Creative Direction: Jared Letwat

Photographers: Bella Musacchia, Amanda Greenberg & Jared Letwat

Models:
Justin Rhodes
Ben Leung
Sam Pinto
Asterios Zafiris
Jared Letwat

The Script of Manhood

Model: Sam Pinto
Photographer: Bella Musacchia

Masculinity is a moving target, shaped by culture, history, and the silent expectations we absorb early on. We're taught it's about strength, stoicism, and dominance, but not everyone gets to embody these traits equally. For some, masculinity is a privilege, easily inherited and effortlessly performed. For others, it’s a script riddled with contradictions, where race, class, sexuality, and other social forces define who is accepted and who is punished.

As a kid, I saw masculinity as something exclusive, something only certain men possessed. It was tied to being ‘cool’ and desirable, a status rather than a spectrum. Now, I see masculinity less as a status to achieve and more as a language, one that everyone speaks in their own dialect, shaped by experience, identity, and the standards placed upon them. Yet, if masculinity is so deeply ingrained in identity, why does it often feel so fragile?

From the moment boys can tie their shoelaces, they’re handed a script: 'Be tough, man up, don’t cry.' Strength takes center stage, emotions play the villain, and vulnerability doesn’t even get a cameo. Masculinity becomes an act shaped by rules we absorb long before we recognize them.

The Roles We’re Given

Model: Ben Leung
Photographer: Bella Musacchia

During elementary school recess one day, I found myself on the receiving end of a boy’s confused yet mostly judgmental stare before he blurted out, 'Why do you talk like that?' and 'Why are you so girly?' His words were cruel, born from a discomfort he couldn’t name. His questions carried an unspoken expectation, a nudge toward conformity. I quickly learned to blend in and be cautious. These words took root, making me second-guess everything that set me apart, hyper-aware of my speech, walk, and laugh, constantly editing myself to blend in without knowing what I was hiding. At that age, I only knew that being different meant being scrutinized.

These lessons don’t just come from peers. Masculinity is taught at home, whether consciously or not. Fathers, like many male figures, model what masculinity allows and what it punishes, shaping boys through both expression and silence.

Masculinity isn’t a single experience but a series of negotiations: what you reveal, what you suppress, and what the world projects onto you. Boys internalize these standards from childhood, navigating a narrow path between strength and restraint. But what happens when men stop taking masculinity as it’s been prescribed and start defining it for themselves?

The Media’s Blueprint for Manhood

Model: Asterios Zafiris
Photographer: Bella Musacchia

From billboards to TV commercials, social media to movies, the media doesn’t just reflect masculinity—it builds it. It dictates who gets to be seen, how they’re portrayed, and what being a man is supposed to look like. From emotionally restrained action heroes like Rambo to suave womanizers like James Bond, the media portrays masculinity through rigid extremes. But what happens when these ideals aren’t just reflected at us, and they’re instead packaged, sold, and fed into the culture?

Think of the distinct aroma of Axe body spray, a middle school locker room staple promising confidence and desirability in an aerosol can. In hindsight, the early 2000s Axe commercials were absurd, but their message was clear: masculinity isn’t just absorbed; it’s a formula, fine-tuned for mass appeal. According to Business Insider, "Axe has been a huge success because of how it targeted its marketing and took advantage of sexual fantasies." Masculinity is marketed as something you can buy, from luxury watches symbolizing power to tech gadgets branded as status symbols.

But masculinity isn’t just a product; it’s an expectation. A queer man might lower his voice, change his outfit, or alter his posture to avoid harassment. A straight man in hyper-masculine spaces, like the military or Wall Street, might conceal vulnerability to maintain authority. A University of Sydney study found that both gay and straight men favor masculine-presenting men for leadership, showing that masculinity still holds social currency.

Rather than allowing for individuality, these molds strip it away, turning masculinity from self-image into an obligation. Reflecting on his upbringing, Sam Pinto, a featured model, shared, “Growing up, I was taught that being a man meant being strong, responsible, and never showing weakness,” he said. “I remember struggling with something and being told to ‘man up’ instead of talking about it. Those experiences made it clear what was expected of me.”

Masculinity, as marketed, demands proof. It’s crafted, commodified, and imposed, woven into the characters we watch, the products we buy, and the ideals we absorb. But masculinity doesn’t have to be inherited or performed. It can be personal. It’s found in how a man moves through the world, in his values, and in the respect he gives and receives. It doesn’t have to be a facade. It can be quiet confidence, a sense of self that doesn’t need permission or validation. Yet, for so long, the most visible version of masculinity, the one reinforced on screens, has felt anything but personal.

