One of my earliest memories is laying on my father’s lap on a couch. Not our couch. Not at home. My feet in my Uncle’s lap and him idly playing with my toes as copious amounts of “rural man talk” filled the liquor fragranced room. I never felt safer.
I remember telling someone about this memory. Maybe one of the few times I’d spoken about it out loud. It was just a fond early memory and why I still like falling asleep being touched. It was a girlfriend that I told, just in passing. She blindsided me by saying that it sounded like the beginning of a nefarious repressed memory. But she also found it strange that my Dad would still hug me, ruffle my hair and kiss me warmly when he felt the urge.
My dad is a manly man. He’s a farmer. Like through and through. He doesn’t know how not to work. He doesn’t need to work. But he doesn’t know any other life but that of a farmer. In his free time, he does old het man stuff. Like gossiping with his peers and collecting stuff and fishing. Hunting too but he prefers to fish. His brother is the same but probably more of a “party animal” than him. By that, I mean he doesn’t just stay local. He has traveled more. He is the one who got me into Motown and Reggae and broadened my world beyond New England, literally through music.
Could that be why you are into men?
My ex wasn’t the only one that asked this question. As much as society likes to think it would prefer more progressive men who are open with their feelings and kiss their sons’ (or daughters’), when confronted with it, society feels awkward. Men are too sexual for it to be anything but a sexualized act. Anything other than a brief “man-hug” with aggressive back-slapping seems off. Slightly inappropriate. Uncomfortable.
But no, that’s not why I’m into men. My father has hugged the life out of all of his kids (mostly boys) and I’m the only queer one. That treasured sleepy memory of casual affection from my Father and Uncle play no part in my primal lust, endless fascination and burning desire for male-presenting partners. The affection I share with my brothers after being raised by these men is nothing like when I embrace one of my partners. Being raised by men who were “real” to themselves did not make me gay. Hot guys made me gay. Little devils they are.
When my daughter was born at home in late Spring, my father happened to be there. He was staying and she wasn’t due just yet, but she decided that day was the day to be born and that she was. He pottered around the house bringing us snacks and rubbing backs (yes both of ours) and whispering words of encouragement (both) and reassurance that we would make it through alive (to me!). He took the dogs out for a walk, instinctively leaving “Husband Dog” who was not about to leave his Lady Human in such vulnerable state (🐾:“Bears might come and eat them!” ) and reappeared with snacks and drinks at the right time after the birth.
He hugged her first, his daughter by love, and thanked her for making his son a father, at last. And then he hugged me, his baby, and we cried on each other, and then he told me to feed my love, while she fed ours.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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You may also like these posts on The Good Men Project:
 White Fragility: Talking to White People About Racism |
 Escape the “Act Like a Man” Box |
 The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer |
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Photo credit: Shutterstock.com
