7. Just when you thought it could only get better
Through my eyes you've now seen the workings of the early process of shaping boys into the way of masculinity. This perspective has been that of only one singular sex role nonconformist surviving without conforming, but although isolated, I often thought there were others experiencing it the same way. If that's so, you may figure, some of this disconnected team of sissy misfits should have weathered it out and grown up angry and bitter to attain consciousness and speak out like their sisters...so where are they?
Well, to be sure, I've slipped in and around one facet of the mess that I guess you could call the doomsday weapon of sexism; I've touched very lightly upon it in passing, for I wanted to build a background first, but it's time to bring the spotlight to bear on the monster you've all been expecting and waiting for, the abomination crouching in the sissy's dark, and everything else has been only a prelude up to this point.
Keep the hypothetical survivors of the process in mind and picture them all living through the phenomenon I"m going to describe, and I think after the next two chapters you'll understand why you see a vaccuum instead of a men's contingent.
At long last, it's time for all good boys to grow up and become adults.
* * *
He wouldn't be caught dead anywhere near a girl. He's always despised everything feminine. His dirty jokes are always girl-hating. He says girls are stupid and weak and just like babies. No girls in his tree fort, uh-uh! Or on his baseball team. Girls are little pigs that can't run normal or anything. And he always hated all that sissy stuff about romance and kissing. Yecch! If I was that man on TV, he says, I'd throw her off that wagon train so fast!
Do you suppose his parents or teachers are worried that his misogyny will lead to problems? Ha! They all chuckle and declare him to be a real, red-blooded masculine boy. Give it a couple of years, and he'll be dating and kissing and completely changed over into a lover of women, thanks to testosterone, the wonder drug!
Testosterone, excuser of sexism everywhere, must be some kind of stuff. Well, there's no doubting it's quite efficient at what it does, as we drop in on him later on down the road and find he does indeed crave the company of girls, approaching them one at a time, teasing, trying to make them smile...they can even try to avoid him, but he keeps coming on and coming back.
Still, he hasn't really changed that much, listen to his opinion of girls when he laughs and tells obscenities in the men's bathroom or the locker room, indeed, any time when only other boys are around.
The arrival of the male sex drive has primarily changed only one thing: he wants access to girls' bodies. Desperately.
* * *
Now, who is to say for sure how much of the legend of male sex drive being so much stronger than female is biological truth and how much stems from social conditioning? Good arguments could be made for either side, I guess. If the male appetite at adolescence is in truth stronger, then the havoc that puberty wreaks among female sex role nonconformists is going to be proportionately worse for the boys, which I could claim would alone explain their (our) low survival rate; still, that may not be the case.
I personally tend to think women have an equally strong sexuality and appetite, though they may have a lower susceptibility to immediate visual impact: think of going to the cafeteria when you're at your hungriest. You haven't been able to study or concentrate all morning for thinking about food. On your way to the cafeteria, a girl in tight jeans and stretch top walks by and you forget all about food for a moment; the thinking part of your mind goes sort of fuzzy and blank and all your head says is "ooh...hmm..."
Oh, to be sure, women may be every bit as innately susceptible to immediate visual impact; the apparent differences here may, like so many others, be entirely due to the different attitudes towards sexuality in which men and women are raised. It would be nice if such were indeed the case: I'd love to think I could have the same effect on their sexual appetite with as little immediate effort!
At any rate, male sexuality at adolescence is one of the most unignorable things a boy will ever experience.
* * *
Girls who rebel against femininity are amateurishly diagnosed as suffering from psychological distresses, even if most of society no longer thinks they're looking for their long lost penises; when the sex role rebel is a boy, people are more inclined to wonder is his glands are functioning.
Despite such unfounded notions, the boy who hasn't yet been masculinized by sexism at adolescence is still getting the wonder hormone just like his brothers, assuming his pituitary gland and interstitial cells work, which they nearly always do. Being a sissy won't keep your voice from cracking or your face from sprouting right on schedule.
Male sex role nonconformists find their sexuality dawning upon them as with other boys, too; the difference is one of viewpoint. You don't view the differentiation of the two sexes the same way. You don't think of girls quite like other boys either, intellectually or emotionally. To whatever degree you know about sex and sexual relationships, you don't view that from the same angle.
