Macho Man Quotes

Alright, macho babe boy, I'm not some little ditz to bat my eyelashes at the buff stud in black leather. Don't try your he-man tactics with me. I'll have you know, in my office, I'm known as the ball-breaker. (Amanda)

It was the wife, John thought. And she was giving this tough guy a tongue-lashing. And the man was taking it. "Okay. I love you. Bye." Tohrment flipped the phone closed and put it in his pocket. When he focused on John again, he clearly respected his wife enough not to roll his eyes and make some macho, shithead comment about pesky women.

Epic sex?" I sputtered. "By what standards, precisely, is sex judged to be epic?" "And tons and tons of mortal simps like you used as pawns." Bob sighed happily, ignoring my question. "There are no words. It was like the Lord of the Rings and All My Children made a baby with the Macho Man Randy Savage and a Whac-A-Mole machine.

That macho protective bullshit is just some asshat man pissing on his territory so the other dogs will stay away.

ABUSIVE MEN COME in every personality type, arise from good childhoods and bad ones, are macho men or gentle, “liberated” men. No psychological test can distinguish an abusive man from a respectful one. Abusiveness is not a product of a man’s emotional injuries or of deficits in his skills. In reality, abuse springs from a man’s early cultural training, his key male role models, and his peer influences. In other words, abuse is a problem of values, not of psychology. When someone challenges an abuser’s attitudes and beliefs, he tends to reveal the contemptuous and insulting personality that normally stays hidden, reserved for private attacks on his partner. An abuser tries to keep everybody—his partner, his therapist, his friends and relatives—focused on how he feels, so that they won’t focus on how he thinks, perhaps because on some level he is aware that if you grasp the true nature of his problem, you will begin to escape his domination.

And as for you Agent Pallas – man-to-man, if you ever insult my girl on national television again, I’ll…” he stopped. Everyone in the room waited, hanging. Jack raised an eyebrow. “Yes?” Collin turned to Cameron with a look of astonishment. “I’ve got nothing. I had this whole exit speech going and I was gonna end with some big macho threat but when I got there, it was like – bleh – nothing. That’s a pisser.” He appeared disgusted with himself, then shrugged it off. “Oh well. Catch you guys later.” He strode out without a second glance.

I draw a line down the middle of a chalkboard, sketching a male symbol on one side and a female symbol on the other. Then I ask just the men: What steps do you guys take, on a daily basis, to prevent yourselves from being sexually assaulted? At first there is a kind of awkward silence as the men try to figure out if they've been asked a trick question. The silence gives way to a smattering of nervous laughter. Occasionally, a young a guy will raise his hand and say, 'I stay out of prison.' This is typically followed by another moment of laughter, before someone finally raises his hand and soberly states, 'Nothing. I don't think about it.' Then I ask women the same question. What steps do you take on a daily basis to prevent yourselves from being sexually assaulted? Women throughout the audience immediately start raising their hands. As the men sit in stunned silence, the women recount safety precautions they take as part of their daily routine. Here are some of their answers: Hold my keys as a potential weapon. Look in the back seat of the car before getting in. Carry a cell phone. Don't go jogging at night. Lock all the windows when I sleep, even on hot summer nights. Be careful not to drink too much. Don't put my drink down and come back to it; make sure I see it being poured. Own a big dog. Carry Mace or pepper spray. Have an unlisted phone number. Have a man's voice on my answering machine. Park in well-lit areas. Don't use parking garages. Don't get on elevators with only one man, or with a group of men. Vary my route home from work. Watch what I wear. Don't use highway rest areas. Use a home alarm system. Don't wear headphones when jogging. Avoid forests or wooded areas, even in the daytime. Don't take a first-floor apartment. Go out in groups. Own a firearm. Meet men on first dates in public places. Make sure to have a car or cab fare. Don't make eye contact with men on the street. Make assertive eye contact with men on the street.

There’s a beat, and then Garrett surprises me by hauling me in for a hug. Not a macho side hug or quick chest bump, but a real hug, with both his arms around me, gripping me tight. I hug him back. “I’m sorry, man. About the house. The drinking. Just everything.” “I know,” he says for the third time. A door creaks open. “Is this a private homoerotic moment? Or can anyone join in?” I laugh weakly as Logan lumbers toward us. Garrett releases me, and Logan takes his place. His hug is briefer, but no less comforting.

Look, I know you’re a guy—” “Damn straight.” “And there’s some man rule that you’ve got to be all macho—” “Rule number three, actually.” Both of her eyebrows shot up. “Would you just let me finish before I make you cry and break rule number three.

There are no words. It was like The Lord of the Rings and All My Children made a baby with the Macho Man Randy Savage and a Whac-A-Mole machine.

Macho and manly and stern and, oh man. Sam sighed. Guys like this were never gay. They were always the ones chasing the homos.

He didn’t get it—guys like that never flirted with men like him. In spite of the fact he was a cop, which he liked to hope had given him a little bit of visible macho cool after eight years on the job, his sister still said his looks and style were “nerd meets librarian,” which to him meant he was about as bland as they came. Not exactly a balm to his ego. The man sprawled out in the chair over his right shoulder, however, didn’t have a bland bone in his comeon- baby-you-know-you-want-to-fuck-me body.

No wonder then that men who cared, who were open to change, often just gave up, falling back on the patriarchal masculinity they found so problematic. The individual men who did take on the mantle of a feminist notion of male liberation did so only to find that few women respected this shift. Once the 'new man' that is the man changed by feminism was represented as a wimp, as overcooked broccoli dominated by powerful females who were secretly longing for his macho counterpart, masses of men lost interest.

I’ve been raised by a father who is the consummate macho man. He has a face carved of stone and wouldn’t give anyone the chance to believe that he might have any feelings of pain or sadness. He brought me and my there brothers up not to cry.

No matter that information abounds that lets the public know that gay males come from two-parent homes and can be macho and women-hating, misguided assumptions about what makes a male gay still flourish. Every day boys who express feelings are psychologically terrorized, and in extreme cases brutally beaten, by parents who fear that a man of feeling must be homosexual. Gay men share with straight men the same notions about acceptable masculinity.

There are no words. It was like The Lord of the Rings and All My Children made a baby with the Macho Man Randy Savage and a Whac-A-Mole machine.” Butters sputtered

Instead of the macho, trigger-happy man our culture has perversely wanted him to be, the cowboy is more apt to be convivial, quirky, and softhearted. To be "tough" on a ranch has nothing to do with conquests and displays of power. More often than not, circumstances - like the colt he's riding or an unexpected blizzard - are overpowering him. It's not toughness but "toughing it out" that counts. In other words, this macho, cultural artifact the cowboy has become is simply a man who possesses resilience, patience, and an instinct for survival. "Cowboys are just like a pile of rocks - everything happens to them. They get climbed on, kicked, rained and snowed on, scuffed up by wind. Their job is 'just to take it,' " one old-timer told me.

I'm not your knight in shining armor. I'm just a man who stands between you and hell.

A famous cigarette billboard pictures a curly-headed, bronze-faced, muscular macho with a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth. The sign reads 'Where a man belongs.' That is a lie. Where a man belongs is at the bedside of his children, leading in devotion and prayer. Where a man belongs is leading his family to the house of God. Where a man belongs is up early and alone with God seeking vision and direction for the family.

Rumors went round that I might be gay. In some ways, I was happy w/ this. Larry Rivers proved to me that a gay man could be wild, attractive, and courageous; in any case one's sexuality was becoming less of an issue every day. One of the great things about the British Mod movement was that being macho was no longer the only measure of manhood.

they assume that the overly macho demeanor of the Super Thug is a true representation of a real man. The

They were more than happy when feminist thinkers told them that they did not need to be macho men. But the only alternative to not turning into a conventional macho man was to not become a man at all, to remain a boy.

Pain and the Man Every man hides his pain. They seem to take some macho pride in showing they're not human. I've got bad news for you, Rambo ~ a real man must have the courage to cry and expose his humanity. How else will he be healed?

Machismo itself had turned against the machos, made man a prisoner of himself, obliged not to cry, not to fail to get it up, not to give in, not to say uncle…. Fear, your name is macho, something the Bard never said, but that I do. How many women have screwed the man they wanted, simply because he couldn’t refuse a woman?” [House of the Fortunate Buddha]

The first step off this downward spiral is to acknowledge these bad feelings as natural. When women feel this way, our society has sympathy, and Oprah gives them cars. But when men feel this way, our society demonizes these feelings as signs of weakness, amplifying the shame and self-judgment, repeating the macho advice to “suck it up” and “get over it.” This bullshit makes the problem worse. It’s impossible to pull yourself out of depression by your bootstraps when all you want to do is hang yourself with them. Bad advice can’t fix bad feelings, and neither can ignoring those feelings. Don’t try to push them away or pretend they’re not there. These feelings evolved to protect us from harm, like our fight-or-flight responses.

