We have an unfortunate social expectation, in this country at least, that men will compete with each other sexually, whether they wish to or not. And not simply, do I mean, for the affections and affectations of this or that woman. Rather, for the quantity and nature of their sexual quote, unquote conquests.

When is a man allowed to brag about getting a first kiss to his fellow men? Even when that is often the more exciting achievement, it is not a masculine one to discuss. Or hell, to hold hands, to embrace, to stroll through a park, to undress together, to share a favorite song. These are the celebrations that the penis-clad among us desire, but are not allowed.

To dream of children and family is not only not permissible, but the mere idea that the American male would want to be a father is downright pedophillic.

The American male is a stud, and like his namesake, he is undoubtedly screwed. He may not contend with “slut,” but rather, because he is not a slut, he is required to have sex. If he is not ready to “fuck” at a moments notice, or with any ol’ “piece of pussy” that happens by, he is somehow less respectable. If he is ready, he’s a pig.

Remind him that he is a rapist by the nature of his anatomy. No sex with a man is consensual by the basis of his anatomy as an aggressor, and because of the necessity that he must stab himself inside the supposed victim.

He’s a programmed machine whose every answer is wrong.

Has anyone ever stopped to wonder if telling a person that they are an oppressor, a rapist, a stud,, an aggressor, a predator, a monster might be a self-fulfilling prophecy? If you hear it every day, how long before you stop questioning its validity? How long before you conform to those expectations?

The question always comes back to “Did you fuck that?” Never “Did you kiss that?” or “Did you have a mentally stimulating conversation with that?” A man is not allowed, by his social prison, to ask or answer those questions.

I want to kiss you and brag about it, because you have the most kissable lips I’ve ever experienced. I want to curl up with you and drink hot cider and brag about it. And yes, perhaps I do want to “fuck” you, and perhaps that is the word I’m compelled to use when I’d rather be making love, as if that somehow negates my manliness. Will I have to turn in my penis?

And if I do want to “fuck” you, maybe it’s because you’re smart, or funny, or insightful, or caring, or trustworthy, and not simply because my dick is hard. Perhaps I want deeper intimacy. Perhaps I want you to feel good physically, mentally, and emotionally. But maybe it is selfish.

We are required to love large tits, even when we’re afraid that we’ll be suffocated by them.

We are required to go on at length about our massive cocks, surreptitiously insinuating that our actual cocks are inadequate in every way, shape, or form.

We are required to want sexy or hot, though cute would do us just fine.

Women are told to be a certain way or else, and men are told to like women that certain way or else. The victimization follows through.

I want to tell me male friends that I held your hand and for it to be a big deal. But I am not allowed.