Are men okay? I appreciate this is a timeless question, a conundrum for the ages. But this week we find ourselves squinting in semi-disbelief at a video of Drake’s nether regions. Is nothing sacred, you might ask? Have we completely given up on privacy for our privates?
Legally, I have to say that the sighting of the rapper’s—ahem—mic on Instagram on Tuesday is still unconfirmed, but even to a layman’s eyes, it’s recognizably a penis shape, in a recognizably penis location, with a penis’s recognizable gait. But while Reddit assesses its dimensions in intricate detail and the term Draking is adopted as a new verb for male self-love, I’m more concerned with what the hell is happening to our menfolk.
Something is indeed going on with men out there, and the way that some (not all) of them broadcast their masculinity. Every time I scroll, I see more man than I signed up for. I’m thinking specifically of Jeremy Allen White’s alabaster torso, notable packed lunch, and aching-to-be-kneaded buns for Calvin Klein earlier this year. You might ask yourself why a chef has abs like he’s got a galaxy to guard—why this sous is built for war. But he’s not the only one. We’re on episode four of Spielberg’s ripped to the point of historical inaccuracy Masters of the Air, and Bella Hadid has lassoed an actual real-life cowboy for a boyfriend (I will not attempt to veil my jealousy here). We’re not at a loss as to what first attracted Taylor Swift to one of the greatest tight ends of all time. We’re living through hunk-ageddon, a cacophony of body-ody-ody. The internet stinks of steak, axle grease, and athletic socks.
I don’t want to be contrary, but I miss the old men. The sometimes squidgy, sometimes hairy, sometimes under-moisturized ones that sit alongside us looking at that Drake video. They’re not being stupidly hot online. They don’t necessarily do leg day or flaunt their upper body strength. Maybe their hair is thinning, or gone completely. Maybe they’re not offering riches or even much adventure. They are neither Disney princes nor villains. They are not notably tall, nor are they rebranding as “short kings.” I miss men compensating for their non-traditional looks—their very normalness—by being searingly funny, stylish, or studious. Not to sound like Esther Perel, but what if a man is just kind? What if he listens? What if his company is easy, his presence a tonic? What do his pecs matter if you have his undivided attention?
As we stare down the barrel of Valentine’s Day, Cupid’s arrow is Drake’s penis, and the target is our collective understanding of the modern man. These days, making the most of yourself translates to ketosis-ing your body and spending the wee hours before and after work doing bench presses. Men online are getting gigantic. It’s cartoonish—like, Popeye post-spinach. I want to take a moment for normal men. The men around us every day who look how they look, and chat how they chat, and live quietly remarkable lives that don’t get turned into columns. They’re just normal men, just innocent men. They may be new to impossible beauty standards, but normal men are fucking brilliant.