The Selective Screen

Model: Ben Leung
Photographer: Bella Musacchia

Growing up, I never explicitly thought or said, "I don’t see myself on screen," but something felt off. In the early 2000s and 2010s, characters like Stuart from Jessie or Ryan from High School Musical were coded as gay, but their sexuality was never acknowledged. The message wasn’t overt, but it was clear: queerness existed only in the margins. Every love story, every central romance was straight, and queerness was a side note, a joke, or something implied but never spoken. The men on screen didn’t just reflect masculinity; they defined its limits, deciding who existed in full and who was merely peripheral. Queerness was conveyed more as a personality trait than a fully realized aspect of human nature. Will Truman from Will & Grace exemplifies this—an accomplished lawyer and stable, mature friend, yet his romantic life is largely desexualized, his character sanitized for mainstream audiences. Similarly, Kurt Hummel from Glee is unapologetically himself. Still, his storylines revolve almost entirely around his sexuality, often framing him as an outsider whose identity is defined more by struggle than intricacy.

Both characters broke ground in queer visibility but framed queerness as something to admire rather than explore with complexity. Where are the stories where their existence isn’t just about their sexuality? We've seen countless coming-out stories, tales of rejection, and arcs of self-acceptance, but where are the queer spies, power-hungry CEOs, and vengeful action heroes, characters driven by ambition, flaws, and contradictions who just happen to be gay? Queer characters don’t always need to make us feel good. Queerness is a multifaceted reality, not just a narrative device, so why does the media keep treating it like one?

Shows like Pose and Schitt’s Creek show progress, but it’s still incomplete. The queer best friend trope remains—witty, fashionable, and one-note, often serving as comic relief or emotional support without actual arcs of their own. Stanley Tucci’s Nigel in The Devil Wears Prada is the stylish, ever-supportive confidant whose personal life remains largely unexplored. At the same time, Damian in Mean Girls exists mainly for comedic flair and flamboyance, rarely given depth beyond his quippy one-liners.

I understand why people are fatigued by conversations about representation; it’s started to feel like just another box to check. But at its core, it’s not about quotas; it’s about telling stories that haven’t been told, less of the same, more new perspectives, and narratives that go beyond what feels comfortable and familiar. True representation isn’t about making characters palatable; it’s about giving them depth, contradictions, and agency.

While traditional media reinforces one-dimensional portrayals, social media creates new spaces for men to shape their narratives beyond rigid depictions of masculinity. For those scrolling at home, seeing artists like Lil Nas X in camp-infused red carpet looks, Lil Uzi Vert rocking shoulder bags, painted nails, and even a diamond forehead implant, or Bretman Rock deadlifting 405 pounds in a skirt, these examples make self-expression feel more possible; they bring men’s freedom within the viewer's grasp.

The internet is limitless, allowing reinvention just as easily as it preserves the old guard. For every new expression of masculinity that expands its boundaries, an “alpha male” influencer pushes back, determined to keep it contained. They repackage dominance, aggression, and wealth as self-improvement. Figures like Andrew Tate and Aaron Marino have built platforms on this inflexible ideal, selling control as confidence and restriction as strength.

Asterios, a model in this editorial, criticized the push to reinforce outdated ideals, “The idea that masculinity needs to be rebranded into a new category to assert dominance doesn’t signal higher status; it signals deep insecurity. Why invest so much energy in policing how other men present themselves? That level of concern over someone else’s masculinity seems like the real insecurity to me.” Yet that insecurity is precisely what keeps these fixed ideas alive. If masculinity is constantly being policed, when do men get to define it for themselves?

Strength as the Standard

For some men, that question plays out in the gym, one of the most physical arenas of masculinity. There, strength isn’t just expected but displayed, tested, and ranked. The gym is more than exercise; it’s a proving ground where every rep and every pound lifted can feel like a measure of self-worth. But the gym is also a space of shared discipline and encouragement, where strength isn’t just physical; it’s found in perseverance, support, and community.

When I first started going, my biggest fear was being judged. I worried I’d do something wrong or stand out in the wrong way. But the reality was different. Everyone is there for their own reasons, too focused on their own progress to scrutinize anyone else. Some of the kindest, most supportive men I’ve met are the ones I’ve connected with at the gym. The idea of brotherhood, whether in a gym, a friendship, or a family, doesn’t have to mean exclusion or hierarchy. It can mean lifting each other up, not just literally, but in life.

Still, the gym is a double-edged sword. It can be a place of self-improvement, but it can also reinforce narrow ideals of what a man should look like. Whether bulking up to chase the unattainable physique of influencers like Sam Sulek, cutting down to fit the ‘lean is law’ mentality, or simply pursuing long-term health without a fixed end goal, body expectations shift with circumstances and social roles. And while body standards affect all men, they weigh heaviest in spaces where physical appearance is currency—none more so than in the gay community.