And, of course, chances are good that people may have some awfully interesting ideas about you, too.
* * *
When you were younger, you probably had some girl friends in spite of the ridicule you got, because who cares what They think? So there were specific girls who you were close to; maybe you brought one a handful of flowers and put your arm around her while eating cookies, often going off to swing on the playground together later on, or climbing up into a tree.
And, more generally, there were girls in your class that didn't treat you awful for being a boy, and there were girls who did; you might admire them sometimes, especially for standing up to the boys; sometimes you'd envy them their status as good citizens, or hold some in contempt for lording it when they hadn't earned it.
By and large, though, much of what was regarded as feminine you called admirable, and recognized these traits
in yourself, wanting similar recognition from them and others. There were girls you liked and girls you sneered at, but girlhood was no crime to you, just as you rejected being prejudged for being a boy.
Or at least We did. Us. It was like that for me, at any rate. All throughout my childhood, the friendship of girls and their opinion of me meant a lot to me. I was a quiet spectator on the fringes a good deal of the time, enjoying the opportunity to be with them and to listen to them. At the same time, though I craved their approval and company in general, the negative opinion of any given girl was not going to wipe me out. And usually, I was either liked or ignored, and seldom ignored by a girl I admired a lot.
Then adolescence came. Gradually. It was preceded by a couple of years in which I didn't really have any girl friends, so I was lonely and ready to have another one. Then, too, there were all these new feelings! I wasn't ignorant about sexuality by this time (only about social dynamics for dealing with it), and I would entertain very fascinating ideas about what the next few years would bring...at last, being a boy is going to be an advantage!
So, soon I find myself looking two seats ahead at the contours of Linda's back and waist, her short, perky hair that contributes to making her look elfin and cute...her occasional comments to the girl next to her are much more interesting and wise than the teacher's lecture...I love the sound of her voice...what a beautiful name, Linda, I write it all over the inside cover of my textbook...she's smart, you can tell...what would it be like to be face to face and touching and put my arms around her? Oh, wow!
Does she like me? What kinds of things does she think about? I've got this daydream where she looks at me so serious, with a question, kind of, in her eyes and face...can she tell? Linda, Linda, do you know, can you tell?
* * *
Two tits and a cunt, ha, ha, ha. That's all these guys talk about, care about, notice. Unhook that bra strap and grab ahold. Watch 'em bounce when they walk. Get into her pants. God I'd love to prong that. Girls' track wants to wear jock straps. You mean jockettes, ha, ha, ha.
A tightly rolled towel held between his legs like a giant phallus, isn't that funny, ha, ha, ha. This girl will, what a slut, should put a Coke bottle up there instead, or how about this banana from my lunch, ha, ha, ha.
Meanwhile, I'm trying to get out of the locker room as fast as possible, yecch, I think I'm going to throw up.
Speaking to me, a question, hey, do you want to suck so-and-so's tits? I should answer? No, says another, he sucks something else.
Oh, great! Leave me alone, let me out of here...I hate P. E. *, not just because I'm not all that into athletics, not just because I'm not any good at this sports stuff (actually quite mediocre if I dare say so myself), but because I have to put up with jocks. In their territory. Worst of all, I have to be in their presence twice a day with my pants down. Shower. Dress up in jock clothes.
Will they throw my underwear in the toilet again? Pick a fight? The P. E. coach is not exactly on my side. The insinuations. The innuendos. Faggot!
Hell, I'm not the least bit worried about them really being, you know, turned on by me or anything, but they might do something gross to humiliate me...which is how they treat sex. Hitting, hurting, attacking, invading, messing up...well, if anyone ever tries to touch me with theirs or mess with mine, I'll show them why dogs shouldn't corner an alley cat. I don't fight for fun. I'll crush someone's larynx. I'll ream someone's eyes out, and I do mean out, and if anybody tries to make me do what they were talking about, he'll never pee standing up again! They make me so sick...