Getting shot should be an experience from which you can draw some small pride. I don't mean the macho stuff. All I mean is that you should be able to talk about it: the stiff thump of the bullet, like a fist, the way it knocks the air out of you and makes you cough, how the sound of the gunshot arrives about ten years later, and the dizzy feeling, the smell of yourself, the things you think about and say and do right afterward, the way your eyes focus on a tiny white pebble or a blade of grass and how you start thinking, Oh man, that's the last thing I'll ever see, that pebble, that blade of grass, which makes you want to cry. Pride isn't the right word. I don't know the right word. All I know is, you shouldn't feel embarrassed. Humiliation shouldn't be part of it.

Vic, of course, clasped Max’s hand, obviously sizing him up, doing that macho squeeze thing that drove Gina nuts. “He’s younger than I remember,” he said to Gina. Perfect. Thank you so much, Victor. Then, back to Max, “We met—very briefly—a few years ago. Looks like being shot has agreed with you.” “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Gina told the man who had just moved into first place as the most stupid of her three very stupid brothers. “What?” Vic shrugged as he dragged over a chair. “I’m just saying—Max looks good. You know, for an older guy. What’d, ya lose weight while you were in the hospital?” “Yes, Victor,” Gina said. “They call it the Almost Dying Diet.” She turned to Max. “My brother is an idiot.” “It’s all right,” he said, flexing his fingers—no doubt checking to make sure Victor hadn’t broken his hand.

She knew for a fact that being left-handed automatically made you special. Marie Curie, Albert Einstein, Linus Pauling, and Albert Schweitzer were all left-handed. Of course, no believable scientific theory could rest on such a small group of people. When Lindsay probed further, however, more proof emerged. Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, M.C. Escher, Mark Twain, Hans Christian Andersen, Lewis Carrol, H.G. Wells, Eudora Welty, and Jessamyn West- all lefties. The lack of women in her research had initially bothered her until she mentioned it to Allegra. "Chalk that up to male chauvinism," she said. "Lots of left-handed women were geniuses. Janis Joplin was. All it means is that the macho-man researchers didn't bother asking.

He said, “WHY DON’T YOU EAT MEAT, PRIVATE? ARE YOU RICH?” He talked like a Chicano Macho Man Randy Savage. I said I wasn’t rich. He said, “I SAW A SHOW ON TV. IT SAID THAT PEOPLE WHO DON’T EAT MEAT HAVE WEAK MINDS. THEY ARE EASY TO BRAINWASH. THAT MEANS THAT YOU ARE EASY TO BRAINWASH.” “YES, DRILL SERGEANT.

It doesn't make me any less of man, If I cook cuisines, If I do my laundry myself, If I clean my home, If I raise my kids, Or if I like pink!

Let every girl and boy decide who they want to be! Break the cage, let them fly free.

I pity the society and its gender stereotypes Which appreciates a housewife and shames a househusband.

Sometimes she couldn't tolerate a man's physical superiority. No wonder they were so damned macho.

Her fingertip traced his smile. “I’m sorry I was so crazy about the healer giving me blood, but I really can’t stand it yet, even thinking about it. When we’re together, it seems different, something beautiful and natural, but the thought of anyone else—” Her stomach lurched, and she broke off. Jacques’ mouth skimmed her face, settled on her lips for a brief, disturbing moment. “I understand. I am stronger now, little red hair. I can care for you properly.” Her eyebrows shot up, and she frowned. “That isn’t exactly what I meant. Don’t go all macho on me. That would make me sicker than finding some cute human male to feed off.” She was teasing him. Intellectually he knew it, but for a moment a red haze of jealousy clouded his mind. Rage welled up, and he forced it under control. He knew immediately that he was lucky she didn’t want to take sustenance from another man. Something in his fragmented mind, or perhaps it was his possessive nature, would not stand for it. No man, human or Carpathian, was going to be completely safe until he learned to control his fear of losing her. Jacques raked a hand through his hair. “I have a long way to go before I will be normal again.” She burst out laughing. “No one has said you ever were normal, Jacques.

Men don't cry" But I ask why? Are we not human beings? Are we not vulnerable? Don't we have feelings which get hurt? Don't we feel shattered in tough times? Then why the hell this burden of patriarchy on our shoulders?

GOLDSTEIN: I suspect most gay people have fantasies about genocide. BALDWIN: Well, it's not a fantasy exactly since the society makes its will toward you very, very clear. Especially the police, for example, or truck drivers. I know from my own experience that the macho men - truck drivers, cops, football players - these people are far more complex than they want to realize. That's why I call them infantile. They have needs which, for them, are literally inexpressible. They don't dare look into the mirror. And that is why they need faggots. They've created faggots in order to act out a sexual fantasy on the body of another man and not take any responsibility for it. Do you see what I mean? I think it's very important for the male homosexual to recognize that he is a sexual target for other men, and that is why he is despised, and why he is called a faggot. He is called a faggot because other males need him.

What the hell is going on?" Roberto strode after his wife. "Look at you. What happened? And why is this man waltzing in here as if he pays the rent?" Men, Gabriela thought, aggravated. Too damn territorial. "Please. Stop acting the wounded macho.

A cowboy is someone who loves his work. Since the hours are long—ten to fifteen hours a day—and the pay is $30 he has to. What's required of him is an odd mixture of physical vigor and maternalism. His part of the beef-raising industry is to birth and nurture calves and take care of their mothers. For the most part his work is done on horseback and in a lifetime he sees and comes to know more animals than people. The iconic myth surrounding him is built on American notions of heroism: the index of a man's value as measured in physical courage. Such ideas have perverted manliness into a self-absorbed race for cheap thrills. In a rancher's world, courage has less to do with facing danger than with acting spontaneously—usually on behalf of an animal or another rider. If a cow is stuck in a bog hole he throws a loop around her neck, takes his dally (a half hitch around the saddle horn), and pulls her out with horsepower. If a calf is born sick, he may take her home, warm her in front of the kitchen fire, and massage her legs until dawn. One friend, whose favorite horse was trying to swim a lake with hobbles on, dove under water and cut her legs loose with a knife, then swam her to shore, his arm around her neck lifeguard-style, and saved her from drowning. Because these incidents are usually linked to someone or something outside himself, the westerner's courage is selfless, a form of compassion.

Recordó la vez que pescó a la hembra de una pareja de peces espada. El macho siempre deja que la hembra coma primero, y ella, al morder el anzuelo, se debatió en una batalla salvaje, desesperada y llena de pánico que pronto la agotó. Todo el tiempo el macho se quedó con ella, cruzando el sedal y haciendo círculos en torno de su pareja en la superficie. Se hallaba tan próximo que el viejo había tenido temor de que cortara la cuerda con la cola, que era afilada como guadaña y casi de esa forma y tamaño. El viejo le metió el garfio, le dio golpes, la prendió de la espada, de borde como lija y la aporreó en la punta de la cabeza hasta que su color se volvió casi como el del respaldo de un espejo, y entonces, con la ayuda del muchacho, la elevó para ponerla a bordo. El macho se quedó a un costado del bote. Después, cuando el viejo limpiaba los cordeles y preparaba el arpón, el macho saltó muy alto en el aire, junto al bote, para ver dónde había quedado su pareja, y finalmente se sumergió en lo más profundo, con las alas azul-rojizas, que eran sus aletas pectorales, desplegadas a lo ancho y con todas las franjas del mismo color a la vista. "Era hermoso-recordó el viejo- y se quedó hasta el final".

