In the 1970s, they fought like men. At their next meeting, Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier plan to hug like women.

Until last year, Joe Frazier had never quite forgiven Ali for Borking him outside the ring. On the 30th anniversary of their 1971 fight at Madison Square Garden, however, Frazier suggested the two heavyweight giants publicly bury the hatchet — with a hug. Ali welcomed the olive branch. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, and now hug like a woman?

Like a true man, Ali conceded his mistakes. To promote their fights, the champ explained to the “New York Times,” he had called Frazier an Uncle Tom and even compared him to a gorilla. It was nothing personal. But he was sorry. So far, so good. Alas, the champ then volunteered to hug Frazier if his former antagonist so desired.

The hug has not yet materialized, according to a recent database search. At least Ali and Frazier have a good excuse to hug. As for other guys — even the manliest of men, the types who wouldn’t dare drink a wine cooler in public, let alone ask for driving directions in the middle of the Siberian wilderness — they shamelessly hug like sorority sisters. Everywhere you look — from football fields to party conventions — men are hugging men.

The hug has replaced the handshake. These two forms of greetings could not be more different. When days were old and knights were bold, men shook hands to insure neither carried a weapon. Now when a guy meets or greets another guy the only bodily harm he risks is a cracked rib from a bear hug.

This kind of emotional promiscuity, much like sexual promiscuity, degrades a form of coming together that once signified genuine emotion. Unlike writing with pink magic markers, there is nothing inherently unmanly about one man hugging another. Just the opposite: a real man can show his feelings in public, at the appropriate moment. The key word is moment, not every minute.

It’s certainly understandable that men were seen hugging men at emotional Sept. 11 memorials and related events. Rudy Giuliani, not usually a touchy-feely kind of guy, seemed to hug everyone within reach when he officiated at these tragic gatherings last year as mayor. Still, the rampant hugging clearly pre-dates 9/11 — though by not as much as you may think.

When Paul Weyrich, first came to Washington in 1967 to work for Colorado Senator Gordon Allott, hugging was confined to a group of Southern senators, he recalls. “Everybody else was very reserved and they didn’t do that.”

Years later, even Jimmy Carter didn’t. This touchy-feely wannabe Carter was horrified at the way Leonid Brezhnev hugged him and kissed him practically on the lips, recalls American Prowler.org editor Wlady Pleszczynski. Afterward Carter took up long-distance running, as if he had some traumatic incident he needed to put behind him.

Weyrich, now president of the Free Congress Foundation, says the no touching policy continued throughout the Reagan and Bush administrations. “We did not hug.”

Enter Bubba. Hugs galore. Robert Reich, the diminutive intellectual giant of the Clinton administration, cites the serial hugging in his memoir, “Locked in the Cabinet.” Like so many other Clintonesque obsessions, such as “diversity,” promiscuous hugging soon infested GOP and conservative circles. Today, even at conservative events Weyrich is besieged with huggers. When the hands go out he wants to “hide,” Weyrich says.

So do I. Hugs should be reserved for special occasions. I generally hug another man about every two or three years; the hugs are a function of circumstances, not goals, timetables or quotas. In 1992, I hugged my friend from summer camp at his wedding. The next hug was in 1995, just days before I left Washington for a new job in New York City. The hug was initiated by my journalism mentor. He hugged to express delight because I had landed a position with a major paper. Then, another hug in 1997 for a college friend at his wedding.

All these guys I’ve seen quite a few times then since then. We shook hands. Maybe this is a family trait. We male Gahrs are neither huggers nor huggees. Keep your hands off us, please.

In 1999, my sister brought her then-boyfriend to a family dinner so he could officially meet the folks. Quite the 90s guy, he ended the evening by hugging my father. Big mistake. My father grew up admiring the likes of John Wayne, not Alan Alda. He recoiled with shock and disgust.

Flash forward one year: boyfriend has just become brother-in-law. At the wedding I delighted the guests with a sweet and funny speech welcoming him into the family. Afterwards, we hugged, in plain view of the guests, the videographer and my father. “You see, he didn’t hug me,” my father said with uncharacteristic smugness. Still, the embrace was appropriate for the moment. But no more hugs until he makes me an uncle.

Evan Gahr is an adjunct scholar at the Center for Equal Opportunity in Washington, D.C. This piece is adapted from the Women’s Quarterly.