* * *
If, over a long period of time, you haven't been making many male friends because most of them are caught up in their own stereotype, and haven't been making many female friends because the older you get the less common it is to find girls who relate to you as yourself and not your gender, you fail to develop social skills to the degree that others around you do. This hardly leaves you with a tendency to seek out other boys who share your difference, a difference you can't help but be aware of on some level. Friendships do form, and you are often drawn to each other's company, but to begin talking about girls and sex as you perceive it is often too risky, considering that even quiet, thoughtful boys might ridicule statements that make it all sound oh so sweet and nice and beautiful.
Instead of the coarse, contemptuous pornography of the raunchier boys, the tone of such discussions tends to be giggly and naughty and scandalous. Behind it all, everyone has this self-conscious nervousness about the things that have been said about gentle and mild-mannered boys, and, tragically, once all the fellows who've been called pussy and pansy are together, they tend to try to establish their masculinity by being quick to jump on any sign of "effeminacy". So you learn to keep quiet and not to declare your actual feelings in the matter. Sometimes you get the feeling the boy who brought out the Playboy magazine did so to let the rest know he's "okay", and the rest take a look as it gets passed around, lest their disinterest in photography more anatomically informative than erotic be misinterpreted.
Form a new group out of those who found them too caught up in the masculinity sweepstakes, and you've got a very tiny group of very shy, very worried boys. Now the subject of girls and sex rarely even comes up, and when it does, we'd all wait to see what the other fellow thought first, having learned only too well just how small your social world might be. Falling into this trap, you find yourself asking questions but not volunteering any information about your own feelings. The answers revealed little. The topic wasn't anyone's favorite, the questions were an invasion of frightened privacy. Men's liberation just isn't likely to form at an age when you aren't sure it's okay at all to hesitate about changing the fact that you are a virgin. Meanwhile, get seen in each other's company, and the taunts really fly, everyone gets in on it, girls included, and that's too much. So you learn not to seek each other; instead, you give a nod to another pair of solemn, wide, slightly paranoid eyes as you pass by, already preparing for an adulthood of isolation.
* P. E., physical education, is what it's called where I come from; maybe you know it as "gym?"
* * *
I was not blind during these years to the phenomenon I'm talking about here in this book, but sometimes it didn't seem to be important or relevant to my considerations of what might be setting me apart. I knew I was an outcast, and I saw the sex-role difference when I looked for differences, but I didn't know how much stress to lay upon this one, often tending to dismiss it.
For one thing, most conventional role-conforming persons are not consistent in their behavior, and I would see many, many people occasionally acting out of gender role as much as I did: over there would be Robert playing with his girlfriend in the trees, running while she chased him, giggling, grinning, carefree,...Evan, in choir, displaying a sensitivity and quiet concentration while creating beauty with his voice...
...and, meanwhile, there were other differences I was looking at, to which my attention had so often been drawn, including intelligence or studiousness; or, as I had originally viewed it, "goodness" as opposed to being selfish, unkind, or something of that sort.
For another, I think the gender difference thing was comfortable to me because I didn't make too big a deal of it.
So I find that I gained knowledge of my situation not one piece at a time, like putting a puzzle together, but more like bringing a fuzzy picture into focus. In other words, by adolescence, I knew. I knew it all. I just didn't know it solidly, with certainty.
And there were fears that kept me from trying to focus the picture too sharply, since I had a strong feeling I might not like what I saw. But somehow, I've always known. As soon as I took a deep breath and looked, it was there.
* * *
Another day (sigh). Oh, well, Maybe I'll get to talking with a girl, really talking and she'll drop that whatever it is that makes girls seem so far away, maybe she'll look at me...it's hard to describe, but you know, it doesn't need words, you just look at each other and you both know...
I always wanted a girlfriend, and now that I'm at the age for it, the girls are going to like me because I'm not like that, you know, the way they always complain about. I overheard two girls the other day. Nasty damn boys, only after one thing. I don't know, I understand, but I don't think they're looking very hard.
I don't know if I'm ready to go all the way or not. If she wanted to, maybe. I don't know...I'd like to kiss and...well...I'm lonely, I need a girlfriend.
How dare those boys call me fruit! I asked the school counselor what that meant, and he told me. Sick! Sounds like something they'd do.
I like girls. Susan whatsherface doesn't have to be so cold and unfriendly in band. We could be friends. What did I ever do to her?
