1. When was the first time you remember being aware of masculinity? How old were you? What was the cultural climate or influence?

2. Do you think of yourself as masculine? Why or why not?

3. How does your masculinity relate to your sexuality (be it your orientation, preferences, or expressions)?

What I said, after the jump. . .

My professors’ insistence on clearly defining terms before beginning any discussion used to seem boring and largely useless.  Now, it seems incredibly important to communicate precisely and try and capture the essence of what we’re talking about.  But, before trying to pin down what the term means, or means to me, I will say that I didn’t think very seriously about the issue until I was twenty-four and lived in Manhattan.  I took two Women’s Studies courses my senior year of undergrad and we discussed the topic in a rather shallow manner.  It was mainly an exercise in condemning masculinity as oppressive in nature without really ever explaining what masculinity was.

I suppose my earliest understanding and use of the concept was as a way to describe men or women.  Applied to a man, the term indicates approval and a generally admirable nature.  I don’t really use the term now, but when I still put stock in it, I would have used it as a means of indicating that a man was the right sort, the type of fellow you could trust, or otherwise worthy of admiration.   Aimed at a woman, the term generally indicated she was the wrong sort, not to be trusted, or that I did not want to have sex with her.

Now, I don’t think the term really carries much useful information.  It is really broad and doesn’t seem to have a clear limitation.   My quick search on dictionary.com shows that “masculinity” is defined as having the characteristics commonly ascribed to men, such as strength or boldness. 

Could any word be more useless?  It is really just a screen for people to project their views of what a man ought to be.  I’m sure a lot of people waste ponderous amounts of time by trying to contrast masculinity with machismo.  One likely move is to claim that machismo is inauthentic masculinity, which is another way of saying that masculinity is an attribute of a man we like.  Machismo belongs to the fellow we’d rather burn.  These lines seem pretty useless and are likely to be redrawn by most anyone who visits the subject.  Then, there could be extended fighting over where the line should be.   Any distinction here is ephemeral. 

Consider how the term is used with male androphiles.   The term is deployed in the negative to describe a man with mannerisms and speech patterns belonging stereotypically to gay men.  For example, “Chris Crocker is not very masculine.”  Even then what’s really meant is that the speaker thinks that Chris Crocker is an androphile.  Even in this context, the term is pretty useless, Chris Crocker has characteristics commonly ascribed to men such as strength and boldness.  He stood up for Britney Spears when others were trashing her.  It would be much clearer to just describe him as having stereotypically homosexual speech patterns and mannerisms.

Chris Crocker aside, I don’t feel more or less masculine because of my sexual preferences because I don’t feel like the concept really means anything.  Sexually, I am very turned on by flipping the traditional gender dominance hierarchy upside down.   I don’t link my sexuality or bedroom preferences to my conception of myself as a man.  I have a dick and that seems enough evidence of my masculinity.  That dick gets hard when a girlfriend slaps my ass or grabs my head and forces my mouth down on her clit.  I don’t feel like “less of a man” or otherwise diminished when she ties me to the bedpost and does unspeakable things to me.  I don’t feel like the world is right and my status is regained when I climb on top and power-fuck her into oblivion.  What I do feel is lust and pleasure and a warm happy contentment when I orgasm and curl up to cuddle.

When she started keeping me later than everyone else, I assumed it was because she depended on me for quality work.  The relationship I had with my girlfriend was already on the rocks and after three Friday nights at the office she made the decision for me.  When my girlfriend became my ex, I told Vicky about it and she offered to take me out for drinks.

We hit the bar across the street and Vicky really poured it on.  I hadn’t planned to drink very much, but she ordered me an Irish Car Bomb as soon as we sat down and kept the shots coming.  I should have known  what was on her mind from the way she sipped her single glass of wine and kept ordering me shots.  I had forgotten all about the girlfriend after thirty minutes of drinks.  When Vicky’s hand brushed across my thigh, it shot a wave of lust through the rest of me.  Vicky was hot, but I’d always thought of her as my boss.  I guess I worked harder for her than I would for a lot of other bosses because I definitely wanted her to like me.

