How I Almost Lost My True Masculinity

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What does it mean to be a man?

My entire life I have looked outside myself, from Dad to David Deida, to answer that question.

When I was boy I was terribly afraid of being seen as a sissy. I became very competitive in sports partly so nobody would question my masculinity, least of all myself.

But underneath was the belief that I was not good enough, especially as a male.

As a pre-teen and teen, I was plagued by the fear that I was gay, or would be mocked as being gay.

Lots of shame running the show.

But by the time I was well into my twenties all my fear was well buried by busyness and worldly success. I made money doing what I loved. I made CD’s. I had girlfriends. I was hot shit.

Then I spent ten years with a woman who wanted me to be more manly. My childlike qualities turned her off. My wardrobe needed a makeover. She was just more attracted to me when I wore I dark, plain, single-colored grown-up clothes.

Fair enough. I understood. I could use some growing up. I gave away a lot of my fun, colorful clothes and let her be my image consultant. She helped me look more presentable in the eyes of the world.

But I was using her eyes to see myself with. Which was more emasculating than my personal style could have been. I’d basically handed her my balls. Then she broke up with me and all the fear and shame I had been keeping at bay for years came to the surface.

For three years now I’ve been purging, getting to the bottom of it, and just recently coming up for air and enjoying a sense of rebirth and renewal. Part of that rebirth is asking myself, not a woman or society, what I want to wear, and feeling a delicious freedom of choice about it all.

Recently I was strolling in my neighborhood and saw a colorful backpack left on the sidewalk as a giveaway. It was anything but masculine, and even looked a lot like my daughter’s backpack. But I liked it. I wanted it.

Inner voices screamed in my head, “Danger! Too childlike! Too feminine! You will be judged.”

“Shut up,” I said, and took that backpack home. I got rid of my plain dark one, and proceeded to have a party within me, enjoying a surge of masculine energy as I danced with my pink backpack.

It seemed lining up with what turns me on and having solidarity about it within myself is more essential to my manhood than making sure my presentation fits cultural norms or pleases a particular woman.

Two weeks later on another morning stroll, a shirt caught my eye, also a giveaway. I had no idea if it was a women’s shirt or uni-sex. It seemed very feminine.

But I had to admit it, I liked it. I wanted it. I felt that knot of fear and tension form a knot in my belly as my shoulds began to try to assert themselves over my heart.

Again, I asserted some masculine medicine over my inner critic. “Fuck it, this is my life”! I exclaimed, then picked up the shirt and put it on. I walked further, a bounce in my step, but still some hesitation about the shirt.

I was approaching a radiant woman with joy in her eyes, and I asked for a moment of her time. She took off her music headphones and twinkled her consent. She was attractive. I told her I just picked the shirt I was wearing up from a giveaway, and had my doubts about whether it looked good on me. She was delighted to reassure me that it was indeed uni-sex, and added that she thought I looked very good in it. There was a moment of mutual flirtation and attraction. I breathed that in, and we parted ways.

Something inside me let go, and I went from renting my new shirt to owning it, along with a new sense of self.

That night I went to a music party with my new shirt and backpack, feeling more relaxed, playful, and masculine than I had ever felt.

I really don’t care anymore what it means to be a man. I do care about being happy. And if that looks or feels childlike or feminine sometimes, so be it.

I don’t know if David Deida would agree or not, nor do I care, but I think I’ve got my balls back.

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Photo: Getty Images