Ribs hurting?" When he only shrugged, she shook her head. "Let me take a look." "She barely caught me." "Oh,for heaven's sake." Impatient, Keeley did what she would have done with one of her brothers: She tugged Brian's T-shirt out of his jeans. "Well,darling,if I'd known you were so anxious to get me undressed,I'd have cooperated fully,and in private." "Shut up.God, Brian, you said it was nothing." "It's not much." His definition of not much was a softball-size bruise the ribs in a burst of ugly red and black. "Macho is tedious, so just shut up." He started to grin,then yelped when she pressed her fingers to the bruise. "Hell, woman,if that's your idea of tender mercies, keep them." "You could have a cracked rib. You need an X ray." "I don't need a damned-ouch! Bollocks and bloody hell, stop poking." He tried to pull his shirt down, but she simply yanked it up again. "Stand still,and don't be a baby." "A minute ago it was don't be macho, now it's don't be a baby. What do you want?" "For you to behave sensibly." "It's difficult for a man to behave sensibly when a woman's taking his clothes off in broad daylight. If you're going to kiss it and make it better, I've several other bruises. I've a dandy one on my ass as it happens." "I'm sure that's terribly amusing.One of the men can drive you to the emergency room" "No one's driving me anywhere. I'd know if my ribs are cracked as I've had a few in my time.It's a bruise, and it's throbbing like a bitch now that you've been playing with it." She spotted another, riding high on his hip,and gave that a poke. This time he groaned. "Keeley,you're torturing me here." "Im just trying..." She trailed off as she lifted her head and saw his eyes. It wasn't pain or annoyance in them now. It was heat,and it was frustration. And it was surprisingly gratifying. "Really?" It was wrong,and it was foolish, but a sip of power was a heady thing.She trailed her fingers along his hip, up his ribs and down again, and felt his mucles quiver. "Why don't you stop me?" His throat hurt. "You make my head swim. And you know it." "Maybe I do.Now.Maybe I like it." She'd never been deliberately provocative before. Had never wanted to be. And she'd never known the thrill of having a strong man turn to putty under her hands. "Maybe I've thought about you, Brian,the way you said I would." "You pick a fine time to tell me when there's people everywhere, and your father one of them.

Women have complained, justly, about the behavior of “macho” men. But despite their he-man pretensions and their captivation by masculine heroes of sports, war, and the Old West, most men are now entirely accustomed to obeying and currying the favor of their bosses. Because of this, of course, they hate their jobs — they mutter, “Thank God it’s Friday” and “Pretty good for Monday”— but they do as they are told. They are more compliant than most housewives have been. Their characters combine feudal submissiveness with modern helplessness. They have accepted almost without protest, and often with relief, their dispossession of any usable property and, with that, their loss of economic independence and their consequent subordination to bosses. They have submitted to the destruction of the household economy and thus of the household, to the loss of home employment and self-employment, to the disintegration of their families and communities, to the desecration and pillage of their country, and they have continued abjectly to believe, obey, and vote for the people who have most eagerly abetted this ruin and who have most profited from it. These men, moreover, are helpless to do anything for themselves or anyone else without money, and so for money they do whatever they are told.

Some guys will say all kinds of things to look macho and save face,” Max said. “Guys are jerks sometimes. But in his heart, a man loves his wife or girlfriend for so many reasons besides her outward appearance. Think of it - as a couple they’ve probably been through a lot together. Unless their sex life is trashed or they can’t trust each other or they’re fighting all the time, there’s so much more to a relationship than just looks. And you have to understand, when a guy really loves a woman, he can’t imagine his life without her. Even if she isn’t the most beautiful woman in the world anymore, she’s still the woman who captured his heart.

Deflated, but not defeated, Peter wondered what to do next. So, she was three years older. What did that matter? Why did girls make so much fuss about that kind of thing? What was a few years? He was a man, wasn’t he? It drizzled all through the Rovers’ home game, and Peter consoled himself with the thought that Paula wouldn’t have enjoyed this anyway. That evening, he scrutinised his face in the bathroom mirror. He did look a bit boyish, he decided. Large brown eyes and dimples didn’t help. He practised a macho scowl, then a lecherous leer. Paula wouldn’t fancy either of those. He just couldn’t be anything but his natural self. Yet how could he make her accept him as an equal?

In my own life, I must confess that I had never felt “manly” until I got married. I was a nerd before it was fashionable, playing trumpet in the marching band and staying in the Boy Scouts through high school. Good things, no doubt, but not cool or macho. I was often mocked and excluded, especially during high school, for my uncoolness. But Kathy looked at me like her knight in shining armor. She has always told me, and continues to tell me, that though all the world may look at me and see Clark Kent, she knows that underneath I have on blue underwear. She has always been very quick to point out and celebrate anything I have done that is courageous. Over the years, bit by bit, it has sunk in. To my wife, I’m Superman, and it makes me feel like a man in a way nothing else could.

Perhaps the best known of these films were the three that Clint Eastwood starred in for director Sergio Leone: A Fistful of Dollars, For a Few Dollars More, and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, in which he played a gunslinger or bounty hunter wandering the countryside and settling scores for a price. Eastwood’s character took the law into his own hands, but he was essentially on the side of good and order. While Eastwood’s character, a dark hero type, employed unusual means to bring about justice, viewers found him irresistible because he was inscrutable, macho, and capable. While his motives were questionable, he brings his own kind of order out of chaos—actions that readers and film viewers always appreciate. In fact, he was a man of action, was extremely self-reliant, and just didn’t give a damn—all qualities that have universal appeal. His character’s darkness was a departure from the usual heroes starring in traditional Westerns, and this stirred the viewers’ imaginations.

It is often said that what most immediately sets English apart from other languages is the richness of its vocabulary. Webster’s Third New International Dictionary lists 450,000 words, and the revised Oxford English Dictionary has 615,000, but that is only part of the total. Technical and scientific terms would add millions more. Altogether, about 200,000 English words are in common use, more than in German (184,000) and far more than in French (a mere 100,000). The richness of the English vocabulary, and the wealth of available synonyms, means that English speakers can often draw shades of distinction unavailable to non-English speakers. The French, for instance, cannot distinguish between house and home, between mind and brain, between man and gentleman, between “I wrote” and “I have written.” The Spanish cannot differentiate a chairman from a president, and the Italians have no equivalent of wishful thinking. In Russia there are no native words for efficiency, challenge, engagement ring, have fun, or take care [all cited in The New York Times, June 18, 1989]. English, as Charlton Laird has noted, is the only language that has, or needs, books of synonyms like Roget’s Thesaurus. “Most speakers of other languages are not aware that such books exist” [The Miracle of Language, page 54]. On the other hand, other languages have facilities we lack. Both French and German can distinguish between knowledge that results from recognition (respectively connaître and kennen) and knowledge that results from understanding (savoir and wissen). Portuguese has words that differentiate between an interior angle and an exterior one. All the Romance languages can distinguish between something that leaks into and something that leaks out of. The Italians even have a word for the mark left on a table by a moist glass (culacino) while the Gaelic speakers of Scotland, not to be outdone, have a word for the itchiness that overcomes the upper lip just before taking a sip of whiskey. (Wouldn’t they just?) It’s sgriob. And we have nothing in English to match the Danish hygge (meaning “instantly satisfying and cozy”), the French sang-froid, the Russian glasnost, or the Spanish macho, so we must borrow the term from them or do without the sentiment. At the same time, some languages have words that we may be pleased to do without. The existence in German of a word like schadenfreude (taking delight in the misfortune of others) perhaps tells us as much about Teutonic sensitivity as it does about their neologistic versatility. Much the same could be said about the curious and monumentally unpronounceable Highland Scottish word sgiomlaireachd, which means “the habit of dropping in at mealtimes.” That surely conveys a world of information about the hazards of Highland life—not to mention the hazards of Highland orthography. Of

—[...] No creo que sea de la incumbencia de mis pacientes si soy o no la reencarnación de la Virgen. Y con respecto a la Era de la Electrónica, no quiero tener una relación con algo que funciona a pilas y viene acompañado de una etiqueta con advertencias. Selena soltó un bufido. —Ya, bueno, pues déjame decirte una cosa: la mayoría de los hombres tendrían que venir acompañados de una etiqueta con advertencias. —Alzó las manos para enmarcar la siguiente afirmación—: «Atención, por favor, Alerta Psicótica. Yo, macho-man, soy propenso a sufrir horribles cambios de humor y a poner caras largas; además, poseo la habilidad de decir la verdad a una mujer sobre su peso sin previo aviso».

