Why is it that there are far more women on Tumblr willing to take their clothes off for strangers than men? It’s easy to say that they need it more, they get feedback that is necessary in a culture that tells women they will never be pretty enough. But I suspect there’s something else that’s easy to ignore. It takes strength. It takes courage. It takes a willingness to be judged over and over again that most of us men simply don’t have.

As I look at my body, getting older each day, I remember that liberation I think I once felt. But as I drink my coffee more slowly, wake up earlier, and watch the lines appear on my skin, I can see the lie. There was no confidence there in the end. My teenage body didn’t require strength or courage. I believed I earned desire for having doing nothing. I believe I deserved it for no reason at all.

And now, for the first time, as I watch everything change, I wonder where that courage might come from. How will that strength arise, and what can I do to nurture it? What will it take for me to be as brave as the thousands of women who each day drop their robes and bare themselves to the world as a matter of survival?

So I take photos all morning, hoping that the light will make a difference. Hoping that maybe a new angle, maybe a new position will create that glimpse of glory that used to be there. I place it high and then low, wondering which position makes my chin look less soft and more square. I rub my cock as I play with the camera, hoping that maybe an erection will draw away the attention, and the raw energy of excitement might be enough. But each time I lean back to the camera, my fingers busy with something new, I return limp once more. There is no salvation in a hard cock.

But maybe the right photo can make me feel like a handsome old man, if nothing else. Maybe if I live hard enough there will be lines in my face that, if not sexy, are at least interesting. Possibly the right hat, a jacket, or a scarf might let people ignore the flesh and instead be mesmerized by the character. But I’m not old enough to be anyone’s grandfather, and I’m not young enough to ignore it. My beard doesn’t grow full, my hair is a mess in just the wrong way, and my pale skin does not inspire mystery.

If I breath deeply enough, there is a chance I might be able to pause in the moment and remember. There is a chance I might recall that my only job is to be exactly as I am. My stomach, my chin, and my sad eyes are just as true as my strong shoulders and my powerful legs. No matter how hard I try, the camera will never catch everything.

I am getting older. My body is changing, and taking photos of it does nothing to slow the progress. But in each shot there is also something else. Something real. Something honest. In each shot there is both me and not me.

And if women on the internet have taught me anything, it’s that there are a million ways to find strength.