Bearded Crazy Man

Posted on August 1, 2002 in My Beard

I think I’m on to something. There’s a broad conspiracy afoot propelled forward by the satorial industry. They’re trying to make men look like dykes.

How else can I explain all these men who eschew the natural foliation of their chins and cheeks to choose instead the bare butt face look? Look at me. That face exists in the natural state of maleness, with little grey wires telegraphing forth from the chin and a long sideburn thick enough to make a toupee gracing the cheeks. That’s a man’s face, even if the rest of the body is wimpy. Men grow beards. Except most men have been shamed into thinking that they look funny with them. Some do. Especially the ones who leave just a little wisp on the chin and declare it a “mere goatee”. No male goat would be caught dead with that little fuzz on his face. Go look for yourself. They’re the ones in the segregated area at the petting zoo. They’ve got attitude. And full beards.

Most men are fascinated by lesbians. Just checks the stats of any porn site and you will see that the lesbian sections consistently score the highest. I’ve known some men to go to the extremes of pretending to be lesbians and hanging out in chat rooms or game servers looking for partners. They’ve confided their secrets in me, you see. And as a one-time Mush god, I personally know of a few occasions when a couple of closeted heterosexuals found each other as lesbians and went at it like bunnies in the bushes. Except they didn’t do it in the bushes. They did it on the Internet. Surprised as all hell when the big secret came out. They do things like that because they’re frustrated. Lesbians don’t like them. They can figure out why: Is it my breath? My hair color? The length of my penis? One need only check one’s email box to learn of secret exercise programs and food supplements that purport to cure a small penis.

But my impression is that most men don’t really care about the size of their penis. If they did, you’d see these supplements on the shelf in every drugstore and every grocery store along side the aftershave and the soap on a rope. You don’t see them, however. What you see is shelf after shelf of products developed expressly for the purpose of razing the natural woodland that develops around the peaks, slit gullies, and expansive plains of a man’s face. Most men, I dare say, would be happy with a penis the size of a clit IF it would bring more lesbians to their door. Castration is out because it is painful and removing one’s testicles kind of defeats the purpose which is to attain more sexual pleasure, so they do the next best thing. They destroy their beards.

Some men are more honest about it than others. Look at hoopty. If his picture is any indication, he shaves his face. Grows his hair to his ass. He’s even joined the Dykewrite Ring and added his breasts to the rack. Hoopty I tell you is living the man’s secret dream. I can’t say that he’s making me want to remove the fuzzy brillo pad that I use to guard my mouth, but I respect his decision. He’s open about it. He’s out of the closet. He wants to be a dyke and he’s living his dream. All the more power to him.

The only thing I do to my beard is trim it. Beards do develop a mind of their own, you know. If you let them get too long, they sneak up your nose when you are sleeping and get caught in your teeth. I have a pair of stainless steel scissors made in Germany that get used for no other purpose than to trim my beard. It’s the holiest of acts, performed once a week or so before the same altar that I visit to send the liberal coatings of plaque to the sewer gods. I like having a beard. I like being a man even if I am a Prozac eunuch. I’ve got no sex drive — and believe me, when you see a pretty woman, it can be a blessing that you don’t have a penis declaring your admiration for all to see — but I’ve got a beard. I have no doubts about my sexual identity. The Empress loves my beard. Every time her grandmother or my mother hints that maybe I should cut it off, she puts down her foot as hard as any Quakeress can manage and says “I like it.” Things have been getting better with Lynn’s grandmother lately anyways. She has cataracts. The last time she saw me she praised me for cutting it off. It’s still there, I assure you.

My mother hasn’t given up. While my childhood barber was still alive, she used to urge me to pay him a visit, “just for old time’s sake”. Now she just recites a litany of all the horrible skin diseases that you can develop under a beard. I confess I’ve had a couple of them, but they go away if you wash it regularly. I think Mom is dead set on making me into a dyke. She wants a lesbian daughter-in-law. And the funny thing is she sort of got it in the Empress who is bisexual and, like me, really not interested in threesomes. But please don’t tell her. Mom hates it when her hidden motives get exposed. She’s a bit like George Bush in that fashion.

She’s going to hate me for saying that, too. Please keep it quiet.