So much pride running through my veins

Keeping one old man is work enough, and now I have two on my hands — one on the floor above, one in the basement below, and little old me in the middle. And yet, surrounded on all sides by testicles as if the unlucky starlet in the center of some ill-conceived bukkake, it is I, your humble author, producing the most — nay, perhaps the only — testosterone in this household. It is I bringing home the bacon, pumping iron, eating steaks, and wearing the proverbial pants. Yay for us, challenging the gender norms! This should be so empowering!

You told me once that giving blowjobs is empowering. Now I wonder if you knew from personal experience. I consider how irresistible you would look peering up from below with an occupied mouth, your free hand brushing aside a sweep of dark hair to reveal even darker eyes set against the palest of alabaster skin. But I digress.

Role reversal is exhausting, and, quite frankly, loathsome. Taking charge — oh, what a frightening concept! Systematic castration of the white male has proved to be a success, producing a definitively servile and indecisive breed. There is a line between us, I think, that separates us only because you cannot decide whether to cross. And in the end, after each pro and con has been listed, every option has been weighed, and all avenues have been explored, your time on this earth expires and you realize it was not the crossing of the line that killed you — just the fear of it.