I miss the boys I met in the sandbox or on the monkey bars. I miss the boys who would punch someone in the face and inevitably cry afterwards. It’s because their genitalia didn’t outweigh their emotions yet. Their tear ducts hadn’t been frozen, hadn’t been exchanged for a larger penis.
I miss the boys who thought masculinity meant the color blue. I miss the boys who wanted to touch a phallic gun instead of a pair of supple breasts. They would take their little boy bodies and go adventuring into trees, into ravines, into the pages of a comic book. They would speak in small voices and still wrap their arm around their best guy friend. They loved for the sake of loving, didn’t know the rules yet, didn’t know that wasn’t proper male behavior.
I don’t miss the boys who grew older and dumber. With every inch they gained, a spec of maturity was lost. This was when boys became boys, punched other boys in the face and no longer cried afterwards. They began the process of selling their emotions to the Dick Devil. “Just one more inch and I promise not to feel anything anymore.” I miss the few boys who would still surprise you, who would show moments of kindness underneath their machismo.
I miss the boys who would start to look at me in a way that wasn’t allowed or considered very boylike. They would give knowing glances and then tell you how they really feel in short staccato blasts. “I like you. I think I do.” I miss the boys lying together with their shirts off smoking a joint in bed. Blue Levis, the American wet dream.
I miss the boys who could be boys even when they were crying in your arms, sucking your dick, cooking dinner in an apron. I miss the boys who feel all the time, or at least try to. It’s hard to feel when you’re told not to, when you’ve been taught to just get angry and punch something when an unfamiliar emotion takes over you.
I miss the boys who would get protective, who would instinctively piss on whatever they wanted and fight those who have wronged you. They would tread the line of “disgusting male behavior” and “fuck me now.” They would tell masculinity to fuck off and then cup its balls with their big hands, Oh, the contradicktion.
I miss the boys who would be good fathers one day, who could love someone in a way that would delight me, restore my faith in the male gender. Never mind that I might tire of them soon and want some boy to push me around again. Yes, never mind that. I would never miss those boys, would I?
In the end, I miss the boys who could be my boy. I miss the toughness, the softness, the smells, the hair, the insensitivity, the arms, the legs, the thing. The boys who will become men.