When To Fight And When To Take A Beating

The young man and his girlfriend had parted ways in acrimonious circumstances. It was always a mismatch, but the pressures of adolescence were such that the gulf between them was filled with the vile interpositions of their classmates, who voyeuristically saw the relationship as a kind of soap opera for which they might have a hand in the script.

Teenagers are cruel animals and, if left unchecked, will revel in the sight of another’s public suffering. This group had hungered to witness, and had therefore worked hard to orchestrate, the couple’s loss of innocence. The physical aspect of love is something that must come when all parties are good and ready, and certainly not at the behest of the salacious mob. The girl, being of an easily led disposition, caved to the peer pressure and made a demand of the young man, despite his protestations. She would be in an out-of-the-way spot at a certain time, but where the crowd would have a splendid vantage point. All duly assembled, but the young man did not attend. A posse of girls were sent to summon him, and to drag him there if necessary, but the young man was intractable. The mere suggestion was abhorrent to him, and he stood his ground. Then came the ultimatum: if he did not respond within five minutes, the relationship was over. And so it ended. The trysts and entanglements of young passions are ephemeral things, fiery and fraught, full of hormone-fuelled emotional difficulty. They are over quick, but linger long in the conscience. The young man had fought, however passively, the bestial urges of his cohort, and felt a pang at their lack of humanity. He had surrendered the girl to them as their willing champion. Pyrrhic victory was his, but it was hollow.

Image from toothpastefordinner.com

Then came the bitterness. An onslaught of insults and depredations poured in the direction of the young man, who had satisfied his principles but angered the mob. Egged on by their disappointment, the girl launched a volley of invectives that lasted for a week. The boy remained silent for as long as he could endure, but driven to breaking point his character gave way and he summoned the worst insult his soul could muster. The words were aimed not at the girl, but at her mother. They were cruel words, designed to crush. The name-calling of children is an unimaginative business, but the more intelligent youngster can devise words to pierce the heart. As they left his lips he knew he had lost the high ground. He had surrendered to the level of his peers. Whatever happened now, he realised he had defeated himself. The girl was demoralised and went away to charge her anger. There would be blood.

The next day the young man stood in line waiting for his turn to go into the school dining room. The girl approached, jaw set, fists clenched. The young man turned his back in shame and she punched, hard, like a boy, three times in the back of the head and neck. The young man took these blows and turned to face the girl. Hands by his side he looked her in the eye, and then she swung at his face, splitting his lip, and making a colourful show of it. He did not speak, nor react. Another boy led him away to be cleaned up.

Feeling rightly punished, but also recovering some of his sense of character and propriety, the young man knew that was an end to it all. The girl had lost any right to compassion, and also put herself out of the reckoning so far as other suitors were concerned. The young man had learnt a lesson. Pushed to an extreme, he had faltered, but then recovered. It is a common cliché that one must learn from one’s mistakes. Of course, the unsaid but essential element of this axiom is that one must make mistakes in order to learn.

Sins of the Flesh

Not so long ago I introduced the first guest writer to Being Manly. It is now my pleasure to welcome my humble blog’s first guest artist, the venerable and manly Julian Peters, whose literary comic art is making a stir in Montreal. He has kindly lent me these four panels, on the Wicked Ankle Flasher of London Town, to accompany my text on The Sins of the Flesh.

Some moons ago I complained, under the good head of ‘I Like To Be Tied Up’, of the male throat’s loss of erotic status. This could be recovered, I postulated, by the universal adoption of the necktie, which would surely have the effect of sending those who lust after men wild with anticipation for the rare moments when top buttons are loosed. I have noticed some progress out there with regards to tying the knot, but the jury is still out as to its impact on the libido. I must now return to this topic, plunged as I am – like a celebrity neckline – into a culture of fleshly display, and bodily exhibitionism.

