I got asked this question and I had a fun time dissecting it.

What makes a man manly? (And the guise of the Lumber Sexual, or is it a woman’s dreamt up, make believe ideal?)

Well, I could certainly tell you what makes a man not manly, but I’d like to keep this on the up and up, so I will stay focused on the actual question. What is manly?

I suppose we would need to first recognize a Lumber Sexual. Most people, having now just read the words “Lumber Sexual,” have an image in their head of who this person is. When I think of Lumber Sexual, and indeed, there is an immediate attraction to this aesthetic though not limited to men as there are plenty of lesbian Lumber Sexual’s out there, too, I think of a natural man, a man with true grit and just the right amount of fucks to give. A man that looks good in everything because the man wears the clothes, the clothes don’t wear the man! That Lumber Man. The general head-to-toe look of a Lumber Sexual consists of a minimum of these 5 key components:

1. The Beard. You cannot be Lumber Sexual if you cannot grow a beard, the exception only being if you’re a lesbian. In San Francisco, it is probable that in any trendy coffee shop serving $5 drip coffee, you will hear a beard-centric conversation pertaining to the amount of time it took to grow that beard. Very, very interesting… The juvenile in me thinks of Roald Dahl’s crude depiction of the beard.

“…a hairy jungle around his mouth, he was always able to find a tasty morsel here and there to nibble on.”

Alas, I am a dirty girl and a huge fan of them. I find The Great Beard incredibly manly. I love to sink my fingers into a man’s beard and pull him toward me for a kiss. Every man has a signature musk in his whiskers. Some are beautiful, filled with so many colors and patterns. For me, beards turn me feral and growly. They make me more sexual and I want to rub my most womanly scents into them. I worship the beard.

Sooooo, Fella’s, when you don the Great Beard and you don’t make me feel like a cat in heat, it’s such a bummer. Those are the moments when I feel bamboozled, when I realize that I was attracted to an aesthetic that had nothing to do with who the person is, and that is what makes it a disappointment.

2. The Hair. Honestly, it’s a 90’s throw back with more grease and pomade. Long on top with some sort of product worked into it, clipped down short on the sides, and that one pendulum of hair that, not by accident, swings between his eyebrows. It’s like a 1950’s, sexier version of Zack Morris from Saved By The Bell.

I can take it or leave it. I can pull your hair or I can lick and bite your head, doesn’t matter to me at all. If a man has kind eyes that can hold my gaze and tell a thousand playful thoughts without saying a word, that is manly.

3. The Flannel. This is not to be confused with the type of flannel that Kurt Cobain wore, loose and thrifted, and covered in cigarette holes and stale nicotine. These flannels are crafted and made of fine wool. They can be worn under a 3 piece suit, and probably have. These flannels have never touched a grain of sawdust, let alone covered the back of a man who has cut down a tree. These are sensible shirts to keep men warm. They are no longer outback to me, they are universal, practical, classic tartan that have no association with nature.

What I love to see is the broad curve of a man’s shoulders under his shirt. That beautiful shape of a man who still holds himself up. But this is a man who looks best in a white t-shirt, or nothing at all. This is a man who still lifts me up when he gives me a hug because he likes the weight of my entire body on him, which sends a deeper message that he’s strong enough to hold the weight of my world and can keep me safe, at least for 5 seconds. It’s not the flannel that keeps this man warm, it is the abundance of love he allows in.

4. The Denim. A Lumber Sexual wears quality materials, less is more which is a sign of maturity, refinement, and financial stability. Often this denim is $400 Japanese selvage, zero stretch, cuffed about 1.5”-2″ above the boot exposing an intentionally colorful sock beneath. If this Lumber Sexual is a true denim connoisseur, then he never washes them. Instead he spot cleans and freezes them to kill any bacteria and scent, then hangs them outside to freshen up, so to preserve the physical idiosyncrasies of the man inside them; the wallet imprint, the shift bulge, the whiskering in all the creases, and the faded highlights of his leg muscles.

I absolutely approve these jeans for men. This can only be done with a well made pair of quality denim. I rather love the idea that no man could wear another man’s pants. Women are generally softer, so our fade marks don’t have the same definition that men have. Women need the stretch in denim to keep their squishy parts from looking flattened. I secretly want denim that I can wear almost every day without washing, that bear my womanly essence; but sadly that essence can also be known as the all too infamous “crotch rot” (which is an embarrassing combination consisting of dried up pussy juice and possible menstrual tracks…for those that didn’t know, now you do…sorry.) So, I am envious of the relationship men have with their denim, just as I am of their ability to write their name in the snow.

