I am eighteen years old and my gender is male. By definition, I am a man. By straight society’s definition, however I am not. I don’t watch sports, in fact I loathe them. Competing on baseball and soccer teams as a child were about as appealing to me as having a Doberman chew my face off. I enjoyed Batman only because of my fascination with the mystique of Catwoman. Instead of reading the instructions and putting legos together step by step I made my father do it for me. I can’t change a tire or repair an engine to save my life, let alone pump gas. Sitting through Star Wars, Indiana Jones, or The Godfather would simply put me to sleep, as I’d much rather curl up with some popcorn and watch The Adventures Of Priscilla, Queen Of The Desert. I’ve never been “one of the guys”. Meat never really did it for me, especially beef jerky which makes me want to vomit. I’m not cocky or competitive like my macho peers, although I can’t make it past any kind of reflective surface without stopping for a self-assessment. The man I am is not the Marlboro Man or the Orkin Man, but I am a man nonetheless.
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