21

I RECALL, IN FACT I WILL NEVER FORGET, a brief event that took place many, many years ago when I was a boy of thirteen or so, watching my father get dressed for an evening out with Mother. His closet door was open wide and I could see his many pairs of carefully shined shoes, his numberless suits hanging on expensive wooden hangers, his ties suspended from some fancy sort of frame, everything clean, pressed, seemingly new, fussily cared for. I teased him and said, “Dad, you’re some dandy!” (It was rare for me to tease; our family life was low on fun.)

“Dressing well is sexy, son,” he said, “and do you know why?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Because when you step out of your clothes you’re really naked.”

This, I now know, was an emblematic moment. At the time it made me anxious, it made me blush, and even angry. Any mention of sex on my father’s part always made me unaccountably angry. But then as I grew older, I found myself turning into a fussy dresser too, a man who wore expensive hats, silk suits and ties, tie-up shoes. And I discovered, indeed, how sexy this was, what a turn-on for certain kinds of women. And that it was, along with the fact of being an MD, considered both sexy and an indication of safety.