5. The Boots. The boots are typically qualified the same way the flannel and denim are; something of the hand made variety, sewn together with industrial thread, soft hide, and stacked wood. They are usually about ankle high and worn with colorful or printed socks. They’re meant to last and be resoled again and again, his foot so embedded in the shoe that you could cast a mold of his foot out of it.

I, myself, love boots. As a woman, one shoe does not cover the spectrum of moods I present myself in. I could never be satisfied with one image. But, if you are going to commit to a look, then I think, at the very least, own it. I can respect anyone that breaks in a boot, because they can’t just be any boot, they have to be “the one”. You get a gut feeling when you know you’ve found the perfect pair, and there is always a grievance period when it is truly time to replace them. You don’t have to be Lumber Sexual to have this kind of relationship with your shoe, this exists with lots of people and lots of types of shoes; the same can be said for a trusty pair of Chuck Taylor’s or Vans Half Cabs.
But a lovely pair of leather boots age and wrinkle with the man, they can reveal a thousand miles of life, they are an extension of the walk he walks. The boots I am attracted to are not the steadfast boots that stayed the course, creating a seamless and smoothed out route leading to clear destinations and boundaries. And mind you, there is nothing wrong with this pair of boots, they are by no means less honorable, but I would grow tired of the trench they have created. Okay, so what does that mean? Does a man with boots covered in nicks and dings in the leather, and soles caked in mud and grease really live a more ruthless and carefree life? Do these boots really will him to step into any situation and toe the line no matter what obstacles are put before him? Probably not.

And if I haven’t confused you with so many metaphors, then you might find yourself wondering how many other expectations we have placed on someone just by the trend they got onboard with, or the ideas we’ve created around that image. Just the same that a man dressed as a lumberjack should be strong and rugged, self-assured without a need for validation, to smell of eucalyptus and cedar (and maybe a touch of pipe smoke), and to embody a calm and warm spirit that puts my restlessness at ease; it can be equally assumed, at this rate, that a woman dressed with done up hair, flawless make-up, a body hugging dress, and stiletto heels is an excellent lover, body confident, witty, flirty, and sexually diverse.

Sometimes liking what you see isn’t really seeing what you like. As I grow older, I find myself more deeply attracted to traits that cannot be bought. Traits like humility, a sense of humor, patience, an open mind, and kindness. If you possess these in addition to a rugged aesthetic, then you are winning, otherwise, you’re just another trend representative with some explaining to do.

You’re reading this because you want to know, and you might even feel a tickle deep inside.  And if you do, for the love of Goddess, enjoy it!  Whether it’s the cast of stigma and shame that it has been burdened with, or the weakness in our understanding of it, “Pussy” is such a great thing of nature, that it deserves so much more recognition for its strength.  I am pussy, and pussy is me.  My need to be one with my pussy is rich, and I intend to make it all the wiser.

If I leave my understanding of pussy to science, I feel detached in every aspect.  When I look at pussy in the perspective of long, unpronounceable Latin words and colorful, anatomical charts, my pussy seems without a soul.  Not to say there is no room for scientific explanation, believe me, my loins sometimes behave in a way that can only be biological.  But even when I leave my orgasms to electric or lithium operated tools and rubber, I am distracted by the barriers that block my human need for touch and turn me into a gyrating robot instead.

I speak a lot about men and the variety of ways I engage with them, but lately, it is with women that I feel the strongest connection and appreciation. This is new to me having felt guarded most of my life towards women.  As a girl I was conditioned by society to feel threatened by other girls; hundreds of deep-rooted years of learning to be more desirable, so to marry and secure a place in this world.  And it continues today, as pop culture often pits women against each other in an attempt to sell products that make us believe that one is better than the next. We can easily forget our human nature, that we work best as a community, offering our bosom when one is too ill, nurturing the belly when one is too weak, stroking the skin when one is longing for affection.  How did we ever allow ourselves to get to the place where we would secretly wish for another’s failure for personal gain?  This, to me, is the departure of our species as women, when we no longer nurture and we stand against each other with our arms across our breasts.

