Monologues for Men: 8 Original Scripts That Show Vulnerability

How to Choose Monologues for Men

Play your own age, give or take ten years. A man of 28 and a man of 40 sound different, so a panel hears it right away. The monologues below cover ages from 19 to 65, so there is a real choice at every stage.

Look for a speaker who wants something from the listener, such as forgiveness, time or permission. Then find the sentence where he changes his mind, because that sentence is your center. For the basics of what makes a speech work on its own, read what a monologue is or the Merriam-Webster definition, and for shorter pieces see monologues for auditions.

Preparing Monologues for Men Without Hiding Behind Toughness

Start ordinary. Say the first lines the way you would say them to a friend, and let the feeling leak in later. Men often push emotion on the first sentence, and then there is nowhere left to go. Save it.

Breathe before the hard line, and let the silence be a full beat. Then decide what the character does with his hands, because hands tell the truth when the face tries to hide. For example, fix a tie, hold a wrench or grip a chair, and let that object do some of the work.

Rehearse out loud and on your feet. If the audition is on video, our guide to recording a self-tape shows how to frame a quiet performance. You can also read the audition tips before the day. If you want a coach, start with how to choose acting classes.

Three Habits to Drop in Monologues for Men

• Shouting to show feeling. Volume is not intensity, because a low voice that shakes often lands harder than a loud one.
• Freezing the face. Many actors lock their jaw to look strong, but a face that reacts is more convincing. Let the face react, even a little.
• Rushing the quiet lines. The small, plain sentence is often the most important one, so give it room.

8 Original Monologues for Men

These monologues for men were written for this page. They are original and suit actors from 18 to 60 and older. Some are dramatic, some are comic, and several are both. First, read them aloud. You can use these monologues for auditions, classes and showcases. Please credit castingandacting.com.

1. Crib Instructions

Man, 30 to 40 · dramatic with humor · about 1 minute. Talking to his brother at 2 a.m. while they build a crib.

Step four says, insert peg A into hole B. There is no peg A. There’s a peg that thinks it’s A. Hold this end. Thanks. Can I tell you something, and you won’t make it a thing? I’m scared. Not of the crib. Of her. Of this tiny person who will look up at me and assume I know what I’m doing.

I make a list for everything. I have a list for groceries. There’s no list for this. Everybody keeps saying, you’ll just know. What if I don’t just know? What if I’m the guy reading the manual at three in the morning, and the manual’s wrong? Okay. You’re not laughing. Thank you for not laughing. Hand me the wrench. If I can’t build her a bed, I’m definitely not building her anything else.

How to play it: the instructions are a place to hide. Let the confession arrive mid-task, with your hands still busy, and slow down on “What if I don’t just know?”

2. Learning to Swim

Man, 60 and older · dramatic with humor · about 1 minute. Talking to a young instructor at the edge of a community pool.

Before we start, I should say I’m not here for a medal. My granddaughter turns six next month, and she’s having her party at the lake. She asked, “Grandpa, are you coming in?” and I said, “Maybe.” She gave me a look. You know the look people give when you say maybe.

So here I am. You’re twenty-three, I’m sixty-two, and my knees are shaking harder than your whistle. Don’t be gentle with me. Well, be a little gentle. Just tell me where to put my feet. I’ve been afraid of water since I was nine, and I carried that around like a coat I forgot I was wearing. I’m holding the wall. I’m going to let go of the wall in a minute. Not this minute. The next one.

How to play it: the pride is hiding the fear. Let your grip on the wall be real, and let “The next one” be both a joke and a promise.

3. The Voicemail

Man, 25 to 35 · comic turning sincere · about 1 minute. Leaving a message for a former roommate.

Hey, Marcus, it’s me. Don’t hang up. I mean, you can’t, it’s a voicemail. Okay. So. About the lamp. I broke the lamp. Three years ago. I told you the cat did it. We don’t have a cat. I panicked. I also ate your leftovers every Thursday, and I need you to know that I knew they were yours.

That isn’t really why I’m calling. I’m calling because the new place is quiet, and I’m not good at quiet. I thought moving out would be great, and it is great, I have a dishwasher. But nobody’s here to yell at me about the lamp. So call me back, or don’t. If you do, I’ll bring a new lamp. And no cat.

How to play it: start fast and funny, then let the pace drop at “That isn’t really why.” The audience should feel you stop performing for the machine.

4. Retirement Cake

Man, 60 to 70 · comic with heart · about 1 minute. Giving a speech at his own retirement party.

Thank you. Please sit. Don’t clap, I haven’t said anything yet. I wrote a speech. It’s four pages, but I’m only reading the last one, because the first three were about me, and I’ve heard enough about me.

