After dropping off a couple packages at the post office, I stopped by one of my fave local coffee joints in Hollywood yesterday to get an oat matcha latte because urban living and all that. And while I know that matcha lattes cost like .15 to make, sometimes, they’re just too yummy & convenient to ignore in LA! So, I ordered at the window from a barista I’ve never seen before, who gave me a slightly hostile look, which was in stark opposition to lit every other barista that works there, all of whom I vibe well with. Maybe, I thought, he’s just irritated because I ordered fifteen minutes before close. Some people hate that shit, others don’t, and you never know until you order. I also thought maybe he was having a bad day because life is brutal. But then my next thought was this: —How is this dude going to perform his masculinity? I’m just dying to know!
You just never know how it’s going to go down until it does.
Men do all these conscious and unconscious things in the company of other men that just kinda fascinates—and sometimes nauseates and sometimes delights and sometimes horrifies and sometimes intrigues—me and I was genuinely curious to know how it was gonna go down. After spending a lifetime watching men raise and lower their voices, cross their arms, shake hands way too hard, cock their heads, step back, pull out their phones, look away, stare in disbelief, scrutinize, unconsciously flex their biceps, etc., etc., you just never know how it’s going to go down until it does. In this particular case, I wanted to know if his gender performativity was going to mean that:
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