Girls always look away from your eyes, even if they know you. I smile at them! It isn't fair! They think I'm like other boys. All the boys in first period think Cheryl is so neat. Big deal. So she's a cheerleader! I think she's dumb. That stupid poem she read in English class. She smiles even when she's supposed to be serious. I like Barb. She'd got short hair and I think from the way she acts she's like what those women's liberation books are talking about. But she never notices that I'm looking at her in class. I danced with her way back in Junior High, does she remember me? I guess not. Oh, well...
I called up Maria, because she sits next to me and I know her, she said she'd go out with me. She didn't sound all that friendly, I hope she meant it. I'm tired of being left out! I want a girlfriend, I want to fall in love, I want someone...I want it to be like that song, "Me and You Against the World".
A girl who isn't popular either, maybe. I don't know, a girl who would like me for not being like the football players and the boy's state / student council types...they're just as bad when the girls aren't around. I'm so tired of being alone!
Why doesn't anyone like me?
* * *
By High School, male sexuality has done a lot more than just dawn, it has risen halfway up the sky, and the hopeful beauty of the sunrise has given way to heat and intensity.
You walk from one class to another and couples everywhere bestow affection and sexual appreciation and you long for that to be a part of your life. So the girls walking alone in the hall become potential lovers and you look searchingly at faces, hoping for a sign, knowing your own face is asking, inviting, but eyes and faces glance away, they pay no attention. Are there no girls here without boyfriends? Can they all be taken?
A hello to a girl gets an answer, sometimes, but not an interested one. You walk from one class to another in a world of girls no more aware of you than people on TV, impersonally disregarding you, and with their eyes elsewhere, your own eyes tend to look at their tightly clothed bodies, a tactic as wise as going to a fancy restaurant to smell the food when you're broke and starving. And you feel like the incarnation of depersonalizing, sexist lust for doing it. You feel like an unappealing eunuch and a lecherous pervert at the same time. Something's got to give.
* * *
Female sexuality, as I've said, is probably as strong a thing as male, but the female sex role conditioning has historically twisted it around. Stomped on it. Cut on it with a cautery of fear and shame. Psychological clitoridectomy. In the time and place of my High School days, this is how things were: You do not directly initiate matters with a boy. You neither touch him nor verbally suggest anything, so as to say "I want to be with you, you turn me on." Those few that do (and they pay a price) assume all men are identically interested only in physical gratification, and therefore end up offering their bodies as a giveaway commodity to them.
Within me, a bitter hateful streak was growing, seeking expression...
Female pseudosexuality is manifested by an apparently lustless desire to be made to feel attractive. The only aspect of the boy that concerns the sexist female is the degree of attraction he feels for her body. She will find him interesting not always if but only if he makes it plain that he's attracted to her physically, whether spontaneously or in response to her indirect posing (which asks "Do you find me attractive?).
Girls are taught that sex is a commodity, an it, and they've got it, and boys have the appetite for it. Tell some girl this whale-barf perfume will make her irresistible and she'll buy it, but, my God, who among these males is trying to resist anything?
With great contempt, most boys choose a girl virtually at random, flatter her, invade her, ignore her authority within her own space, and calculate whether or not she's going to require more of a campaign than the next girl; if so, he may move on, or he may even enjoy the extra challenge. While it may be true that not many High School boys are as competent and "successful" at it as older men, that's not particularly relevant. It's a sport, called girlmaking.
Irresistable, my ass! Resist what? The temptation to treat her like a thing? Use this goop and the boys won't be able to resist the notion that you are a passive twat waiting to be used?
Do you expect love and empathy and understanding from a boy who knows damn good and well the only reason you're with him instead of some other boy is because he kept acting like your body was what he needed bad enough to beg for it? I got news, sister. He doesn't care who you are. What you look like matters, but not as much as you think. There are twenty others just as good looking, even if you're in the proverbial top ten percent, and he took on the first unattached, accessible piece of game that crossed his sights.
He care about it, sister, and deep inside, after you've made him launch a campaign to get it (maybe especially if you've "made" him play on your terms), he resents you. I've heard him talk about you all month long. But I don't know which one you are. All I hear about is how he's doing as he proceeds to stalk that pussy.
