Sex Roles #1: You Are a Straight Male. You Are a Hugger.

This article will be the first of a series.

Let me speak for myself only. I’ll be the baseline for this one.

I’m a hugger. I wrap my wife in my arms and tell her I love her whenever the mood arises. She would have to be in a receptive mood, of course, but if she is ... watch out. I’m out for bear as I appreciate her more than I could ever express verbally. And I want her to know.

Do I care that my “routine” may get a little repetitive? Or over-the-top?

Or “old?”

Are you kidding? My expressions of love and caring are honest and from the heart, BUT, if she’s not there with me for whatever the reason ... then I’ll come back later. At the right time. My wife comes first, without exception.

I’m like this with family and friends as well. My brothers and I were fortunate to have been raised by two outstanding parents. We are all loving men.

And there is nothing wrong with that.

Make no mistake, though: It is a different era than that in which I was raised. Be aware. Displays of affection, especially in the current environment of heightened (sexual) harassment awareness, should be accorded with discretion, as your innocent display of love and kindness may trigger an unwelcome response — regardless of the sex of the receiver (just to get that out of the way; the continuation of this article series will further explore those issues).

Personally, I have always been the sensitive type. I’ll cry during a movie. I’ll cry watching family reunion episodes of talk shows. As soon as I hear: “You haven’t seen your mother in 29 years, and heeeeere she is!” ...forget it. I’m flooding.

I have no room for the insecurity of a macho — or an “alpha” — exterior. When I was in junior high school, I was bullied for being Jewish. In high school, I didn’t have a single date as I was immensely shy around women, instead burying my nose in comic books, or affixing my eyes on the latest television monster movie rerun. I do not understand game hunters, who take the lives of innocent animals for the purposes of trophy. At 53 years old, I remain unclear as to all the rules of football, a sport that bores me like few others. I love musicals and the theater.

I also give regularly to charity, use my voice to condemn social injustices (I loathe the term “Social Justice Warrior” due to its in-your-face self-importance), and I’m a fighter by nature. I work in the film, television, and publishing industries, and every day is akin to going to war.

I love it. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My definition of a “real man” is one who helps others, who expresses their thoughts and feelings honestly and without fear. I’m a writer. That’s what I do. Writing is my craft and substantively my profession. Boxing is my favorite sport, the training and result of which I equate to the purest form of a winner’s work ethic. Just two men, one on one. Is it any coincidence, then, that I fight daily for what I believe in?

To the rest of my self-examination: I’ll be 54 years old in a week, I have a bad knee, I’m bald and overweight. The knee will (hopefully) be fixed, and I’ll resume regular physical activity shortly. I’m also a former power lifter and marathon runner.

So what’s the deal? Do I have a complex? Am I writing this article because someone accused me of being someone I am not? Am I uncomfortable in my skin?

Hardly. I have an unquenchable desire to live in a world of honesty. That “desire” includes in its definition the absolute importance of free expression, the necessity of a man to be able to reveal himself freely and without expectation, to openly discuss “taboo” issues without fear of reprisal, and to continue to evolve — even at my age — as a role model and example to latter generations.

I strive to help as many people as I can. I have my flaws, and they’re not all physical. Nine email addresses and three phone lines will sometimes (okay, frequently) delay a return communication on my part. Something I’m working on. I have a quirky sense of humor that can be overbearing. I have an obsessive personality, and I can talk about pop-culture fixations such as Star Wars until you want to escape for the hills. I work daily to keep the occasional hair-trigger temper under control (I’m succeeding there). I would love less stress. I would love to laugh more.

I would love to hug more.

Do I care if you “like” me? Honestly, I don’t. Do I care if you “respect” me? Respect is earned, not given, but absolutely I strive for your respect as before I pass away (hopefully several decades from now, if at all), if you allow my words to penetrate, then my mission is accomplished.

As a friend on Facebook said yesterday, “I truly want to leave the world a better place than when I came into it.”

Regrets have no place in this dojo, and so we keep on keepin’ on.