Masculinity is no small job. It's not even a big job. It's a game; child's play; kid's stuff.
In truth, masculinity has no yard stick (and the ruler thing has gotten way out of hand). There are guidelines, though. A "man" should be polite, as well as crude. He should be tough, as well as tender. He should be able to build and destroy, drink and pee, tip and spit — all things better than not. (And better than his friends) Competitive nature is his call of the wild.
On this trip, three men that know how to dress well, shake another man's hand and work silverware from the outside-in, went to the desert. Never have I experienced the competitive nature of man so illustrated. We took off our clothes, shook unmentionable parts and ate like cavemen.
The roadtrip began as usual — with cocktails. We drove fast to Moab, checking out just exactly what velocity the vehicle could attain. So began the Testosterone Fest.
Once there, on Jeep Jamboree weekend no less, the men shamelessly disrobed in the street and donned the lycra. Being that it was my first biking experience, I shamed a little, until I saw parts of a woman across the street that aren't "normally" seen in public.
A man be known by his tools. I mean his bike. Mine was borrowed, and the two others' looked like they were built by a collaborating team of NASA and Tonka. So we rode.
I'm just guessing, but for by first time, Pritchitt Canyon seemed, shall we say, technical? My new nickname quickly became "Starfish," not for keeping the bike moving linearly.
Hunter's Canyon wasn't even biking. It was rock climbing with a bike on your shoulder. The ego monsters kept trying to outdo; I just tried to stay alive.
The biking was good, because it was over (for the day). We headed out into no-man's land, and the real Testosterone Fest commenced.
It seemed malicious comments were a staple of masculinity. The three of us exchanged blows while determining who knew shit about building a fire (essential manhood stuff).
We drank heavily, leafed through pornographic literature, and threw potshots at everything each other stood for. It almost came down to a pissing match. Lucky for those guys, it didn't.
Thus, the measure of a man becomes relative. A real man is only so if he can meet another man's standards. Some men say it's what you can bench press. Others, the size of certain appendages; and others still, to what extent a man can descend into the depths of barbarism.
Well, my desert male-bonds got too drunk to offer standards, and as night fell, so did anything similar to class. The jokes got unbelievably vulgar and offensive, the insults got unbelievably nasty, and the stories got just unbelievable.
I think in retrospect, the standard for the trip became bullshit. And why not? It's really the benchmark of masculinity. I can't say I'm that proud. From the Testosterone Fest, I was in pain. I crashed on the bike. I was mentally abused. I froze under the desert sky with dreams of mudtrolls trying to kill me; and my stomach hurt for days after seeing who could stand the most hot sauce on his food.
I came back bandaged, bruised and abused. I came back hungover and seriously doubting the intentions of those guys. But they're definitely "guys," and our friendship after the trip has been as sweet as lemon meringue pie.