For me personally, I learned to form more meaningful relationships with women through motherhood, art, and now kink.  When I first became a mother I didn’t have women that I leaned on.  My own mother was not raised by her mother and didn’t seem to embrace mothering herself.  I had no one to tell me that they also didn’t know what the fuck they’re doing, that their relationship with their partner is also shifting and changing, that they also have needs and no longer know if they’ll ever tend to them.  I searched out the kind of woman who will bring out my best self, and who let me be needed so that I can help her, too.  These women are my sisters, they are an extension of the woman who I strive to be, their infinite energy helps me to see and touch the world in places I’ve never been.  As a dominatrix working out of a cooperative playhouse, I have a community of women with like interests.  For the fact that we are generally physically vulnerable; no clothing to stereotype the other, no preconceived notions as to what we’re all doing there, no need to compete for attention or affection, we can be our truest selves.  When women are together in an unguarded and supportive unity, I can see why the man has historically wanted to protect the woman and keep her safe, instinctively throwing himself against any imposing forces.  It is not because women are weaker, or couldn’t hold their own when threatened, it is because their sense of nurture and communal strength is so strong and deep, that we could not have survived without it.

Still, when our pussy becomes the object that defines who loves us the most, and who we love the most, the pussy’s instincts become inhibited and confused about how to feel.   And why is this?  Because the pussy is where the sex happens, and when burdened with devotion, it becomes the cave in which we hide our love from each other, it no longer is the center in which we reach ecstasy and let our animal spirit out.

When the men went off to hunt, and the women stayed together with the children, surely you do not believe that a woman never answered the call of her own desire.  Even today, when women spend regular time with each other, their menstrual cycles sync up, they naturally adapt to each other’s ebb and flow; which means that it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that they also got horny together.  And what do women do when they are in need?  They help, they lend a very helpful and loving hand indeed.  It isn’t about being bi, or gay, or in a relationship, or even emotionally responsible for each other, it’s simply about fulfilling a need.  Women are generous by nature.  The women I have surrounded myself with are so hungry for life, yet so willing to be devoured, I am humbled regularly by what some will sacrifice to keep the peace.

Having spent so much more time with women in a sexual environment, I have learned that some of my own hang-ups are quite normal, and needn’t be a hang up at all.  I revealed to my sisters that it is much easier for me to orgasm with, or in front of, someone that I don’t have feelings for, that I’m not even necessarily physically attracted to.  In some instances, the more appalling or gross the man is, the more crude and obscene I can be in my own orgasm, thus reaching it easily and rather quickly, compared to my usual 20-30 minutes or never.  It seems that when I have deeper emotions for someone, that it muddies the freedom I have to let go, that there is so much more at stake, that I end up caring more about their pleasure than my own.  Almost every woman that I’ve told this to has quickly responded, “Oh I’m that way.”  When I told this to an ex partner of mine, he said, “I hope you figure that out, what a shame.”  Which revealed a fundamental difference in how we consider sex, intimacy, and our understanding of how the pussy works.  To him, it is a shame that I have a harder time sharing or reaching ecstasy with someone I love, perhaps like withholding, or some kind of faulty disconnect that is tragically deep-rooted.  That the word “shame” was used at all to describe what I felt to be an enlightenment, says a lot about the mind-fuckery we create in our heads around sex and love.  The ability to produce an orgasm, as a means to express the depth of our intimacy, is an immediate form of pressure, which makes it impossible to let go for the “Big O.”   Not only that, you are left with a trail of self-doubt that runs through both participants.  The non-producer feels they have let the other down, or has to prove in other ways that they love and enjoy them, while the other feels ineffective and inadequate.   And not to say that my ex meant it that way, more so, I’m sure he meant that it would be a next-level connection if you can orgasm with someone you are deeply in love with.  I think that sounds lovely, too, but I don’t feel ashamed of the type of orgasm I reach, or that I have loved many people without the ability to have an orgasm with them.  I am learning to enjoy my orgasm without pressure, that it doesn’t have to be racked with so much fucking romance.  The most romantic feeling I have ever felt is the feeling of being understood.  Which is probably why I’m feeling so lovey towards my lady friends.

What has felt like a greater shame, are the friendships I have lost when sex was taken out of our dynamic.  In general, I think women want to have some sort of friendship with their lovers, at least I do.  I have bedded men that, once sex was introduced, became attached in a way that we did not agree on.  And I believe their attachment transpired because of my natural instinct to want to nurture and tend to them; feeding their bellies, their minds, and their libido.
While I haven’t figured out how to balance love, and sex, and exploration with men, I am deeply comforted by the fact that what I share with my lovely women will not be possessed, but rather shared like a recipe for love and affection.