I’ve always been sensitive. It shows up in ways that betray the traditional expectation and construction of cisgender masculinity. And, it’s reinforced by the fact that most of my close friendships have been with women. But just over a year ago, I cultivated my first successful male friendship.
We’d been acquaintances for a while and one day he called on Instagram to ask about a quote I’d written that resonated with him. We found ourselves slowly and carefully creating a realm of vulnerability with one another.
He talked about how taxing it was to be a part of a creative community that seemed to prioritise shallow, opportunistic acquaintanceship over genuine, caring relationships. It was a realisation I knew all too well. I could tell that he needed someone to lean on.
Since then, we’ve laughed together, dreamed together and managed to give each other room to be sad, worn-down and flawed. We’ve had personal disagreements and mended them amicably. I’ve called him out on internalised prejudices and seen him go away, do necessary reading and research and return with a more reflective point of view. He’s helped me climb out of the dark days and hyped me up on light ones.
The other day he sent me a voice note. He’d just returned from a holiday with a woman he’d been getting close to. I had the luxury of meeting her a few weeks prior and she was nice. He was taking it slow. I could tell he wanted to be sure that his desire was romantic and not a misinterpretation of platonic affection.
In his voice-note, he told me that they’d had sex on holiday. He talked about his reluctance and the pressure that he felt. At the end of his note he said something that saddened me, but I completely understood: “I gotta do it, I guess.”
We both grew up under the same, toxic ward of heteropatriarchy that says women are attainable trophies and notches under our belts. We’d been fed the idea that sexual activity (or lack thereof) would reflect our worth as the men we were growing into. And luckily, we’ve built a friendship that actively checks whenever those bullshit mentalities rear their head.
But patriarchal conditioning always leaves residue. And that residue egged us on to have sex when we didn’t feel emotionally prepared (or just didn’t want it).
Months before, I’d grown close to a woman who’d just come out of a long-term relationship. The emotional connection was refreshing but the introduction of sexual topics into our conversations made me wary. It felt like I was just a means for her to sexually explore a newfound freedom. I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was a passenger on her personal journey, rather than a participant in a joint voyage. I needed time to unpack it all.
One night, we were in my bedroom and I became overwhelmed. I knew that if I was going to be sexually intimate with her, I had to be present. There were a lot of things we hadn’t discussed. And after we had sex, I felt anxious, confused and depleted.
I tried to talk about this with some of my women friends. But I found it difficult to elaborate without it veering into an accusation of sexual assault. Something much more complicated and subtle was at play.
I’ve been in situations where my anxiety outweighed my desire and I thought that if I just pushed through my hesitations, the mutual pleasure would be worth it. After that pleasure was reached though, the hollowness would return, letting me know that the sex itself wasn’t something I truly wanted. It was just something I was conditioned to want.
In my friend’s scenario, as things were getting more “exciting”, he moved away to get some space and gather his thoughts. When he recoiled, he was met with the question, “Are you serious?”
Sometimes, a question or statement like that is enough to make your mind uneasy. You don’t want to disappoint someone you care about. You feel like you should “man up”. You’re attracted to this person so why wouldn’t you want to have sex with them?
Before long you’re convincing yourself the same way my friend and I convinced ourselves, “I gotta do it, I guess”.
Cis-heterosexual Black men are read and represented as hypersexual. We’re fed the idea that Black masculinity is comprised of aggression, violence, and savagery. We’re almost entirely reduced to our sex organs and, because masculinity is a cult, we’re conditioned to invest in these falsehoods. If we refuse them, we’re ostracised, ridiculed, physically accosted. If we accept them, we willingly traffick our own harm.
We’re tricked into believing that sex is about performance more than it is about connection, autonomy, and consent. And the pressures of performance encourage men to consider hardness as our only option, means of expression, and source of intimacy.
If we don’t perform, we’re considered “less than” by not only other men, but other non-men as well. Our desirability diminishes for not fitting into a traditionally masculine mold. I, and many other men like me, have internalised the idea that we should engage in sex just because it is there.
Talking through this freely and safely was exactly what I needed to feel affirmed. Men need to be having these conversations between ourselves without the initial input of non-men.
The act of my friend and I sharing our experiences allowed us both to realise that we weren’t alone in how we felt. We formed a space of tenderness with each other that was free from (or in defiance of) patriarchy’s insistence that we be hard.
We’re entitled to patience. We get to have doubts, insecurities and room to talk about them. We’re allowed to not feel compelled to “take charge” and we get to take our time, giving our hearts a chance to catch up.
The pressure we put on ourselves (or may even feel from our partners) to perform aren’t imaginary and shouldn’t be diminished. Nurturing more tender spaces with other men is a crucial factor in overriding the conditions that have damaged our already complex relationship with sexual pleasure.
Suggested Readings:
Sherronda J. Brown, “How The Colonial History of Hypersexualization Obscures the Possibility of Black Asexuality”, Wear Your Voice Mag, 2019
Donnie Denkins Mooreland Jr., “Black men need to talk about their own sexual pleasure outside of domination”, Black Youth Project 2019
Inigo Laguda is an artist, storyteller, and musician currently residing in London, England. He is particularly interested in deconstructing the common conceptions of “normal”. His focus is centred on Blackness and mental wellness. His intimate thoughts can be found at @SaveInigo.
