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It's all a costume.

That's what they claim. There's no true masculinity and femininity; there are only costumes that we wear.

So

You wore a masculine costume.

You put on thirty pounds of muscle, grew out your beard, donned your wifebeater and flannel shirt, bought a trucker hat, lit up a cigar and started fucking masc4masc studs in truckstop restrooms.

His thicc hairy ass and guttural moans turn you on, but not as much as your own. Masc4masc is narcissistic. It feeds itself. You're attracted to his masculinity, and your own. And the more it feeds, the more it wants to be fed. There will never be such a thing as "too masc", "too butch". It's like saying "too sexy". It doesn't make sense.

Once you've cum in his manhole and sucked his dick dry, you're gonna share a beer under the stars and chat about everything and nothing, floating on the edge of some genuine depth but pulling back at the last minute to keep minimum safe distance. To fulfill that deep male desire to not tell anyone else a goddamn thing. You'll part ways with a tongue-deep kiss and a fist-bump, and maybe see him again, maybe not. Keep it chill, keep it easy, keep it masc.

It feels good, this costume. It's tailored and form-fitting, made of all natural materials. Not even a costume, really, just... who you are. Your own skin.