Photo by Etienne Girardet on Unsplash

I once smoked a cocaine-laced joint with an ex-con whose arms were decorated with white supremacist tattoos because, like a beggar, addicts can’t be choosers, so I puffed away as he gave me the only concrete advice I’ve ever been given about masculinity: “You’re not a real man unless you’ve had the clap three times.”

Back then, I learned never to question the racist opinions of strangers sharing their drugs, so I nodded as if I were a real man who had conquered chlamydia not once but thrice. There is nothing wrong with contracting a sexually transmitted disease, so I don’t want you to think I’m shaming anyone who has had one. For a brief period in college, I was a safe sex peer counselor, which meant I was a nerd who would give presentations to bored dudes in dorms about how to use a condom properly.

I don’t know why having the clap three times made one a real man. Maybe once would be enough? Because after that, you’d learn to protect yourself and your partner by practicing safe sex. I didn’t tell him my opinions on such things because I didn’t want to be rude, and I was also high and paranoid and knew from experience that one thoughtless word could ruin the party and/or my face.

He didn’t know I was an alcoholic and drug addict because I didn’t know. I was too busy trying to murder my liver. He also didn’t know I was half-Latino, which I am thankful for because I don’t think he would have loved that; at that point in my life, I rarely told anyone that one side of my family were all proud Mexican-Americans because I was desperate to fit in and it was easy to fit in with other white men because I looked like them. In AA, they say you’re only as sick as your secrets, and I have been sick before.

I am sober now. Twelve years. I hope to stay drug-and-alcohol-free for another day and, god willing, another day after that. I have never had the clap, but who can predict the future? (Always wear protection when having sex with partners outside of a committed and trusting relationship.) I do not know what happened to the dude with the scary tats and the ample supply of drugs. That was a long, long time ago. But his advice has stuck with me because it makes no sense, much like most advice for men.

That concept of the “real man” has been sold to me my entire life, and for many years I made a living selling dudes the idea that there was one and only one way to be, and the story of my life is the story of realizing I have been wrong about so many things.

My old man only ever offered my two pieces of advice. First, always call someone back when they’ve been fired or laid off. Second, know who your friends are and stand by them. My mom also gave me advice: “Jesus said to turn the other cheek, but you only get two cheeks, and Jesus never said get your ass kicked.” She told me this when I was being bullied in elementary school. She taught me many things, like I should buy socks at dollar stores. And how to balance my checkbook. And that root beer floats are superior to milkshakes.

Other men in my life offered up instructions: coaches who commanded me to walk off pain or the one scoutmaster who told me I should know how to set dangerous booby traps in the woods. I remember a young man of the cloth visiting my CCD class and pitching the Catholic priesthood to the boys. “Priests eat at Italian restaurants for free,” he joked, and I was momentarily intrigued. There was hot and heavy rock music, hairy cops driving fast on TV, and the movies, where men were horny and violent and would rip a bullet out of their arm with a rusty pair of pliers without wincing.

But then I met a teacher in high school. He taught English, naturally. He wore a professorial beard and talked about poetry like it was the coolest thing in the world, and even though he was soft-spoken, he didn’t take shit.

I was never very good in school: I was always a dreamer and a flibbertigibbet. But this guy, this weird, gentle middle-aged man, got me. He introduced me to Macbeth, Shakespeare’s macho, brooding tragic hero undone by ambition. I didn’t always understand Shakespeare’s language, but I read it anyway, even when I struggled. So this teacher takes me aside one day and says, “Remember: Macduff is the hero.” Then he smiled at me and walked away.

In Act 4, Macbeth has Macduff’s children slaughtered. He breaks down after learning that his “pretty chickens” have all been murdered. His lieutenant Malcolm tells him to “dispute it like a man.” Don’t cry, he insists, act like a man.

Macduff responds: “I shall do so; But I must also feel it as a man.”

That was pretty good advice.

I have been paid to offer advice to men, too. On satellite radio and in print magazines, and online. The advice I dished out was pretty standard stuff: bros before hos, suck it up, bacon makes everything better. I knew at the time that telling men to choose loyalty to each other over doing the right thing was morally bankrupt, not to mention crude and sexist. I knew that suffering in silence was destructive and that there’s such a thing as too much bacon.

My job was to perpetuate gender norms. Bropaganda. To sell a specific brand of superficial, fake tough guy masculinity to the insecure, who would then be sold perfumed deodorant for men. It was easy for me to do this because I was an insecure person who wanted to be told who to be, and being a man came with a simple instruction manual.

I’m a little older now. I don’t know if I’m wiser, but I’ve learned a few things. For instance, never name your penis. It’s not funny, nor is it cute. You are a human being, and while genitals can be a good time and amusing and pleasurable to manipulate alone or with another person or persons, they are not your identity, nor do they have their own identity; they are just bits of extra flesh that spend most of their time hanging, like fruits.

You are whatever name you call yourself. You are whatever pronouns you use and politely ask others to use. You are not defined by how much you can drink, bench press, or earn but by how much love you can carry in your heart. (More than you think.)

Love yourself. Love your friends. Love your family. Let them love you back if they so choose.

Take care of your skin. Never be afraid or too proud to ask for help. Keep your eyes on your own paper. Fold your laundry. Listen.

Gender is a hat. Masculinity is a flowery musketeer hat. Wear many hats in this life if you can.

Clip your nose hair. Tip well because it’s a principle. Be precise and confident when explaining how you want your hair cut. Be polite. Money can’t buy love, but it can buy very nice shoes, so if you have the money, own a couple of pairs. The same goes for bedsheets.

When it comes to sex, ask questions. Can I? Do you want me to? Sex is fun. It’s fun between a man and a woman, a man and a man, a woman and a woman, or between two people who identify as both genders or neither. It’s messy and beautiful and silly and should be taken seriously. Unless someone’s private parts accidentally make a funny noise. Then you should laugh.

We are each profoundly different living machines built to feel compassion and affection for other machines, even if they look different. Our capacity for tenderness is limitless, and it is only when we defy those core purposes that we reveal another, darker function, and that is to fear and hate and destroy.

Unless you’ve been told their names, greet every dog as “buddy” and every cat as “your highness.” Dating changes, but one thing stays the same; eventually, you will need the courage to tell that person how you feel. Pour the milk first, then the cereal. Cereal doesn’t want to be soggy. It wants to be crunchy even if the milk eventually wins. Honor the way things are supposed to be. For instance, humans are meant to show up to each other.

Here’s my advice for men: Don’t act like a man. Just breathe. Breathe and enjoy a root beer float from time to time, it doesn’t matter if it’s summer or winter. Breathe and wear whatever hat fits.