I’ve felt that pressure firsthand. Growing up, I didn’t have a stereotypically masculine body. I wasn’t overweight, but I wasn’t athletic or particularly strong either. For most of my childhood, my body felt like an afterthought. Sure, I had insecurities and envied the kids who seemed effortlessly fit, but my body didn’t define me back then. That changed in college. As I gained weight and my bad habits became apparent, my body suddenly felt like a problem to solve. At the same time, as I grew more comfortable with my sexuality, I became painfully aware of how unforgiving the gay male beauty standard is.

Model: Jared Letwat
Photographer: Amanda Greenberg

But it wasn’t just my body that made me feel like I wasn’t enough—it was the way masculinity itself was policed. That became painfully clear during my freshman year when two members of the PIKE fraternity hurled homophobic slurs at me as I stepped out of an elevator in Race Hall, my freshman dormitory at Drexel University. It wasn’t just a passing insult but a moment that made me question my safety in the place I called home. I reported the incident, named the individuals, and expected real accountability. Instead, Drexel dismissed it: "This does not violate our policy." I know that free speech is free speech, but where’s the policy line when it makes someone feel unsafe in their dorm? Their only consequence was a brief Zoom call stating the obvious—what they did was wrong. Meanwhile, an alcohol violation would result in a $100 fine, an essay, and probation, with even stricter consequences for a second offense. What does it reveal about priorities when a college—where drinking is embedded in the culture—imposes fines and probation for minor alcohol violations but only a brief conversation for making a student feel unsafe in their own paid residence?

That realization stayed with me long after the incident. This isn’t just about Drexel; it’s about recognizing that no policy, no institution, and no leadership will ever guarantee complete security and protection for everyone. You must stand up for yourself because, in the end, our last line of defense is, and always will be yourself. But knowing that truth and confronting it firsthand were two different things. Masculinity and sexuality, for me, were constantly shifting, shaped both by how I saw myself and how others perceived me, and that tension was most evident in my body and self-image. I still question where I fit. ‘Twink,’ ‘bear,’ ‘jock’—these labels turn body image into competition, within a category. Should I slim down to align with the Twink beauty standard or bulk up to embody a traditionally masculine ideal? Being in the best shape of my life hasn’t erased these insecurities. If anything, they’ve evolved and, at times, felt even louder.

Before I set foot in a gym, I saw it as a space of judgment, where strength was measured, mistakes were noticed, and belonging had to be earned. But it didn’t take long for that perception to shift. Every lift, every rep, every drop of sweat became a way to reclaim confidence, not just to fit an aesthetic, but to prove to myself that I could take ownership of my body on my terms. And for the first time, that discipline felt real, something I could see, feel, and trust rather than tell myself existed. For many queer men, muscle isn’t just about control—it’s about survival, a way to assert identity in a world that still equates strength with legitimacy. It serves as both self-empowerment and a response to external pressures.

Masculinity, regardless of background or status, is often treated as something that must be earned. For many, it’s tied to strength, not just physical but financial, social, and psychological. Many men, especially straight men, chase ideals of size and dominance shaped by cultural pressures and competition, where masculinity is often measured in money, power, and control. A man who doesn’t fit the gym aesthetic might overcompensate by becoming “the provider,” performing hyper-confidence, or asserting authority through career and wealth. As men age and physical strength fades, these definitions shift. What remains when the body slows down? Strength takes new forms, wisdom, mentorship, or resilience in the face of change.

Masculinity doesn’t have to be a performance; it can be a practice—fluid, self-aware, and built on connection. Justin, one of the featured models, reflected on this idea, saying, “True masculinity isn’t about big muscles or being good at sports, but about the confidence and internal strength to stand up for what you believe in. Strength isn’t about asserting power over others—it’s about using it as a force for integrity, resilience, and care. For me, and all men, untangling these truths is essential to developing a healthier relationship with our bodies—and with masculinity itself.”

The Fabrics of Masculinity

Fashion has never been just about clothing—it’s a language, a way to assert identity before a word is spoken. And for men, it has long been intertwined with masculinity, reflecting shifting ideals of power, status, and self-presentation. Every era redefines 'dressing like a man,' but one thing remains constant: fashion reinforces or challenges masculinity.

Today, as men embrace sheer fabrics, short shorts, and earrings, we’re told masculinity is evolving. But is this progress, or just a revival of past trends repackaged as innovation? The relationship between fashion and masculinity has always been cyclical. What was once a symbol of power, like the lace and heels worn by European aristocrats, was later rebranded as feminine as men’s fashion shifted toward restraint, practicality, and minimalism.

