Shaking Hands With Manhood
My wife and I recently visited a technical high school with our son, and in the Construction and Building Trades area, we ran into masculinity trouble.
The moment we stepped into the vast and noisy workshop, we were met by the workshop’s ruler: a big man sporting a big plaid shirt tucked aggressively into prophylactically tight jeans, a man born with two big pencils, one stuffed behind each shapely ear, a man barely keeping within the lines of himself, standing ramrod straight up out of ten-gallon boots, and the brunt of him was held back from erupting into huge nudity by a belt as big as a tool belt, because it was a tool belt.
I want to call him Mr. Zeppelin Penis Johnson, but that wasn’t his name.
His name was Mr. Manful.
He introduced himself to my son: “I am Mr. Manful.” Then he reached out to shake hands.
My son shook his hand, which prompted Mr. Manful to say,
He immediately broke out of the handshake, held out his hand again, and said, “When you shake a man’s hand, you grip hard and look him in the eye.”
This prompted my wife to make a sound in her throat, which is the sound of her fury mixed with disgust. I don’t know how she produces the sound. I’ve tried and failed. It sounds like she’s got a rock-tumbler in the back of her throat. It sounds like the growl of a wolf gargling the bones of another wolf. Usually, she’s aiming this sound at me, but that day, it was all for Mr. Manful.
But my son took the critique well, something he never does at home, and re-shook.
“Better,” said Mr. Manful.
Then he turned to me.
I’d been expecting this. I’d been slapping myself hard in the face from both sides in preparation. I’d been juicing, jack…