It is not only the Germans who have lost the primal instinct when it comes to the flesh. It is a general disease of the West that we are no longer titillated by suggestion, and must instead witness the brutal candour of sex and sexuality at every moment. Once upon a time, a sigh, a lengthened gaze, and a knowing look would have been enough to establish that television characters had done the deed. Now we would not be certain, and we demand the ocular proof. One can blame the internet, if one will, which has taken the shame out of purchasing pornography. Partakers of such things used to get a thrill from the mere daring of having to purchase their visual feast under the gaze of public scrutiny. This also kept up the shame levels, and I believe to some degree kept our baser natures in check. The internet has dispensed with all these balancing forces. The result is a whole new level of exposure, if you will, and now nothing short of the whole hog, sometimes literally, will do the trick. To be sure, the depths of the human imagination have always been plumbed, packaged and sold, for those few who had a taste for it. But now it seems to be the norm, and this is our loss.

 

Don’t mistake this for prudery. It’s really rather the opposite. We are sensual and thinking beings, and for as long as man has thought, he has known that eros and logos make for a heady cocktail. The greatest thing about humanity’s capacity for the erotic is its elevation above that which is merely animal. It is our sinking to the level of the beast that I decry, and the problem is just too much flesh, too often.

Never was a period more erroneously known for prudery than the Victorian Age. Here were men and women in a state of almost permanent arousal, for their taboos were so far-reaching. The merest improper suggestion could cause embarrassment; the slightest transgression of social inhibitions led to scandal. Quite self-consciously, all talk of sex was strictly censored, or else subject to censure. The only way safely to stay within these bounds was to make sure that one always kept them in mind. In short, Victorians thought about sex all the time. The slightest hint of sexuality sent shivers up the spine. An ankle here, a wrist there, a bat of the eyelids perhaps: any such thing sent a man – or a woman – into an internal frenzy. Just imagine what the bedroom scene must have been like, once all that passion was given an outlet.

In sum, taboos feed the imagination, and it is through our imagination that we thrive as humans. If all our mental capacities are denied to us through a too ready access to images of base animality, then base animals are what we shall become.

Daring to Speak Its Name

It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection. There is nothing unnatural about it. It is intellectual, and it repeatedly exists between an elder and a younger man, when the elder man has intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamour of life before him. That it should be so the world does not understand (Oscar Wilde).

The world did not, and does not, understand. How curious that the man identified with bringing homosexuality into the public sphere in modern times had a specific intellectual agenda to broadcast with respect to love. The public attempts to reduce the man’s reputation to the level of the gutter were met with references to poetry, philosophy and spirituality - to eros. And to where, might we ask, has this intellectual quotient disappeared?

I begin this entry knowing that I will displease some, but I have repeatedly been asked to write upon it, and can shirk the responsibility no longer. I wish, at the very least, to get one thing straight: men have always sought sexual intimacy with other men, but only very recently has this had anything at all to do with identity. Nothing within the pages of Being Manly is exclusionary, precisely because I believe that being manly is within the purview of any man, regardless of his physical persuasions, if he gives the matter due attention.

People have become very confused in recent years about what homosexuality means. Literally, it defines a sexual preference and nothing more. Unfortunately, a great burden has been placed upon men who desire other men to conform to a cultural standard, which sweeps up their sexuality with a gender identity, namely being ‘gay’ or ‘queer’. I have seen this happen: the public emergence as homosexual seems to entail a wholesale transformation of lifestyle, manners, morals and speech (especially intonation). I confess to being bewildered by this.

There are, within this culture, realities that sit at odds with what I tentatively call common decency. Please don’t mistake this sentence as prudish, bigoted or hypocritical. To my mind, it is just as lax and impolite for a heterosexual person to behave with wanton abandon, marking notches on the bedpost and publicly announcing, even flaunting, his promiscuity. I refuse to associate with straight men like this for they show a complete disregard for those who place discretion as a cornerstone of propriety. Unfortunately, just as in the case of the justly maligned macho man, many gay men feel an expectation to behave in this way – it is something of a cultural standard – and it does a great discredit to the many men who are sober, faithful partners (or who at least would appreciate fidelity), and who believe in the qualitative value of relationships, the bonds of love, and all the signs of an upstanding man in modern society. Discretion is the better part of valour. All men would do well to remember this, regardless of with whom they care to sleep.