When the time comes, if it does, are you going to enjoy the sensation of his body, the smell of him? Given the mechanics of the game you play with each other, we can probably forget about empathizing with each other's hopes, feelings, fears, and dreams and all that icky stuff that only occurs between people who relate to each other as people, but what about the other stuff? Will you enjoy the sensuous experience of sex with him?
Or will you lay there, thinking he probably thinks you're too fat, your breasts too small, your nose too long...no, I don't envy you, sister. And I feel sorry for him, too.
* * *
She thinks sex should be reserved for the boy who loves her, or whom she loves, preferably both. In the mean time, she tells herself, I am a good girl, I am not some cheap little slut that any boy can make out with, oh, no!
So her fantasies and concepts of sex all include a wonderful, caring boy with whom she decides she want it to happen, right? Hardly!
After years of reading "romance" and "tender hearts" stuff for girls, she doesn't think much about sexing, per se, and doublethinks her way around it: insistently, he'll push her into a corner, awakening fiery passions as his hand slides over her body, moving invasively and knowingly up the inside of her thighs; her heart will flutter, her traitor body will respond most naughtily; lips will be kissed and breasts may be cupped, but characters in romance don't have sex. Even at the conclusion of the book, when the "Mr. Right"-type and the heroine Miss are in each other's arms, the back cover comes before the conjugal event, and the girl readers don't visualize themselves voluntarily and enthusiastically sexing, either. Fair young maidens are not to be asked (when they are, the answer if an offended "no", of course), much less shall they openly invite; it's only okay to "go all the way" when they have no choice.
In the back seat of her date's battered Chevrolet, it is fairly unlikely that anything quite so close to rape shall occur, and if it did, it would awaken terror, not tingles; instead, she sits there seducing her nice girl self with her traitor body, with incidental help from the boy:
Oh, I'm unhooked, he's got his hands under my bra, that's so wrong...I don't want him to do that at all, but I can't bring myself to stop him, it feels too good...now he's unbuttoning my jeans! If I don't stop him he's going to...he is, there he goes, I'm so embarrassed! I can't let him keep on doing this, I"ve got to stop him, but I don't want to admit I really know what he's doing, I should have stopped him a long time ago...now he's slipping under my panties, oh, don't, why don't I say something? I feel so helpless! This is very dangerous, if I don't do something quick I'm going to end up being a bad girl....oh, don't touch me there, it feels so good, I'm so ashamed...what if he talks? I could get a reputation....I could even get pregnant if he keeps going!
Hey, hey...listen...I don't think this is right, okay? What do you mean, relax, it's all right? You boys only want one thing, you don't really care what we want!
* * *
Does she want me to do this? I guess if she didn't, she'd say so...she's sitting so quietly, I guess that means she wants me to...it feels to good to be touching her...does this feel good to her? I want to make her feel so good...I think she wants me to go on...I want to...this is like masturbation, except that I'm doing it to someone else...to a girl! I hope...I want to make her feel as good as she can...I'm enjoying this at least as much as she is...I hope she really wants me to! She isn't just letting me do it because she doesn't want to hurt my feelings...I hope...does she know I think she's really wonderful to be with? She's still...relaxed...she's all into it, I can tell...total involvement...wow...can I, you know, bring her off? I want to...I think she wants me to...my God, I'm going to sprain myself on my zipper, I'm so turned on...this is a lot safer than going all the way, no one gets pregnant, but I wish she would do me, too...I can tell she's turned on, look how her eyes are closed, her mouth is open...is she ready for me to go on? I wish she'd nudge me, guide my hand...
* * *
Kiss, kiss...I can't push her this time...I don't like the way she made it sound like I was trying to go as far as I could get away with. I'm not like that! She really made me feel dirty! Wow,...who's doing unto whom? I didn't plan that...maybe she didn't either, maybe it just happens...I bet she thinks I'm planning how and when to make the next move...why does everyone assume boys are predatory about it?
It's not like she acts all betrayed or anything, it's more like, of course I'm going to get whatever I can, she accepts all boys for being like that, but it's up to her to keep it from going too far, but why shouldn't the responsibility be partially mine? Maybe I should...this is harder than it ought to be...hey, let's...um,...remember what you said about not being ready for a purely physical relationship? And I said I wasn't either? Well...
* * *
I wonder what I did to make her so mad at me?
