In the long history of flex masculinity, starting with Adam and ending with a baby boy born just this second, countless aberrations have been recorded from the original blueprint. So many in fact that it’s hard to get a clear mental image of the original hunter-gatherer today without imagining him draped in some kind of cloak to dwarf and mitigate his manliness. Looking at the distance travelled between Michelangelo’s robust athlete saints sitting across the table from each other with their dicks dangling besides them as naturally as their legs, to the pale, aggressive shadows spinelessly stooped against the urinal, there’s an irrepressible feeling that a great heritage has been reduced to a whole lot of nothing. Why just yesterday I came across the transparent glass skull of a mannequin the sexuality of which I myself could not determine. The sense of companionship has been spiked with an irreversible droplet of distant mistrust in ones fellow. Sitting across the bar table from a dude, a dude takes a moment to examine the face of the dude in front of him and for the fucking life of him can’t tell if he is a man at all in his heart. A dude looking casually into another dudes eyes and not sure if in his heart of hearts if he himself is a man at all, or a reflection of the dude in front of him. A dude grazing against another dudes arm during a game and feeling an inescapable guilt about it. A bitter-sweet despair in that clandestine knowledge that it is a bond no woman would ever come near.