Therefore, let us talk of love, come one, come all; but let us talk no more of unclothed activities, for they are and should be matters of the private life.

Time and A Place; or, Get A Room.

I am all for the romantic arts. ‘Courtship’, whenever that word gets wheeled out, seems unable to escape its epithet: ‘old-fashioned’. Since I care not for fashion, nor for passing fads, I think we ought to put period to this unfair appellation. The outward form of courtship may change with the times, but at its heart is a respectable romance and a foundation of politeness. It takes place in two settings, one public and one private. To observe a courtship in public is never to be outraged, never offended. The intentions of the lover are manifested subtly, through kindnesses and attentions. The responsiveness of the beloved is likewise demure, modest. The courtship is suggestive only insofar as eye contact, or the occasional kiss of the hand, lingers, barely perceptively, a little longer than it might otherwise. In private we may dispense with some of the formality, but to put too fine a point on it would be to undo it. It is private, after all.

I was sitting in my usual spot, working in the library. I have often thought that libraries are sexually charged places, but this has something to do with the impossibility of even verbal, let alone physical interaction. As I have said before, if one desires a frisson of excitement, it is to be found in restraint, in covering up, in patience. The mind must not be deprived of its imaginative work by feasts of the eye! Yet even the hushed halls of places of learning crumble against the pressure of an uncouth culture, beating its walls from within and without.

The Place Where I Sit. Almost.

Immediately to my right, with her back to me, a woman was working away. At first, I only noticed the ear plugs: sad testimony to the inevitable noise. Well, thought I, at least I won’t have any trouble from her. Until the man arrived. As she plucked out her earplugs, I noticed the rest of her, entirely clad in black, tight work-out gear. Her nether woman was barely covered, and in the gap between the top of her sweat pants and the bottom of her t-shirt (about ten inches), her rather skimpy underwear made an unwelcome appearance. She smiled a come-to-bed hello at this unexpected visitor, who kissed her on the mouth – somewhere between friendly and obscene. She pulled the pins out of her raven hair and shook like a wet dog in a shampoo ad. He sat beside her, much preening and many eyes being made. They then proceeded to ‘talk about work’, each with one hand pointing at respective computer screens; academic and intellectual interest being feigned. His other hand made a bid for her shoulder, thereafter sliding down her back and lingering on the aforementioned lingerie. Looping his fingers around the thong, he brushed her naked skin with his thumb.

Enough. Concentration cast to the wind, I simply exited the room. I cannot help feeling it should not have been me seeking alternative shelter. In their little bubble of loveliness, no doubt thrilling to them, was something ghastly. Time and a place, dear readers, time and a place.

Hunting Attitude, Part II

In days of yore I had the dubious fortune to manage a busy magazine department in a now defunct book chain. There were many worthy publications fighting for a place of esteem. Among the more memorable of the less well known were Bowhunter magazine and its diminutive counterpart Junior Bowhunter. In prime English fox hunting land, these American interlopers were seriously out of place. The overfed white folk of middle America were on parade, with their ripping yarns about bows and arrows. Stag hunting, which to your average Englishman sounds like the search for a pre-wedding pub crawl, was pictorially laid out in all its gory glory, with all kinds of wonderful opportunities to blood your own young. One notable prize competition offered some seriously pointy hardware for the best kill by the under twelves. Photographic proof required.

I must say it was all very gung ho: more Rambo than Horse and Hound, and about as far removed from the manly ethos of hunting as it could be. Where is the sport in a bow with a laser sight? Robin Hood would have been an entirely different proposition had he been so armed. How strange that the country that gave us Bambi, and all the Disneyfied sentimentalism that comes with it, has a hunting culture that does not have a meaningful connection to the animal. Hunting is steeped in historical, cultural and ritual justifications that might be employed to counteract the crass activism of those animated by doe-eyed cartoons, but I can’t see it here. If it is really just point and shoot then what is the point in shooting?