* * *
At last, at last, I'm off to college, I'm going to have wonderful experiences, goodbye forever, childhood, I haven't lived yet, but I'm going to!
Adult women! People living together! No more uptightness! I am going to find a woman, a smart, sensitive woman, and we are going to fall in love.
And I am quite ready to share the end of my virginity!
* * *
This is college? Oh, no. Not like this. If the boys are like this, the girls will be like that. Girls. Boys. Men. Women. I'm a man now. Sort of. Strange thought. It's a man's world. Act like a man. Prove you're a man. All I did was get older. A man. What the hell did you think you'd be, stupid? Okay...
* * *
I need to find a place where the different folks go. You know. Hippies. Rulebreakers. Doing your own thing. A tall, slender woman with a mandolin, a cat, a sloppy room with clippings and poems all over the walls. Warm, honest, sure of herself, doesn't care what the neighbors think of her. Can't just wait for her to come looking for me. Look for the places she'd be at. It isn't the main campus places, that's for sure!
* **
I'm lonely and I don't like this. I can't concentrate. Something's bugging the hell out of me and I'm scared. I want to be somewhere else. I want to run.
* **
Why do women dress that way? Surely they know it hits all men! But if you respond, they act offended! Are they trying to turn us on? Am I supposed to fight these feelings, will they respect me for that? I mean, it makes sense that they'd sometimes want to attract a fellow, but can't they save that for when the're, like, on the prowl? I wish they'd figure out how to point it only at the one they want!
* **
Who am I? I walk alone; what am I free from? Sure, I'd rather sunshine with someone! Who? I'm tired of playing this damn piano with no one here to listen! Someone, please, touch me! Teach me how to love and I will love! Show me what is life! I want to live! Cast your eyes on me -- do you like what you see? Or does the pain show through? I'd like to share some sunshine with someone like you....
* **
Twenty-one. If you are twenty-one, you are inescapably an adult man. I don't feel like twenty-one. I feel twelve and I feel ninety and nowhere in between. Mainly I feel like the oldest virgin in the world.
Am I supposed to go get "cured"? "Fixed"? Aw, poor fellow never got any after all this time?
Women my age talking easily to me about sex, good and bad, and I just sit there like a kid listening to the grownups. And I'm expected to ask them out and...well, take charge. Hey, let's you and me go out and you can tell me all about husbands and dates, abortions and pregnancies, positions and methods, and how good it feels on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Won't that be fun? You can partially unbutton and relax, eyes half-closed, saying, "Make yourself at home, want a drink? What's on your mind?"
Or I could find a nice girl, her bare fourth finger beckoning chastely to those ready to bargain: I do, because I don't and I want to. They she'll let me do it to her.
I don't like this. I don't want to think about it. The insinuendos are out, and they've dropped a nasty offering at my feet, I can smell it. I've got to accept it or consciously step over it, but I don't want to look.
* **
Run on, iron one, tough quick and forever sightless where the seeing crawl blindly -- run on twist dodge past around or dammit over those too slow get out of my no time to stumble faster teeth and claws of hate slice just behind and the snappping chase will not wait for you to take a piss nor allow time for shredded flesh to heal and the feet can never reclaim hot crimson leaking out onto the burning sand to insulate barren pounding bone so run with bonfire lungs cry the sweat from your eyes cry on the run with knife in your side spurring faster away every twist of the knife knotting torn muscle to blind heat bursting your heart beating faster pounding feet until the moment you slip at last too late too slow ten thousand teeth miss the air and find each cell a scream of pain...
* **
Okay, I'll look!
* **
What if the men who have sex with each other aren't any more turned on by male bodies than you are? What if that's what happens to boys like you? Because it's all that's available? What if you are one of them? What if devil boy chase angel girl is the only kind of heterosexuality there is? Are you what they've all been saying you are?
* **
No! If I was turned on by men, I'd know it by now! And I'm turned on by women. But I'm not normal, am I? Something's all wrong here...I'm more like girls than boys in this way...this way....this way...this way...oh, boy. Or should I say oh girl? Should I have been a girl instead? Am I in the wrong body? But then, I'd be attracted to men, wouldn't I? Unless...a lesbian? Aw, come on!
* **
What am I?
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