Forty-one years I came to this building. I know which stair creaks. I know the third-floor coffee machine only works if you apologize to it. Tomorrow I’ll get up and there won’t be a stair. I’m going to be honest, because there’s cake and everyone’s happy and it’s the only time anyone listens. I’m a little scared of tomorrow. Only about a cake’s worth. But thank you for a place where I was needed. That’s all anyone wants. To be needed on a Tuesday. Is that chocolate? Good. I can retire.

How to play it: keep the room warm with jokes, and let one honest second show on “Tomorrow.” Look at the cake only on the last line, as if it saved you.

5. The Interpreter

Man, 18 to 22 · dramatic · about 1 minute. Talking to his father in a parked car, outside a bank, before going in.

Dad, wait. Before we go in. I read the letter in the car. I’ll tell you exactly what it says, like always. But I want to say something first, and I’ll say it fast. Since I was eleven, I’ve been the one at the counter. The phone calls, the forms, the doctor. I was proud. I still am.

But I’m nineteen, and some days I’m so tired of being the grown-up that I want to be the kid who just carries the bag. Then I feel awful for wanting that. You never asked me for any of it. I know. I’m not complaining. I’m telling you because out there we only talk in words that are never ours. Okay. Let me read you the letter. It’s not as bad as the envelope looks. I’ll do the voice, the one I use at the bank. You’ll laugh.

How to play it: love is the objective, not confession. Speak to your father, not about him, and let the last four lines be a gift you are offering.

6. The Driving Test

Man, 55 to 65 · comic · about 1 minute. Talking to an examiner before retaking the road test.

Good morning. Yes, I’m the one who’s retaking it. Before we start, I’ve been driving for thirty-one years, so this is a little like asking a fish to take a swimming test. I know, the fish passed on the first try. Mirror. Seat belt. Signal. That’s the windshield wiper. It’s very polite.

Here’s the thing. I failed last time at parallel parking because I got nervous, and I have never in my life been nervous about a car. Only people. And you’re a person, and you have a clipboard. So would you mind not writing while I’m looking? Writing makes me feel judged. Could you just talk to me? Tell me about your day. I drive better when someone’s kind to me. Most of us do.

How to play it: be dignified and nervous at once. The last two sentences are the real request, so say them to the examiner’s eyes, not to the clipboard.

7. Gerald

Man, 35 to 45 · comic · about 1 minute. Talking to his sourdough starter, early on a weekday morning.

Gerald, you have to eat. I know it’s six a.m. I know you were up late. Flour, water. That’s all you need. You’re lucky, because everyone else needs more. I’ve been feeding you for eleven days, and you’ve doubled. Nobody has doubled for me since, well, ever. I want you to know I’m proud. I watch you bubble in the morning and I think, there he goes, making something out of nothing.

I talk to you more than I talk to my sister. That’s a lot to say out loud. It’s six a.m., and a jar is my best friend. But you listen, Gerald. You never interrupt. You just rise. So rise. Please. I told Dana I’d bring bread on Saturday, and I told Dana it was “a thing I do.”

How to play it: treat the jar like a living partner and wait for its replies. The loneliness is real, so never wink at the audience about it.

8. Lost Dog

Man, 40 to 55 · dramatic · about 1 minute. Taping a flyer to a lamppost and talking to a neighbor who stops to read it.

Oh, you don’t have to read it. Everybody reads it, then they look at me like I’m a flyer too. His name’s Biscuit. Brown, one white sock on the left foot, answers to his name, though he pretends he doesn’t. Nine days. I know what people think. It’s a dog. You’ll get another. I’m sure that’s true.

But Biscuit got me out of the house twice a day for six years. After my job ended, he was the only one who thought I was still going somewhere. We walked this exact street. He stopped at every post and read it like the news. I put the flyers up at six so nobody sees me standing here. You did. That’s fine. You can stay. If you see a brown dog with one white sock, he’s embarrassed about the sock. Be kind.

How to play it: start polite and a little defensive, then let the grief come in sideways on “the only one who thought I was still going somewhere.” End quietly.

More Monologues

• Monologues: the full library
• Comedic monologues
• Dramatic monologues
• Monologues for women
• Monologues for teens
• Shakespeare monologues
• Six short monologues for auditions

Frequently asked questions

What makes a good monologue for a man?

A speaker who wants something from the listener and is afraid to ask. Real stakes and a clear change of mind matter more than age, accent or genre.

How do I avoid the tough-guy cliche?

Pick a character who is trying to hide something, and play the effort of hiding it. The vulnerability then shows without being forced.

Is a comic or a dramatic monologue better for men?

Neither. Choose the one you can play honestly, and bring one of each when the audition allows two.

How long should a monologue be?

About one minute for most auditions, which is 130 to 160 words at a natural pace. Check the casting notice, and cut from the middle if you need less.

Can I use these monologues at an audition?

Yes. You can use them for auditions, classes and showcases. Please credit castingandacting.com.

Reviewed in November 2026.