From ballroom culture to gender-fluid fashion, queer people of color have long shaped styles that, when adopted by the mainstream, are celebrated as bold, even though their origins remain marginalized. Gender-nonconforming people, especially trans and nonbinary individuals, still face discrimination and violence for the same self-expression that pop culture selectively embraces. What was once used to label queer people as 'other'—exaggerated silhouettes, dramatic outerwear, and high-shine fabrics—is now embraced by straight male celebrities, who are seen as making daring, original fashion choices. Take Harry Styles, who was hailed as groundbreaking for wearing a dress on the cover of Vogue. While his styling was celebrated as a bold step forward, queer figures like Billy Porter, André Leon Talley, and countless Black and Latinx ballroom icons have been pushing these boundaries for decades, often without the same applause or protection. Styles, perceived as a cis, straight, attractive white man, benefits from a privilege that allows him to play with gender presentation without serious risk. When queer people of color challenge gender norms, it’s radical; when straight white men do, it’s progressive. Fashion may be cyclical, but the credit isn’t always distributed evenly. Masculinity's influence on fashion isn’t just about who gets to push boundaries and where those boundaries came from—it also dictates who feels free to embrace self-expression at all.

Ben Leung, a model in this project who grew up in a Chinese household, felt pressured to conform to masculinity’s expectations, even when he shopped. “I felt like I had to restrict myself to the societal molds of masculinity by always shopping in the ‘Men’s’ section...as I have become more secure in my masculinity, I have come to know that clothing from the ‘Women’s’ section fits my body type. I don’t necessarily think I am breaking any societal norms, more so that I am developing the means of experiencing my sense of masculinity.” It’s not just about breaking conventions but about feeling free to express oneself without fear of judgment.

And then there’s the question of whether shifting fashion norms truly dismantle masculinity’s deeper expectations. The rise of gender-fluid fashion shows that masculinity’s definition is becoming more porous, allowing for greater self-expression and experimentation. However, while these shifts create more freedom, they also reveal a deeper issue: those who champion the breaking of gender norms can be quick to contradict themselves.

For example, someone who posts progressive political Instagram stories might be surprised when a man in a skirt isn’t comfortable talking openly about his sexuality, just as a man who works as a bodyguard might appear tough and guarded yet be open and willing to talk about his sexuality when given the chance. It’s not what we expect but what we’re asking for. We claim to want men to reject rigid masculinity. Still, when they do, the very people who champion openness and acceptance often weaponize the categories they claim to reject. The call for progress often hides a desire for control, masked by the concept of liberation.

But does fashion truly challenge the deeper pressures of masculinity, or does it simply mask them? Some argue that straight men don’t have more freedom and that because most men adhere to societal norms, they face just as much pressure to conform, while women and queer people are expected to dress more individually. However, if straight men do choose to dress outside traditional masculine norms, the penalty and perception are not the same. A man who fits traditional masculinity can wear something unconventional and still be seen as manly, while that same outfit on someone who doesn’t fit the mold due to mannerisms, appearance, or perceived identity is more likely to mark them as gay. The issue isn’t just standing out, it’s how people justify what they see.

Clothing has long symbolized power, but today, it’s also a tool for autonomy. Men increasingly see self-expression not as a risk but as a declaration of identity and control. Fashion no longer reflects masculinity—it reshapes it, proving strength isn’t in restriction but in evolution. But self-expression isn’t isolated; it’s shaped by the spaces we inhabit and the expectations they impose.

Evolving Visions of Masculinity

Masculinity has never been static, yet every generation treats its version as the definitive one. We act as if it's a universal truth when, in reality, it’s a series of shifting rules, reshaped by culture, repackaged by media, and rebranded with every trend. But if masculinity is constantly changing, why do we still measure ourselves against standards we didn’t create?

Rather than attempting to correct or discard masculinity, maybe it’s time to restore it, not as a strict blueprint, but as a profoundly personal manifestation. At some point, every man has the same choice: adhere to the script, rewrite it, or step beyond it entirely. Some will double down, mistaking dominance for strength. Others will push boundaries, questioning why they existed in the first place. And many will simply live, not in opposition to masculinity, but in ownership of it, on their terms.

My journey has taught me that masculinity is not a destination but an ongoing process of self-discovery. At 21, I don’t claim to have it all figured out, but I take pride in owning my identity, embracing its complexities, and shaping a masculinity that’s uniquely mine. Each day, I choose to be the man I am, unapologetically embracing all that makes me whole.

I urge those who see traditional masculinity as the only path to consider how deeply ingrained these roles are in every aspect of life, from appearance and behavior to interactions and societal structures. Yet, masculinity is not inherently restrictive; it can be a source of empowerment, camaraderie, and brotherhood. By embracing the relationship we share as men, we can use our collective connection to manhood as a shared experience that evolves with us. It should serve as a foundation for growth rather than a constraint on individuality.

As long as we continue measuring ourselves against outdated standards, we remain locked in a cycle of imitation, never fully exploring what masculinity could be if we allowed it to reflect the diversity and dynamism of the men who embody it.