I was probably eight or nine, standing in Vicky's living room while my mom and her friend talked in the way adults do when they think kids aren't listening. Nancy Sinatra was playing in the background. I wasn't part of the conversation. But like any kid, I was very good at eavesdropping. What I heard that day became my first lesson in masculinity — and nobody meant to teach it.

Every woman in that room knew exactly what she meant. Different houses. Different names. Same man. But every once in a while there's a different conversation — and when she says his name, the other women don't nod in sympathy. They wish. That's a Masculine Man.