses of your mind like Dali’s melting clocks. This is the artful you, the ideal you. It is a possible you, but not a likely one. This is the you that is mostly bald, but sprays on a daily coat of canned-hair, thinking it looks real. This is the you that sometimes has problems getting it up, but never lets ‘em down when it counts.
The second you is the image you fantasize about attaining. It is fed by the culture around you, as well as any and all stimuli you introduce to the equation yourself. This is the never-will-be you. This is the you that has a full, swarthy head of hair, and still looks good in a corduroy jacket; the you that never got turned away at the door; the you whose cock is so hefty that you require specially-engineered trousers just to go out in public.
The third you is the you that everybody sees. Well, everybody, that is, except for you. If you have a six-pack, they’ll see the six-pack. If you’re Joe Six-Pack, they’ll see that too – at least the magistrate will, as Joe Six-Pack is a notorious bar-brawler. This is the you that’s just bald. This is the you that sometimes needs a little extra help in getting it up. This is the you that’s just you.
Your Beloved Author Would Now Like to Answer All Your Questions, from The Book of Man
Let’s revisit those questions, shall we?
AM I TALL ENOUGH?
If you can reach the beer on the top shelf of the fridge, you’re doing just fine.
AM I STRONG/MUSCLEBOUND ENOUGH?
Probably not. But in a few years, we’ll all have our own super-robots to take care of our more agonizing tasks. Like taking out the recyclables.
AM I ENOUGH OF AN ALPHA MALE?
Again; probably not. I have it on good authority that the Alpha Male mold was destroyed the day Steve McQueen died. Besides, we’re too ironic these days to be Alphas. Alpha Males hate irony. And Communists. But especially irony.
IS MY COCK BIG ENOUGH?
If your lover’s not sniggering at it, you’re probably okay. Besides, let’s be honest here –like, secret-of-life kinda of honest: only the most mediocre (at best) lover relies solely on his cock to provide pleasure to his partner, regardless of whether said cock is colossal, infinitesimally small, or gratifyingly average. Remember, boys – your biggest sex organ isn’t the one dangling betwixt your legs. It’s the one between your ears. Thought you might like to know.
WHY DO I SMELL LIKE GARLIC?
Because you don’t wash enough. You can be clean and still be a man. See – we do evolve – go figure!