Vicky slipped the company card to the bartender and let her fingers keep walking up my thigh.  My dick had never been harder.  We went back to the office and fucked like animals on top of the conference room table.  Afterwards, I was still too tipsy to drive so she took me home with her and we made love again.  This time, we stretched it out and I sobered up as I was going down on her.  One second, I’m enthusiastically licking her clit and the next second, I realize that i was enthusiastically licking Vicky’s clit!  A pang of fear set in and I quickly accommodated when Vicky’s hand directed my mouth to different parts of her anatomy.

I woke up cuddling her and with a hard on.  I didn’t really know what to do, so I just kept spooning and tightened my arms slightly.  When Vicky woke, she discovered my predicament and giggled.  Lying on her back, she grabbed my dick and pulled me on top her so that I straddled her stomach.  When she asked me to jerk off and come on her tits, I eagerly obeyed.  When she asked if I would lick them clean for her, I gulped, but did what she wanted.  It was humiliating.

Vicky was hot, but a good eight years older than me.  I ordinarily wouldn’t have gone for her, but she was my boss and I needed the job.  After using my tongue as a jizz-rag, she drove me back to my car, winked, and told me she’d see me at work on Monday.

Monday and Tuesday were normal enough, but when Wednesday arrived, I discovered Vicky had cleared my schedule.  I and everyone else thought I was being sent across town to attend a meeting, but once in the car, my blackberry started buzzing and I discovered Vicky had made an appointment for me at her Spa.  All I knew was that I had a 10am appointment with Ms. Raines.

Ms. Raines let me in on the surprise.  Vicky had been kind enough to prepay for a male Brazilian.  Ms. Raines had the wax heated up and acted as if I should have been expecting it.  Stunned by Vicky’s audacity, I followed Ms. Raines into the back room where an incredibly painful process began.  It hurt.  It hurt alot!  I’d never felt anywhere near as exposed and violated, but when it was over, Ms. Raines gave me an ointment to use and asked if I’d like to schedule a follow-up in 4-6 weeks.  I told her I’d have to get back to her.

When Friday came, Vicky asked me to stay late again…

Still, one night stands out in my mind.  Marcy and I had enjoyed a few glasses of wine at the restaurant down the street from her flat when she slid a deceptively slim looking box across the table.  It was black and wrapped with a single gold ribbon tied in a bow.  We made eye contact and while holding my gaze she told me to go to a bathroom stall, open the box, and follow the instructions.

Marcy and I had a good thing going on.  I wasn’t about to say no.  We’d been dating for a while and I’d promised her that I would do anything that wasn’t outside my boundaries.  I’d more than promised her, I’d guaranteed I’d agree to anything that didn’t run afoul of my three P’s: perilous, public, or permanent.  Of course, I interpreted the peril part broadly to exclude anything dangerous or unsafe.  Still, I was a man of my word and I retreated to the bathroom with the box in hand.

Thankfully the place was empty and the stall was clean.  I settled down and unwrapped the box.  She’d put a lot of thought into the night.  Her instructions were typed and clear.  The box contained a slightly daunting looking butt-plug and a small vial of lubricant.  I followed her instructions quickly.  I made sure the colon was clear, lubricated the black silicone plug, and began to force it in.  As I struggled to push myself past the thickest point and onto the narrower bit between the plug itself and the flared base, another guy walked into the bathroom and started pissing at the urinal.  Thankfully my feet were positioned ordinarily in case he chanced a look under the stall.  I got the plug in pretty quickly at that point, re-tucked my shirt and went to wash my hands.

It felt incredibly odd, standing around with this thing inside me, washing my hands and pretending like everything was normal.  It was transgressive and I’m sure I probably looked a little flustered, even slightly flushed, but I don’t think the fellow noticed.  I was safely protected by the common masculine code.  Thou must not look at another man whilst in the restroom.  Unfortunately, these stable rules didn’t protect me as I walked back to the table.

As instructed, I winked at her while walking my way back to let her know I had it in me.  She laughed and suddenly the plug started buzzing and vibrating inside me.  The surprise flashed across my face and she laughed harder, showing her teeth and tossing her hair.  She used the wireless remote to turn it off as I sat down.  When the waiter approached and asked if we’d like dessert, she fired it up again and I fumbled my words, eventually managing to tell the man that we’d just like the check.

