I would often ask myself, "What makes a man?" Also - "Am I a man?"
It wasn't until I met my second girlfriend, the love of my life, that I realised what being a man means to me.
It's not about making money, or being the bread winner. It's not about getting blowjobs all the time and drinking fine whiskey. (All though these things are nice.)
Late one night we were cuddling in bed. With her head buried under my neck, the warmth of her slowly rising chest pressing against my own, I ran my fingers through her hair. She looked up at me and whispered.
"You make me feel so safe."
Nothing anyone had ever said to me before or since has made me feel so masculine, so affirmed in my manhood. She wasn't saying that I was big and tough and could defend her against a gang of Bikers with my bare fists; she was saying she trusted me, both in my actions and my judgements. She trusted me not to hurt her and to be loyal. Trusted me to make the right decisions for myself and both of us. Her trust was in my love for her, which I felt (and still feel) with all of my heart.
There's something unmistakably primal in the way that many women instinctually crave a feeling of security and protection from the men in their lives. I don't particularly care if it seems like I'm denying her (or any woman's) agency by saying so; she's an autonomous, strong, moral, and critically thinking human being in her own right.
The test of my manhood, I've realised, is how I take the fragility and potency of her trust and handle it. I aim to do so with grace and care.
It wasn't until I met my second girlfriend, the love of my life, that I realised what being a man means to me.
It's not about making money, or being the bread winner. It's not about getting blowjobs all the time and drinking fine whiskey. (All though these things are nice.)
Late one night we were cuddling in bed. With her head buried under my neck, the warmth of her slowly rising chest pressing against my own, I ran my fingers through her hair. She looked up at me and whispered.
"You make me feel so safe."
Nothing anyone had ever said to me before or since has made me feel so masculine, so affirmed in my manhood. She wasn't saying that I was big and tough and could defend her against a gang of Bikers with my bare fists; she was saying she trusted me, both in my actions and my judgements. She trusted me not to hurt her and to be loyal. Trusted me to make the right decisions for myself and both of us. Her trust was in my love for her, which I felt (and still feel) with all of my heart.
There's something unmistakably primal in the way that many women instinctually crave a feeling of security and protection from the men in their lives. I don't particularly care if it seems like I'm denying her (or any woman's) agency by saying so; she's an autonomous, strong, moral, and critically thinking human being in her own right.
The test of my manhood, I've realised, is how I take the fragility and potency of her trust and handle it. I aim to do so with grace and care.