In Healing the Masculine Soul, Dalbey introduced themes that would animate what soon became a cottage industry of books on Christian masculinity. First and foremost, Dalbey looked to the Vietnam War as the source of masculine identity. The son of a naval officer, Dalbey described how the image of the war hero served as his blueprint for manhood. He’d grown up playing “sandlot soldier” in his white suburban neighborhood, and he’d learned to march in military drills and fire a rifle in his Boy Scout “patrol.” Fascinated with John Wayne’s WWII movies, he imagined war “only as a glorious adventure in manhood.” As he got older, he “passed beyond simply admiring the war hero to desiring a war” in which to demonstrate his manhood. 20 By the time he came of age, however, he’d become sidetracked. Instead of demonstrating his manhood on the battlefields of Vietnam, he became “part of a generation of men who actively rejected our childhood macho image of manhood—which seemed to us the cornerstone of racism, sexism, and militarism.” Exhorted to make love, not war, he became “an enthusiastic supporter of civil rights, women’s liberation, and the antiwar movement,” and he joined the Peace Corps in Africa. But in opting out of the military he would discover that “something required of manhood seemed to have been bypassed, overlooked, even dodged.” Left “confused and frustrated,” Dalbey eventually conceded that “manhood requires the warrior.” 21 Dalbey agreed with Bly that an unbalanced masculinity had led to the nation’s “unbalanced pursuit” of the Vietnam War, but an over-correction had resulted in a different problem: Having rejected war making as a model of masculine strength, men had essentially abdicated that strength to women. As far as Dalbey was concerned, the 1970s offered no viable model of manhood to supplant “the boyhood image in our hearts,” and his generation had ended up rejecting manhood itself. If the warrior spirit was indeed intrinsic to males, then attempts to eliminate the warrior image were “intrinsically emasculating.” Women were “crying out” for men to recover their manly strength, Dalbey insisted. They were begging men to toughen up and take charge, longing for a prince who was strong and bold enough to restore their “authentic femininity.” 22 Unfortunately, the church was part of the problem. Failing to present the true Jesus, it instead depicted him “as a meek and gentle milk-toast character”—a man who never could have inspired “brawny fishermen like Peter to follow him.” It was time to replace this “Sunday school Jesus” with a warrior Jesus. Citing “significant parallels” between serving Christ and serving in the military, Dalbey suggested that a “redeemed image of the warrior” could reinvigorate the church’s ministry to men: “What if we told men up front that to join the church of Jesus Christ is . . . to enlist in God’s army and to place their lives on the line? This approach would be based on the warrior spirit in every man, and so would offer the greatest hope for restoring authentic Christian manhood to the Body of Christ.” Writing before the Gulf War had restored faith in American power and the strength of the military, Dalbey’s preoccupation with Vietnam is understandable, yet the pattern he established would endure long after an easy victory in the latter conflict supposedly brought an end to “Vietnam syndrome.” American evangelicals would continue to be haunted by Vietnam. 23

Now you bitches can stand here quaking in your boots about what your women might do to you. I’m going to get my woman.

How does he get that caveman shit to work for him? I would get my balls ripped off and stuffed in my mouth if I pulled what he does.

I’m as manly and macho as the next guy. And I know that shedding a tear about something does not make or break my manhood. You’ve got to get beyond thinking not crying makes you a man.

When love grows diseas’d, the best thing we can do is put it to a violent death; I cannot endure the torture of a lingring and consumptive passion. —Sir George Etherege

Why are there more male hyperpolyglots? One answer is that speaking a lot of languages is a geek macho thing (...) It seemed that a woman is less likely to say she "speaks" or "knows" a language if she studied it at some point in the past, while a man, wanting to display his giant repertoire, would include it.

Yes, I am a boy and #Metoo!

For all our macho bravado and boastfulness about our conquests and our often glib, "give-a-damn" attitude, us man-folk are, at heart, needy, desperate, scared, confused and, just like women who dream of their fairytale wedding from a very young age, looking for love. Some of us are lucky enough to find it, the luckiest of us get to keep it, but at a price, for we know the awful fear that consumes our waking thoughts, the thought that this might end. If we are unfortunate enough to lose it then we deal with the pain in different ways. The man whose masculinity is his most treasured possession will try and shrug it off, begin looking around for some quick and easy way to make the pain seem trivial and little more than a drop in the water by embracing some stranger who is also looking to recapture that lost feeling of love. Some men, myself included, will languish in the pain, unable to let go of something wonderful that once existed, and dream of how it was and how it could be again. Others will be unable to cope with what has been done to them, unable to believe that what was once briefly so pure and right was anything less than a facade, a lie, a cruel trickery. This man's feelings can only be expressed as futile anger, desperation and helplessness. rateyourmusic.com /music-review/ozzystylez/converge/jane-doe/4640948

By choosing to remain boys they did not have to undergo the pain of severing the too-tight bonds with mothers who had smothered them with unconditional care. They could just find women to care for them in the same way that their moms had. When women failed to be like Mom, they acted out. Initially, as a young militant feminist, I was thrilled to find a man who was not into being the patriarch. And even the task of dragging him kicking and screaming into adulthood seemed worthwhile. In the end I believed I would have an equal partner, love between peers. But the price I paid for wanting him to become an adult was that he traded in his boyish playfulness and became the macho man I had never wanted to be with. I was the target of his aggression, blamed for cajoling him into leaving boyhood behind, and blamed for his fears that he was not up to the task of being a man. By the time our relationship ended, I had blossomed into a fully self-actualized feminist woman but I had almost lost my faith in the transformative power of love. My heart was broken. I left the relationship fearful that our culture was not yet ready to affirm mutual love between free women and free men.

And, unlike British and American women, we do not go around with a hatchet in our hand trying to chop the balls off every man we meet. Because we want—and need—our men to be men. Real men. Not macho assholes, not gorillas, men. Fathers in peace, lions in war.

She leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. “We are a little bit different in Israel, Mason. In Britain, the USA, women try hard to be more men than the men, more aggressive than men, more powerful and assertive than men. My theory is that they do that because there is nothing much else left to do in the modern world save fantasize, and because your society no longer has any need for men. ​“But Israel is not like that. We face the threat of extinction every day when we rise to work, and every night when we go to bed. We are surrounded on three sides by people who want to extinguish us from the face of the Earth, just because we are Jewish. Women join the army in Israel, not because we have to—though we do have to—and not because we want to prove we are equal or better than men. We join the army to fight for our survival, for the survival of our families and our children. You understand?” ​She waited for me to answer. I didn’t so she went on. ​“And, unlike British and American women, we do not go around with a hatchet in our hand trying to chop the balls off every man we meet. Because we want—and need—our men to be men. Real men. Not macho assholes, not gorillas, men. Fathers in peace, lions in war.” ​I nodded. “I understand.” ​She looked vaguely surprised. “Really? I don’t need to fight you or break your arm?” ​I smiled. “I wouldn’t recommend trying, but you don’t need to do it, no.

Oh, by the way, I've got a message for you from Randy Savage. He wants to kill you. Goodnight, Bill."... Years later, I found out from Randy's brother, Lanny Poffo, that age was a highly sensitive topic for the 'Macho Man.

Tupo watu takriban bilioni saba katika dunia hii. Kila mtu ni wa kipekee. Mathalani, wewe ni tofauti na baba yako au mama yako au mtu mwingine yoyote yule. Kila mtu aliumbwa kivyake na Mwenyezi Mungu. Kila mtu ana nafasi ya kwake mwenyewe aliyopangiwa na Mungu hapa duniani. Haijalishi wewe ni mwanamke au mwanamume, mweupe au mweusi, mfupi au mrefu, mzuri au mbaya, una nafasi katika nchi na dunia hii. Unachotakiwa kufanya ni kuamka, kufumbua macho na kuujua ukweli. Tafuta maarifa katika Biblia kama wewe ni Mkristo. Tafuta maarifa katika Kurani kama wewe ni Mwislamu. Tafuta maarifa katika Yoga kama wewe haumwamini Mungu. Ukishaamka na kuujua ukweli, ukishapata nafasi katika nchi yako, kuwa kiongozi na mkarimu kwa wenzako. Jifunze kutoka kwa wengine ndani na nje ya tasnia yako. Usiwe mchoyo wa maarifa. Kuwa mwadilifu. Ukifanya hivyo utafanikiwa zaidi, utaipa heshima tasnia yako, na utaacha alama katika dunia baada ya kuondoka. Kuacha alama katika dunia si lazima upate nafasi katika dunia. Kuacha alama katika dunia acha alama katika nchi yako.

