This is a poem by Mervyn Morris, I think it speaks for itself.
Flaunting his gym-toned pectorals,
fashion- conscious locks,
he worked the image of philanderer,
every woman’s fantasy or threat.
But something tremulous inside
his gravelly baritone exposed
a small boy quivering in the dark,
his mother dead, his father gone away,
groping for explanations.
I have found myself returning again and again to the question of how machismo relates to metrosexual masculinity? I don’t know if I can answer it. But the above poem is definitely as good an attempt as any.