Shooting with guns begs the same question. There will no doubt be objections raised here, but frankly I refuse to acknowledge anybody who goes about with a gun as a gentleman, unless he happens to be duelling, conducting a just war, or engaging in fair play. Hunting in America may be alive and kicking, but bungling about shooting at anything that moves while sporting combat camouflage simply won’t cut the mustard. The battue was decried even in its heyday, and the chaps who partook of that at least had the good grace to wear tweed. Why was it decried? Because it was not fair. Manly men do not stack the deck, load the dice, inject steroids, or kneecap ice skaters. If you are insistent on killing animals, then venery – a term I use because hunting and sexual gratification have always been linked – should offer a sporting chance to the quarry. Hunting, where it is thought worthy, is the pitting of wits: the reasonable against the sly. A hunter struggles for his advantage in a terrain better suited to his target. His success, if he is successful, is the reward for his prowess, not the result of his superior weaponry. Perhaps a sensible reconnection with the hunting ethos, for all those who proclaim their right to bear arms, would be to roll up their sleeves and chase their lunch with their bare arms.

St. Valentine's Day Mascara

I don’t particularly like it when the calendar tells me what to do. New Year, for example, demands that we have the time of our lives, yet all the social opportunities on offer contrive against that possibility. The build up ends inevitably in anticlimax. Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, Birthdays even, all seem somehow to be mere props for the greeting card industry. Valentine’s Day, loaded with all the expectations of romantic perfection, seems destined to end in tears before bedtime. May I offer a few thoughts on how to keep the makeup in place?

(Feel free to substitute ‘him’ for ‘her’)

Don’t wait until Valentine’s Day to buy her a present. Think about her when it’s not Valentine’s Day, and she’ll think more of you.

Tell her you love her, and mean it, everyday. If you don’t mean it, what are doing?

Romantic gestures don’t have to be saved up for the contrivances of the calendar. Take her out for dinner on a random Tuesday. Florists are open all year round.

Be a generous and considerate lover all the time.

Don’t forget the small stuff. Helping her on with her coat; holding the door; telling her how she looks before she asks. All these things demonstrate that you don’t take her for granted. Being considerate only for a day just won’t cut it.

Do these things, and when Valentine’s Day comes around the pressure won’t seem so intense. Sure, go do something nice, but don’t invest your entire relationship in it: Valentine’s Day might just end with a climax.

Handling Unmentionables: Shopping for Her

Today I bought a dress. It is in rather beautiful fuchsia silk, and was made by Carmen Marc Valvo, New York. I also bought two brassieres and five pairs of panties in varieties of black lace. This, you may have surmised, is not by way of confession. I might add that the only true unmentionable among this veritable hoard is the price. Shopping with a lady can be joyful; shopping for a lady is an unmatched pleasure.

It is always more rewarding to give than to receive, and all the more so when the reception is rapturous. In my experience, and contrary to popular opinion among men, women do not like to shop. Nothing fits properly; designers have other body shapes in mind; mirrors do not flatter. Their feet hurt. And to top it all off, their male companions drag their feet, look like wet weekends, and cannot muster a sincere comment, either because of fear or because of boredom. This, dear men, is all your fault.

Engage with a woman’s shopping mission. Take an interest in what she wants. Empathise with her desires. Offer input before she gets to the changing room. Make suggestions yourself, based on considered judgments of her style. Don’t be afraid to dare her, but don’t cheapen her. Tell her if something doesn’t suit, and tell her why. Be honest above all things. And if a garment just does it, for God’s sake don’t mumble that it’s ‘alright’. Allow your internal expression to paint your face. If your eyes light up, she will have the pertinent information. I promise, if you do these things then you, the male companion, will not be bored, and she will thank you for all of it. The mutual bad mood can be avoided.

Now, as for buying ladies’ underwear, let me reassure you. Women wear their finest delicates when they want to feel good; when they want to feel confident. A woman preserves her best for a job interview, for a business meeting, and yes, for a date. Her French frillies are not for us men, however much we may like them. Therefore, when shopping for women’s underwear, think about what she would like, rather than going off the deep end with your own Cabaret inspired monstrous fantasies. And take that stupid look off your face, like you’ve turned up naked to a black-tie ball. A man who can confidently handle, and mention, intimate lace in a shop will surely not falter when it comes to handling it in intimate situations.