Raven’s blue eyes were steady on Gregori. “If you wish to examine me to determine the sex of the child, you may do so.” Her chin lifted. “But as you wish me to accept you for yourself, for your predatory nature, you must accept me as I am. My heart and soul may be Carpathian, but my mind is human. I will not be put on a shelf somewhere because you or my husband deems it necessary. Human women moved out of the dark ages a long time ago. My place is with Mikhail, and I must make my own decisions. If you feel the need to add your protection to Mikhail’s, I will be most grateful.” There was a long silence, and the red glow faded slowly from the slashing silver eyes. Gregori shook his head slowly, with infinite weariness. This woman was so different from his kind. Reckless. Compassionate. Unaware of every taboo she broke. His hand went to her stomach, fingers splayed. He focused, aimed, sent himself out of his body. His breath caught in his throat, and his heart seemed to melt. Deliberately he moved to surround the tiny being, merging his light and will for a heartbeat of time. He was taking no chances. This was his lifemate; he would ensure it with every means at his disposal, from blood bonding to mental sharing. No one was as powerful as he. This female child was his and his alone. He could hang on until she came of age. “We did it, didn’t we?” Raven said softly, bringing Gregori back to his own body. “She’s a girl.” Gregori stepped away from Raven, holding on to his composure with his great strength of will. “Few Carpathian women carry to full term. The child rarely survives the first year of life. Do not be so certain we are out of the woods. You must rest and be cared for. The child comes first. Byron would say so also. Mikhail must take you far from this place, away from the vampire and the assassins. I will hunt and rid our people of the danger while your mate looks after you.” Gregori’s voice was low and pitched in silver tones, tones of light that beckoned and danced. Nearly impossible to resist. So calm and soothing and reasonable. Raven actually had to shake off the compulsion to do as he wished. She glared at him. “Don’t even try that with me, Gregori.” She included Mikhail in her stare. “And you, you big lunk, you would have gone along with him like the tree-swinging macho man you are. Watch these guys, Shea, they’re impossible. They’ll do anything to get their way.” Shea found herself smiling. “So I’ve noticed.

Look like chick books.” “And you’re a chick, so what’s the problem?” She laughs. “Well, you've got beans and franks, or so I assume.” “Hey,” he says, suddenly all serious. “Reading books by female authors does not limit my macho vibe. Plus, bitches write the best characters, man. It’s like they get people, you know?

There will be absolutely no macho-man, bossy-pants shenanigans allowed.

Judge had definitely noticed him, but the man had been quiet the entire time. When Michaels came over to glare at him, Judge had to be sure not to show his surprise or amusement. The bold little fucker. Actually he wasn’t so little. He was tall and built. Compact muscles under smooth, ivory skin. No doubt he was as macho and straight as an arrow, those kinds usually were. Judge was eager to see how the man handled himself.

Mid-June 2012 …Do you remember the arrogant male model who came to the Bahriji School to give a grooming course to us students when we were there? An evening after my return to London, while staying at Uncle James’ home, I visited one of the London sex clubs. Uncle James was in Hong Kong and I had his town house to myself before I moved to my own lodgings in Ladbroke Grove, recommended by the Nottinghill Methodist Church housing project. I was terribly lonely and needed company desperately. I ventured to “Heavens” located Under the Arches on Villiers Street, Charing Cross, a little before midnight. In 1972, this establishment was located in a large warehouse. For the uninitiated, the entrance was nondescript. It was dimly lit from the outside, and when a patron wished to gain entry, he pressed an obscure doorbell by the side of a huge aluminum sliding door. A pair of eyes would look through a peephole, checking to make sure that it was neither a police raid nor an underage client. If the patron was handsome and dressed like a macho gay man, he’d be asked for identification. Once approved, the green door would slide open to allow entry. Inside “Heavens” was a different world. Throngs of leather and denim-clad patrons checked their belongings in the tiny cloakroom next to the cashier’s booth. A small safety deposit box was then allocated upon request for each visitor to deposit his wallet or important documents for safekeeping. The safety deposit box key, attached to an elastic band together with the clothing claim tag, would then be handed to the patron to wear around his wrist or ankle. Most patrons were shirtless except for their jeans and leather pants. The uninhibited would strip down to their jock straps or sports undergarments. Their naked buttocks were ready to be in service for a night of unbridled debauchery.

Not at all perturbed by the surprise arrival and very official-looking demeanor, and yet respectful of it all the same--he’d have done as much or more if some bloke was sniffing after his sister--he doffed his hat and stuck out his hand. “You must be Logan. Or should I call you Chief McCrae?” Logan McCrae hesitated a short moment, then took Cooper’s hand in a quick, firm shake. Cooper was also glad to see McCrae didn’t feel the need to resort to some kind of macho game of whose handshake is the firmest to prove who would control their little meeting. But then, he did have a gun strapped to his hip, Cooper noted, so possibly that was simply unnecessary. “Cooper Jax,” McCrae said, sidestepping his name query for now anyway. “I thought maybe we could take a quick walk if you have a few moments?” “Off a short pier?” Cooper replied, smile unwavering as he gestured for McCrae to lead the way through the courtyard. The bigger man’s dark gaze remained zeroed in, but the tight line of his square jaw relaxed, as did his shoulders. “That depends. We do have one or two.” Cooper knew a lot more about the oldest McCrae sib than he assumed McCrae knew about him, but from all that Kerry had said about her only brother, Cooper was predisposed to like the bloke. The hint of humor underlying McCrae’s words told him to trust that instinct. “I’ll do my best to keep both feet on the ground then.” “Good start,” McCrae replied, then headed through the courtyard.

They remained standing on the road, which ended up being a big mistake for Luke. As he saw the bus barreling down the other lane, Luke also noted a sizable puddle in front of it. He quickly put himself between Shelby and the bus, pressing her up against Doc’s open window. With a hand on each side of her, he covered her with his body, barely in time to feel the splat from the puddle against his back. Shelby stifled a chuckle. Macho man, she thought with some humor. Luke heard downshifting, then the squeal of brakes. “Jesus,” he muttered as he backed off the girl and glared after the bus. As Luke turned and scowled at the bus, the driver leaned out the window. A round-faced woman in her fifties, rosy cheeked with a cap of short dark hair, grinned at him. She grinned! “Sorry, buddy,” she said. “Couldn’t hardly help that.” “You could if you went a lot slower,” he yelled back at her. To his astonishment, she laughed. “Aw, I wasn’t going too fast. I got a schedule, y’know,” she yelled. “My advice? Stay out of the way.” His scalp felt hot under his short hair and he really wanted to swear. When he turned back to Shelby and Doc, he found her smiling behind her hand and Doc’s eyes twinkling. “You got a little splatter on your back there, Luke,” she said, trying to keep control of her lips. Doc’s

I’d really appreciate it if you would leave,” he said very politely. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Myron said. “Even though you did ask nicely.” The black man nodded. He kept his distance. “Let’s see if we can work something out here, okay?” “Okeydokey.” “I got a job to do here, Myron. You can appreciate that, can’t you?” “Sure can,” Myron said. “And so do you.” “That’s right.” The black man took off his sunglasses and put them in his shirt pocket. “Look, I know you won’t be easy. And you know I won’t be easy. If push comes to shove, I don’t know which one of us will win.” “I will,” Myron said. “Good always triumphs over evil.” The man smiled. “Not in this neighborhood.” “Good point.” “I’m also not sure it’s worth it to either one of us to find out. I think we’re both probably past the proving-himself, macho-bullshit stage.” Myron nodded. “We’re too mature.” “Right.” “It seems then,” Myron continued, “that we’ve hit an impasse.” “Guess so,” the black man agreed. “Of course, I could always take out a gun and shoot you.” Myron shook his head. “Not over something this small. Too many repercussions involved.” “Yeah. I didn’t think you’d go for it, but I had to give it a whirl. You never know.” “You’re a pro,” Myron agreed. “You’d feel remiss if you didn’t at least try. Hell, I’d have felt cheated.” “Glad you understand.

Question two: * Do you think your overly protective mother had an influence on you disliking your father? Answers: a) The answer to this 2nd question is a resounding ‘Yes’ and a reverberating ‘No.’ My mother was protective of me because she had nurtured a deep, strong relationship with me. She loved me for who I was and not for what she thought I ought to be. It was her unconditional love which drew me to her, whereas my dad never provided me the moral or psychological support I needed from an understanding and encouraging father. b) I was afraid of Foong Senior and I saw him as a dictator, which did nothing to endear me to the man. He wanted me to change into a person I was not and never will be. I could never ever live up to the image he had for me. In my eyes, I would never be good enough to gain his approval. c) On the other hand, my mother raised me to think for myself. Never did she coerce me not to be who I was. She nourished me and encouraged me to work on projects I loved and felt passionate about. On the contrary, my father tried to ‘butch me up’ into what he desired his sons to be. I was a victim of his own desires and I felt no urge to participate. I went to the sports-related activities solely to salivate on the handsome macho men who were often my tutors or fellow team mates.