She’d had the evening well planned and enjoyed the level of control she had.  I was ready to go home and fuck, but she wanted to hit a bar or two and get me a little drunker.  Every place we went she’d keep goosing me from the inside while we talked to waitstaff.  She kept my cock so hard that the clear imprint tented my pants and made me nervous that my conspicuous erection would draw attention.

Finally we got back to her place.  She flipped the switch turning the vibrating plug on its strongest setting and tossed the controls across the room.  We practically attacked each other.  Kissing, licking, slurping and losing clothes while tumbling towards the bed.  In a moment, I had nothing but my boxer briefs and only her panties remained.

This is where she paused the action and took charge, ordering me onto my knees and lashing my hands and forearms together before tying them to the front of the bed.  When asked, I drew up on my knees with my ass quivering up in the air.  It was a pretty vulnerable position with my elbows and forearms flat on the bed and bearing most of my weight.  I couldn’t move much as she traced her fingers over my legs and back and pressed the palm of her hand flat against the base of the plug.  She used that pressure to rotate it around inside  me.  Groans and gasps escaped my lips.

Peeling my boxer-briefs off was a relatively simple affair.  I lifted one leg and then the other.  Then, they were gone.  Suddenly, I realized how incredibly vulnerable my position was and how much of a slut Marcy had made me.  Still, it wasn’t about to end.  

Marcy held the base of the plug with one hand and slapped my ass, with the other.  She knew exactly what she was doing and it hurt.  She alternated, striking first with her palm and then again with the back of her hand.  She was able to slap twice as much with just one hand.  Involuntarily, the pain began driving me forward,  but Marcy held the plug still.  She just kept beating my ass until I inched forwarded enough to draw myself off the plug.  That’s when Marcy’s real plan became clear.

She pulled out her dildo, a silicone toy somewhat larger than the plug I’d just escaped.  It was lubricated and ready to go.  Marcy held the tip against my sphincter and instructed me to push back and fuck myself on it until I got all the way down.  She left one hand on the small of my back and the other holding the dildo still so I never once indulged myself in the illusion that I was in control.  Once I made it all the way down on the back end, she started whacking away at my ass again, cruelly using the pain to drive me forward and off of her dildo.  

It was out of me and I was quivering from the pain.  I didn’t expect her next move though.  Instead of making me fuck myself on it again, she suddenly jerked my ankles up and left me completely prostrate while tying my ankles to the posts at the foot of the bed.  Once I was thoroughly spread eagle, Marcy asked me if I loved her.

Confusion shot through my mind.  We’d never dropped the L-bomb before.  I mean, we’d dated for a while but I didn’t think either of us was ready to start using that term.  I stammered a bit and then felt a powerful swat from the small leather whip we played with descend on my ass.  I couldn’t get a word out, the only sounds I could make were yelps of pain.  She paused caressed my ass and asked me again.  I hesitated and the barrage of blows renewed.  When she stopped, I could feel her caressing my ass and sliding the plug back in.  This time, I answered without reservation and told her I loved her and that I would do anything she wanted and that I was completely her slut.

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There in the capsules for a reason folks.  It tasted horrible, but I drank it anyway.  I look about the same in the mirror, but haven’t been able to shake the taste.  The things I’ll do to feel sexy.

Then again, it may just be that most biologists are doods and gynephiles. I dunno though, I think everyone agrees that women are much better looking.

Just clicky clicky and everything will be okay.

Really all we know is that male androphilia and increased fecundity in women are strongly correlated.  I’m wondering if women with the gene expressing itself lust more strongly and fuck more vigorously.  

Though, finding a way to date women with gay siblings will be pretty difficult.  My gay friends don’t have any single sisters that I know of.  Their sisters seem to be married and having kids already…   I suppose I could wingman at some gay bars and use my novel theory to try and con gay guys into introducing me to their sisters.  That’s likely to get me slugged.  

Another wrinkle, if I linked up with a woman who was very androphilic and carried the gene for it, it would likely get passed to my children.  Sure the sex life would be amazing, but my children would probably all love the cock.  I’d be left alone as the sole gynephile. Though, I suppose I could bond with the in-laws.

Things to ponder.