I bought a dress today, and man did it feel good.

The Manly Mind; or, Sex on the Brain

Forgive me for presuming to thrust upon you some thoughts on an ongoing academic project of mine. I have mounted the task of revisiting the Victorian debate on the inherent sexual nature of the brain. I am not seeking to proselytise – far be it from me to assume the Missionary position – but simply to enlighten. Historiographical orthodoxies present themselves to be undressed, and it would be unmanly of me not to oblige them.

The Victorians were under the impression that women ought not to be educated for three simple reasons. First, female brains were thought to be universally smaller then male ones, based on some rather skewed statistical evidence. The brains of leading male intellects who died with healthy heads were compared to a motley collection of female brains pulled from the bodies of the insane, the infirm, and the indecent. Second, nature had fitted women to be the bearers of the stock of human instincts that were manifested in civilization, and it was a female duty, if not a privilege, to pass these on to the future of the race. In short, women were to be mothers. Third, this repository of human evolution was necessarily limited: women were presumed incapable of abstract or original thought; they were incapable, physiologically, of leading politically, artistically, technologically or philosophically. Those cognitive abilities were the preserve of men, who would in turn pass on their bold developments, stored up as newly acquired characteristics of the stock of human evolution in the next generation of mothers. The female mind was conservative; the manly mind was dynamic. The over-education of women was therefore useless, but moreover it risked damaging or distracting from their primary maternal purpose. All this was enshrined in Darwinian or neo-Lamarckian science, and as such has been justly called to book by feminist historians.

So far so good, but the story begs a question. If genuine worldly accomplishments were the sole remit of the manly mind, what did that say for the majority of men who in every respect failed to contribute any philosophical, artistic or technological advances, and who in most respects blindly followed, or ignored, their political leaders? On this, Victorian science had a lot less to say. With a total disregard for critical reasoning, scientists talked of the male and female mind as if all men were of the type of Socrates, Michelangelo, Brunel, or Pericles; as if all women were mere damsels in distress. If anyone had bothered to point this out, it would have been clear that the scientists’ portrayal of the gendered brain was practically worthless, for they surely would not have agreed that manliness was available only to the remarkable, only to the exceptional, only to genius. It cut against the grain of the majority of vernacular thinking on the meaning and definition of manliness, and yet it was held up by the new priesthood as the new law; or rather, the oldest law: that of nature.

We can rest assured, however, that if the Victorians were wrong about sex in the brain, they nevertheless had sex on the brain. Darwin himself was pushing fifty when he and Emma had their last child. The fact that nobody talked about it only added to its excitement. As I’ve said before, being buttoned-up only adds vigour to the unbuttoning.

I Like To Be Tied Up

Titter ye not.

Time was when the open throat of a man could make a woman weak at the knees. The reason: no one was accustomed to seeing anything exposed below the Adam’s Apple. There is a deal to be said for leaving much to be desired. The Victorians were sexual furnaces, engaging in every manner of depravity one might imagine. This was owed in part to the fact that the social formalities of public and private life demanded a buttoned-up approach to dressing (pictured: George John Romanes, personal hero of mine. No stain of sexual depravity marks his character). Imagine for a moment how the minds of today’s youth would be enlivened if only their eyes were not so readily gratified! In the West we are too accustomed to the sight of skin, and accordingly, the erotic has been lost in the grotesque.

Fortunately, a vestige of the erotic remains in individual experience. One’s mind is wont to dwell upon what lies under the clothes of a person who reveals little, for mystery is attractive, and also contemplative; the scantily clad is subject to the ocular gorge, but the moment is fleeting, the potential immediately reached. The tastefully dressed command a second, a third, a longer look. Consider the heightened ecstasy of the long-anticipated reveal.