Runnin'" Can't keep runnin' away..... [Verse 1: Fat Lip] I must admit on some occasions I went out like a punk and a chump or a sucka or something to that effect Respect I usedto never get when all I got was upset when niggas use to be like 'What's up fool!' and tried to seat a nigga like the Lip for no reason at all I can recall crip niggas throwin' c in my face down the hall I'm kickin' it in the back of the school eatin' chicken at three, wonderin' why is everybody always pickin' on me I tried to talk and tell tham chill I did nothing to deserve this But when it didn't work I wasn't scared just real nervous and unprepared to deal with scrappin' no doubt cuz my pappy never told me how to knock a nigga out But now in 95 I must survive as a man on my own Fuck around with Fatlip yes ya get blown I'm not tryin to show no macho is shown but when it's on, if it's on, then it's on! [Verse 2: Slim Kid Tre] There comes a time in every mans life when he's gotta handle up on his own Can't depend on friends to help you in a sqeeze, please they got problems of their own Down for the count on seven chickens shits don't get to heaven til they faced these fears in these fear zones Used to get jacked back in high school I played it cool just so some real shit won't get full blown Being where I'm from they let the smoke come quicker than an evil red-neck could lynch a helpless colored figure And as a victim I invented low-key til the keyhole itself got lower than me So I stood up and let my free form form free I don't sweat it I let the bullshit blow in the breeze in other words just freeze [Verse 3: Knumbskull #1] It's 1995 now that I'm older stress weighs on my shoulders heavy as boulders but I told ya till the day that I die I still will be a soldier and that's all I told ya and that's all I showed ya and all this calamity is rippin' my sanity Can it be I'm a celebrity whose on the brink of insanity Now don't be wishin's of switchin' any positions with me cuz when you in my position, it ain't never easy to do any type of maintaining cuz all this gaming and famin' from entertainin' is hella straining to the brain and... But I can't keep runnin I just gotta keep keen and cunnin'...

Kila mtu ana tabia, matendo, mawazo na akili yake tofauti na mtu mwingine hapa duniani. Usimdharau mtu ukidhani ana akili kama za kwako au anafikiri kama unavyofikiri wewe kwani kila mtu aliumbwa kivyake na Mwenyezi Mungu. Unaweza kudhani unamjua mtu kumbe humjui. Heshimu kila mtu kama unavyojiheshimu kwa sababu, kila mtu ni wa pekee. Kama tunavyotofautiana katika vidole na macho ndivyo tunavyotofautiana katika tabia, matendo, mawazo, imani, maadili na akili. Usimdharau mtu usiyemjua au unayedhani unamjua.

Murphy alichanganyikiwa. Hakujua nini kilitokea na kwa nini. Ila, ghafla, alipotupa macho kushoto aliona kitu. Joka kubwa lilitambaa, ingawa kwa shida, kwa sababu ya sakafu, na kumfuata kummaliza. Murphy alijua joka hata angefanya vipi, hakuwa na uwezo wa kujikinga. Alipotaka kupiga kelele ili walinzi wa nje waje, Murphy alishindwa. Nyuma ya joka – katika mkia – kuna kitu kiling’aa, kikamshangaza! Muujiza ulimtokea Murphy lakini kitu kikamwambia aite walinzi wa nje ili waje wamuue yule nyoka. Lakini kabla hajapiga kelele, alisikia sauti; si ya mwanamume. Ya mwanamke!

Spider-man: My gosh! There's a real human being under all that macho? Punisher: Yes, I'm human. It's my greatest weakness. But I don't let it stop me. And that's my greatest strength.

I thought about Chase and his odd performance all the way down to my car. There was clearly a little bit more to the man than I had suspected, a depth of feeling that he kept well hidden behind his everyday mask of self-involved inanity. Or his several masks, since he certainly hid all kinds of things about himself, like why he disliked Jackie so much. Probably all part of being a Leading Man. He would have to hide everything that didn’t fit perfectly with his macho-but-sensitive public image. So he couldn’t let anyone know it if he liked fluffy little white dogs, or liked to read romance novels. If the public learned about it, that sort of thing could cost him his career. They might think he was a sissy, or worse—even a Liberal! It wouldn’t do.

We must stand together and resist all such incursion! We must come together in brotherhood and toss out those like you—women who take a man’s job, who rob a man of the ability to feed his family." “Who is ‘we’?” Jessica peered at the empty green hedge behind him. “You appear to be alone.” “I speak for all working men!

He’s changed?” “Yes. He’s started hanging out with a different crowd, a richer crowd. The men are all so arrogant. They don’t doubt themselves for a minute. They go to work and people agree with them all day long. And then they come home and their wives agree with them too. It’s a rarefied group, but—if you hang around with them long enough—it starts to feel like that’s how things should be. Regular working families, families where wives are equals, begin to seem like losers. You know the husband would start bossing the wife around if he made enough money, if he was man enough.” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Man enough?” “Yes. It’s surreal. You’ve got all these nerdy-looking, chubby men who built their fortunes behind desks. And as soon as they get rich, they start using all this macho language, as if they’re gangsters or something. The other day, I heard one of Andrew’s partners talking about a competitor starting a price war. He said, ‘If those bastards screw with us, we’ll take ’em to the mattresses.’” Sarah caught the Godfather reference and smiled. “Yes. I’ve heard that kind of talk before. Bank account becomes a proxy for dick size.” “Exactly!

By then I’ll be pregnant, and you’ll lock me away in some macho man display of protectiveness.

Still drinking it black like the real macho man you are? Or wait, don’t tell me, you and your tech-bro buddies drink fair trade coffee blended with organic butter.” He narrows his eyes at me. “No, I prefer that coffee made from elephant dung. It’s a delicacy.” “Only you would think drinking shit is a delicacy.

At trial, it became clear that in the macho, mustache-man world of drug-trafficking, Chapo had as much use for women, seducing them with saccharine forevers, then putting them to work in his stable—as buyers, as Blackberry-tapping go-betweens to preserve his anonymity on deals—involving their family members because there’s no glue stronger than blood.

Has your perception of being gay changed? One hundred percent. I now think it’s the biggest blessing. I feel bad for my straight friends. For example, they have to deal with the expectation of marriage and kids by a certain age. To some degree, they probably have to continue to adhere to those expectations I’ve held myself to—of being a professional of a certain kind. Achieving a certain kind of success as externally defined, rather than internally defined. Which, when you come out, you unshackle yourself from. Straight men are wonderful, but a lot of them keep each other at arm’s length. They don’t get too close, aren’t that friendly, feel they’ve got to be a certain idea of what it means to be “macho” and a “man.” And a man is solid and not that nice. If they have an emotion, it’s anger and no other emotions besides that. Being gay has helped me understand that, no, being friendly is great. You should be friendly to everybody, you should make relationships with people: straight men, women, nonbinary people, whomever. It’s helped me understand how to not be judgmental. It’s helped me understand how to try to make my own way in life and not to find success according to money or a title, but according to fulfillment. Empirically speaking, when I look at straight men in the world, so many of them seem boxed in by toxic masculinity and this idea of being strong, tough, and not vulnerable. And that’s bullshit. Being gay helps you get out of that toxic masculine vortex and start thinking, What are my values? What kind of person do I want to be? For most, that helps us be friendlier, more open, more positive, more inclined to be supportive of people, and less inclined to judge. Being gay has shaped who I am in a huge way and made me a more positive and optimistic person; someone who can deal with people better, who can be more mature, and more self-confident. I am also a white guy though. I am a beneficiary of that privilege, too, and it behooves me not to put this all on homosexuality as if I get to claim minority status and not recognize the rest of my privilege.

[t]he art of talking comes easier to some of us but others. For boys and men, so many of them still socialised in a myriad of destructive ways to hide weakness and took out their difficulties, the idea of sharing deep emotional pain with anyone is often unthinkable, even in the 21st century. When you are punished or mocked if you dare to express, or even have, feelings, you typically put a lot of effort into appearing strong and stoic. Except for anger. Male conditioning is much more accepting of anger, and emotion that is more about 'doing' that 'feeling'. Men are, generally speaking, more likely to deal with distress by doing something: overworking, sex, drinking, drugs, aggression, violence, suicide. What is suicide if not the most decisive of actions, after al. Small wonder then that the ultra-macho prison environment, where having emotions is seen as a sign of weakness, is full of men acting out their distress in harmful ways.

The town is attracting a whole load of yobs who just want to roam around picking fights and getting into trouble. I’m not surprised Russell’s dad was really worried about him being out late.’ ‘Russell can look after himself, Dad. He’s not some sad little wimp.’ ‘He could be Mr Muscles Macho Man. It wouldn’t make any difference if a whole gang started in on him.’ ‘You’re getting totally paranoid, Dad.’ ‘Maybe. I don’t know. But how about if you and Russell met up after school and then he went back home around nine?’ ‘Dad! We’re not Eggs’s age!’ ‘I know, I know – but you’re as precious to me as Eggs and I don’t need another night like Thursday. Look, you’re still supposed to be in the doghouse for that. I’ll let you see Russell, but I’m going to stick to this nine o’clock curfew for the time being. I think that’s more than fair.’ ‘I don’t!’ ‘Well it gets dark by nine – so you couldn’t do any sketching then, could you?’ says Dad, smiling. I smile back weakly. I don’t know who’s bluffing who. But at least I can see Russell – even if it’s only in daylight! I go up to my bedroom and read his letter again. Several times more. Then I go downstairs and ring Nadine and tell her that it’s all OK and that Russell walked round and round the town looking for me, practically knocking at every house door. Nadine isn’t quite as impressed as I’d hoped. She’s got her Claudie album playing full blast (her family are obviously out) and she’s singing along instead of concentrating fully. I need to ask her something. ‘Nadine, do you really think Russell looks seriously shifty?’ Nadine herself sounds as if she’s doing some serious shifting the other end of the phone. ‘No, no, Ellie, not at all. I was just, you know, saying stuff to comfort you. I don’t think his eyes are too close together either. I think it was just his intense expression when he was sketching you.

My experience of a relationship is two people more or less compulsively playing musical chairs with each other's selected inner archetypes. My tough street kid is romancing your honky-tonk angel. I am your homeless waif and you are my loving mother. I am your lost father and you are my doting daughter. I am your worshiper and you are my goddess. I am your god and you are my priestess. I am your client and you are my analyst. I am your intensity and you are my ground. These are some of the more garish of the patterns. Animus, anima, bopping on a seesaw. These hold up well enough while the archetypal pairings behave. But when the little boy inside him is looking for the mommy inside her and finds instead on this particular night a sharp-toothed analyst dissecting his guts. When the little girl inside her is looking for the daddy inside him, and finds instead a pagan worshiper who wants a goddess to lay with, which induces her to become a little girl playacting a goddess to please the daddy who's really a lecherous worshiper... Or [like when] a woman is attracted to a macho-man who is secretly looking to be mothered.

In general, people judge it "manly" to pronounce dogmatic verdicts and fight for them, and to admit quantum uncertainty (von Neumann's maybe) seems "unmanly." Feminism often challenges this machismo, but, just as often, certain Feminists appear to think they will appear stronger if they speak and behave as dogmatically and unscientifically as the stupidest, most macho males.

I don’t get it,” Raul said. “Why all this macho?” “When I say act like a man,” Leonard said, “I mean act honorably and with courage. Macho has been turned into a bad word by turds who act like beasts, not men.

Women have complained, justly, about the behavior of “macho” men. But despite their he-man pretensions and their captivation by masculine heroes of sports, war, and the Old West, most men are now entirely accustomed to obeying and currying the favor of their bosses. Because of this, of course, they hate their jobs—they mutter, “Thank God it’s Friday” and “Pretty good for Monday”—but they do as they are told. They are more compliant than most housewives have been. Their characters combine feudal submissiveness with modern helplessness. They have accepted almost without protest, and often with relief, their dispossession of any usable property and, with that, their loss of economic independence and their consequent subordination to bosses. They have submitted to the destruction of the household economy and thus of the household, to the loss of home employment and self-employment, to the disintegration of their families and communities, to the desecration and pillage of their country, and they have continued abjectly to believe, obey, and vote for the people who have most eagerly abetted this ruin and who have most profited from it. These men, moreover, are helpless to do anything for themselves or anyone else without money, and so for money they do whatever they are told. They know that their ability to be useful is precisely defined by their willingness to be somebody else’s tool. Is it any wonder that they talk tough and worship athletes and cowboys? Is it any wonder that some of them are violent?

We did it, didn’t we?” Raven said softly, bringing Gregori back to his own body. “She’s a girl.” Gregori stepped away from Raven, holding on to his composure with his great strength of will. “Few Carpathian women carry to full term. The child rarely survives the first year of life. Do not be so certain we are out of the woods. You must rest and be cared for. The child comes first. Byron would say so also. Mikhail must take you far from this place, away from the vampire and the assassins. I will hunt and rid our people of the danger while your mate looks after you.” Gregori’s voice was low and pitched in silver tones, tones of light that beckoned and danced. Nearly impossible to resist. So calm and soothing and reasonable. Raven actually had to shake off the compulsion to do as he wished. She glared at him. “Don’t even try that with me, Gregori.” She included Mikhail in her stare. “And you, you big lunk, you would have gone along with him like the tree-swinging macho man you are. Watch these guys, Shea, they’re impossible. They’ll do anything to get their way.

Gregori’s voice was low and pitched in silver tones, tones of light that beckoned and danced. Nearly impossible to resist. So calm and soothing and reasonable. Raven actually had to shake off the compulsion to do as he wished. She glared at him. “Don’t even try that with me, Gregori.” She included Mikhail in her stare. “And you, you big lunk, you would have gone along with him like the tree-swinging macho man you are. Watch these guys, Shea, they’re impossible. They’ll do anything to get their way.

Few Carpathian women carry to full term. The child rarely survives the first year of life. Do not be so certain we are out of the woods. You must rest and be cared for. The child comes first. Byron would say so also. Mikhail must take you far from this place, away from the vampire and the assassins. I will hunt and rid our people of the danger while your mate looks after you.” Gregori’s voice was low and pitched in silver tones, tones of light that beckoned and danced. Nearly impossible to resist. So calm and soothing and reasonable. Raven actually had to shake off the compulsion to do as he wished. She glared at him. “Don’t even try that with me, Gregori.” She included Mikhail in her stare. “And you, you big lunk, you would have gone along with him like the tree-swinging macho man you are. Watch these guys, Shea, they’re impossible. They’ll do anything to get their way.” Shea found herself smiling. “So I’ve noticed.” It was reassuring to see that Raven had learned to hold her own with the men. Shea was every bit as strong. “I can’t leave Byron out there to suffer the same fate as Jacques,” Raven insisted stubbornly. She looked beyond Gregori to Shea for support. “We can’t.” Shea had seen firsthand what the human butchers were capable of, and she could no more leave Byron to such a fate than she could walk away from Jacques. She nodded in agreement. “Once we have Byron’s location, you men can go after him. I’ll stay with raven, and we’ll wait for you here. The vampire can’t come out with the sun up, and we have guns if the humans show up.” “In any case, Mikhail, you know you could protect us from humans, even from a distance,” Raven reminded him. “Shea is right, healer.” Jacques suddenly threw his support to the women. He owed Byron. He could not allow anyone to suffer as he had. He glanced at Gregori. “You knew Raven and Mikhail were in trouble when their minds were connected to Byron’s. What is it? How does the vampire trap us?” “He ensnared Raven and me through Byron, a monumental feat,” Mikhail admitted. Then he rubbed his jaw ruefully. “Is it possible, little brother, you enjoyed hitting me just a bit too much?” Jacques’ teeth gleamed white in the semblance of a smile. He could not help but admire Mikhail’s coolness in the midst of a threat as lethal as the healer’s and the vampire’s combined. To be able to joke, to put aside the ego of the Carpathian male, was nothing short of a miracle.

Don’t even try that with me, Gregori.” She included Mikhail in her stare. “And you, you big lunk, you would have gone along with him like the tree-swinging macho man you are. Watch these guys, Shea, they’re impossible. They’ll do anything to get their way.” Shea found herself smiling. “So I’ve noticed.

There are people who make a hobby of "alternative history," imagining how history would be different if small, chance events had gone another way One of my favorite examples is a story I first heard from the physicist Murray Gell-Mann. In the late 1800s, "Buffalo Bill" Cody created a show called Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, which toured the United States, putting on exhibitions of gun fighting, horsemanship, and other cowboy skills. One of the show's most popular acts was a woman named Phoebe Moses, nicknamed Annie Oakley. Annie was reputed to have been able to shoot the head off of a running quail by age twelve, and in Buffalo Bill's show, she put on a demonstration of marksmanship that included shooting flames off candles, and corks out of bottles. For her grand finale, Annie would announce that she would shoot the end off a lit cigarette held in a man's mouth, and ask for a brave volunteer from the audience. Since no one was ever courageous enough to come forward, Annie hid her husband, Frank, in the audience. He would "volunteer," and they would complete the trick together. In 1890, when the Wild West Show was touring Europe, a young crown prince (and later, kaiser), Wilhelm, was in the audience. When the grand finale came, much to Annie's surprise, the macho crown prince stood up and volunteered. The future German kaiser strode into the ring, placed the cigarette in his mouth, and stood ready. Annie, who had been up late the night before in the local beer garden, was unnerved by this unexpected development. She lined the cigarette up in her sights, squeezed...and hit it right on target. Many people have speculated that if at that moment, there had been a slight tremor in Annie's hand, then World War I might never have happened. If World War I had not happened, 8.5 million soldiers and 13 million civilian lives would have been saved. Furthermore, if Annie's hand had trembled and World War I had not happened, Hitler would not have risen from the ashes of a defeated Germany, and Lenin would not have overthrown a demoralized Russian government. The entire course of twentieth-century history might have been changed by the merest quiver of a hand at a critical moment. Yet, at the time, there was no way anyone could have known the momentous nature of the event.