For these reasons (not exclusively – there are more mundane ones) I advocate wearing a tie. Cover the male throat and animate it in the imagination. But I could not possibly extol the virtues of the tie without offering some prescriptions as to how it should look, and how it should be tied (although I will spare you the specific instructions – look them up). The rules, much like everything else these days, are more relaxed, and one should follow one’s impulses within reason. Wear a big Windsor knot to portray confidence, but bear in mind that with a cheap suit this knot will make you look like a thug or a footballer. The half-Windsor is often a good compromise knot, but the angle of the collar should dictate how much space the knot should take up. Of course, the thickness of the silk, its weave, and the width of the tie itself will all determine what kind of knot you can get away with. With thinner ties, a four-in-hand knot looks well, and ought not to arouse worries of looking juvenile, despite being known in some quarters as the ‘schoolboy knot’. The tie must never hang below where shirt meets trouser, and should not be more than two inches above it. Your girth will determine what looks best. If you’re overweight, eat less and go to the gym. And ties must be silk (or maybe cashmere and silk). No one fantasises about unpeeling layers of polyester.

Spare a thought also for the bowtie (one of mine pictured), although do not ever wear a clip on tie and expect your dignity and self-respect to remain intact. You can learn how to tie a proper one online, and there is really no excuse. A bowtie, if not carefully incorporated into a whole look, might raise an unwanted smile from the beholder; but thoughtfully deployed you may fascinate the passer by, who will spend the day contemplating that enigmatic chap he or she saw earlier.

I like to be tied up. It adds meaning to the times when I want to look relaxed. And it may elicit a desire in some to go for the throat. Carpe jugulum!

Let's Talk About Sox

All this swanning about in New York does make one fantasise. Yet I find that a pied-à-terre in New York is presently out of my reach, so to keep my feet on the floor I’m thinking about earthly mundanities, namely socks. I apologise for titillating with my titular allusions, but I am of the opinion that the male ankle is sorely overlooked these days. The well-turned ankles of women used to make men swoon, and were to be kept concealed lest the stoic reserve of the robust sex be disquieted in public. The male ankle was once thought a critical indicator of a man’s character. Properly considered, a fine figure of a man with the exception of portly ankles was not a fine figure of a man at all. We can rarely discern this crucial sign of moral rectitude today, as ankles remain covered by the superfluous folds of ill-fitting trousers, and are further concealed by the saggy whatever-I-put-my-hands-on-first-in-the-dark garments that go under the misnomer of ‘socks’.

Men rarely buy their own socks. I cannot think why. They are perhaps deemed unimportant, but necessary, and therefore something to be put up with, like paying the gas bill. Men rely on Christmas and birthdays for their annual quota of socks to arrive courtesy of the ill-taste of well-meaning mothers, wives and children. This being the case, an opportunity to portray one’s individuality is missed, in favour of the slouched anonymity of dark-coloured conformity. Worse still, these nylon nasties are typically ill-fitting. Heels protrude rudely from the backs of shoes, and bare skin can often be seen peeping from between the sock and trouser hem of a seated male. If you are going to flash your pins at people, why bother to get dressed at all? Worst of all, the sports sock with shoes is still seen in abundance (as terrible a crime as the sports shoe with trousers, which is lamentably even more common). It’s time men took their ankles in hand!

Socks really can set a man off to advantage if chosen well, and co-ordinated with an overall look. I am known for the boldness of my choices, especially in pinkish hues. Pink is truly a manly colour if you have the skin tones to cope with it, and I urge all men who shun pink as effeminate to have a second think. Pink shirts are generally a huge hit with the sophisticated eye of the beholder, and I would make a similar claim for the pink sock. But whatever colour suits your character best, I recommend that socks be well-made, be long enough not to reveal any skin when you sit down or cross your legs, and be well-fitting of your foot. If, through a little discernment, your inadvertently displayed ankles portray your individuality, so much the better. And unless you want to be considered merely a novelty, do not wear novelty socks. Cartoon characters do not belong on any item of clothing. At the very least, your socks ought to leave no doubts that you have bought your own clothes, and that you have dressed yourself.