When one of the women in your life”—she sent a pointed finger at her cousin behind her—“is threatened or disrespected, all those macho alpha man tendencies bubble up inside you demanding retribution.

1 It was early December. The streets of Milan glistened with Christmas decorations, with people coming and going carefree, carrying elegant shopping bags. It was past eight, and several minutes earlier I had closed behind me the door of Passerella, the modelling agency I ran. I had let my assistant, Giovanni, file the photos of the new faces we had initially chosen for Dante’s summer collection. He was an up-and-coming designer. The minute I walked down Monte Napoleone, one of the city’s most commercial streets, the chilly air forced me to wrap up well in my brand new light green coat. An original piece of cashmere, the five letters embossed on its lapel making it even more precious in that cold weather. My fingers contentedly groped for the word “Prada” before I stuck my hand into its warm pocket, while clutching my favourite handbag tight. A huge red ostrich Hermes where you could find cosmetics, scarves, and accessories, which I could use throughout the day, giving a different twist to my appearance. I wanted to walk a little bit to let off steam. My job may have been pleasant as it had to do with the world’s most beautiful creatures, men and women, but it wasn’t without its tensions. Models went to and fro, trade representatives looking for new faces, endless castings, phone calls, text messages, tailors, photographers, reports from my secretary and assistants—a rowdy disorder! I had already left the building where my job was, and I was going past another two entrances of nearby premises, when my leg caught on something. I instantly thought of my brand new Manolo Blahnik shoes. I’d only put them on for the second time, and they were now falling victim to the rough surface of a cardboard box, where a homeless man slept, at the entrance of a building. My eyes sparked as I checked if my high heels were damaged. On the face of it, they were intact. But that wasn’t enough for me. I found a lighter, and tried to check their red leather in the dim light. Why should the same thing happen over and over again every time I buy new shoes? I wondered and walked on, cursing. Why had that bloke chosen that specific spot to sleep, and why had I headed for his damn cardboard box! As I held my lighter, my angry gaze fell on the man who was covered with an impermeable piece of nylon, and carried on sleeping. He looked so vulnerable out in the cold that I didn’t dare rouse him from his sleep. After all, how could I hold him responsible in this state? I quickened my gait. Bella was waiting for me to start our night out with a drink and supper at Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, the imposing arcade with a dome made of glass, its ambience warm and romantic. Bella’s office was nearby, and that meeting place was convenient for both of us. That’s where we made up our minds about how to spend the night.I walked several metres down the road, but something made me stop short. I wanted to have a second look at that man. I retraced my steps. He was a young man who, despite his state, seemed so out of place. His unkempt hair and unshaven face didn’t let me see anything else but his profile, which reminded of an ancient Greek statue, with pronounced cheekbones and a chiselled nose. This second time, he must have sensed me over him. The man’s body budged, and he eyed me without making me out, dazzled by the lighter flame. As soon as I realised what I had done, I took to my heels. What had made me go back? Maybe, the sense of guilt I felt inside my warm Prada coat, maybe, the compassion I had to show as Christmas was just around the corner. All I knew was that a small bell jingled within, and I obeyed it. I walked faster, as if to escape from every thought. As I left, I stuck my hand in my bag, and got hold of my mobile. My secretary’s voice on the other end of the line sounded heavy and imposing. Giovanni wasn’t the embodiment of “macho” man, but he had all it takes to be the perfect male. Having chosen to quit modelling, he still looked gorgeous at the age of

I went back inside, where Sam had made us tea. “I know she’s suffering, but I don’t want some random man from town to bring his gun and all his macho energy out here to the ranch and shoot her,” I said and for the first time in that difficult day finally burst into tears. Sam hugged me. “You want to save all the wild things from all the bad men,” she said, and in my kitchen at least, no truer words had ever been spoken. “Brent’s not that way,” I said. “He’s super calm and decent. He’s had this job for twenty-one years. He loves the elk more than anybody in the world.” “Then we wait for Brent,” Sam said. “But what if he doesn’t call back and it gets dark and she gets eaten alive by coyotes?” “Then she will be like many other elk who lived here long before you did,” Sam said. That was the right answer. But still, without my fences, this particular elk would not have had to die.

You didn’t buy me jeans. She couldn’t resist teasing him. Women do not belong in men’s clothing. He was unruffled. Raven stepped into the shower and released the thick braid so she could shampoo her hair. You don’t like the way I look in a pair of jeans? His laughter held deep, genuine amusement. That is a loaded question. Where are you? Without meaning to, Raven communicated a sultry invitation. She touched his mark over her breast with light fingertips. The contact caused her blood to heat, the mark to throb. Your body needs rest, little one. I have not exactly been the gentlest of lovers, have I? There was self-mockery in his tone, guilt in his mind. She laughed softly. I don’t have very many lovers to judge you by, do I? There hasn’t been a parade of men in my life. Her soft laughter wrapped him in loving arms. If you like, I could always find someone to compare you with. She offered it sweetly. She felt the brush of strong fingers on her throat, curling around the fragile column. How did he do that? I’m so scared, macho man. Someone needs to drag you kicking and screaming into this century. The fingers brushed her face, and then caressed her lower lip. You love me the way I am. Love. The smile faded from her mouth at the word. She didn’t want to love him. He already had far too much power over her. You can’t hold me here, Mikhail. Obsession might be the right word, not love. Little rabbit. There are no chains on the doors, and the telephone is in working order. And you do love me, you cannot help yourself. I am perfect for you. Hurry up, you need to eat. You’re a pain in the neck.

I promise to be careful.” “Really careful,” she insisted. He found the hard edges of his mouth turning up. “Really really careful,” he clarified. Her fingertip traced his smile. “I’m sorry I was so crazy about the healer giving me blood, but I really can’t stand it yet, even thinking about it. When we’re together, it seems different, something beautiful and natural, but the thought of anyone else--” Her stomach lurched, and she broke off. Jacques’ mouth skimmed her face, settled on her lips for a brief, disturbing moment. “I understand. I am stronger now, little red hair. I can care for you properly.” Her eyebrows shot up, and she frowned. “That isn’t exactly what I meant. Don’t go all macho on me. That would make me sicker than finding some cute human male to feed off.” She was teasing him. Intellectually he knew it, but for a moment a red haze of jealousy clouded his mind. Rage welled up, and he forced it under control. He knew immediately that he was lucky she didn’t want to take sustenance from another man. Something in his fragmented mind, or perhaps it was his possessive nature, would not stand for it. No man, human or Carpathian, was going to be completely safe until he learned to control his fear of losing her. Jacques raked a hand through his hair. “I have a long way to go before I will be normal again.” She burst out laughing. “No one has said you ever were normal, Jacques.

With one man on each end, we’d worked together in teams and brought in ten to twelve a day. It was a good macho contest for us all to endure this beating and go back for more. I noticed on my first morning out that they weren’t wearing any shoes – my new colleagues were eying my beat up flip-flops with chuckles, until one said, “No shoes, baba, bare foot, better.” I could see they were not going to last much longer anyway, so I kicked them aside and off we went.

I knocked—not the cop knock that says, “Let me in right now, you piece of shit,” but the polite human being knock that most cops reserve for victims’ families. That’s my typical knock anyway, since I’ve always hated calling attention to myself. I wondered briefly if my knock wasn’t manly enough for Zig, but then I thought, fuck it. I was already pretending to be macho by doing the driving. I didn’t need to batter down the door.

If you are not on the edge, you are taking up too much room. —Randy “Macho Man” Savage

Tate did anything he wanted to and expected me to put up with it or give into it. This was annoying. I was all for Tate being a macho man, badass, bounty-hunting biker because all that was immensely attractive but I’d spent more than ten years being in the control of a man. I wasn’t looking for that kind of thing again no matter what form it came in. That said, as Caroline noted, Brad thought he was all that and wasn’t but Tate was. No man liked a bitchy, nagging, argumentative shrew and, I would guess, definitely not a man like Tate. If I didn’t cool that too maybe I’d turn him off and lose him.