My youngest son is 4 years old, and his every waking moment is steeped in superheroes. Superman, Batman, Spider-Man -- he has all the costumes and has virtually memorized all the movies.

"Good morning, Joseph," I'll say.

"Look again," he'll say. "My name is not Joseph."

I'll turn around and, sure enough, there's Batman. Or at least a 4-year-old boy in a Batman mask, shirt, cape, maybe or maybe not Batman underwear, and my wife's stiletto-heeled boots. Seems Batman occasionally forgets his pants. Batman meets The Village People.

Once he came downstairs in the Spider-Man mask, the Batman shirt and the Superman cape and belt. Called himself Super Spiderbat. Criminals didn't stand a chance.

When I was a boy, I wasn't privy to all these cool costumes. Not a problem. All I needed was a kitchen dish towel and some masking tape for a makeshift cape. The remaining details all happened in my imagination. I would beat up the bad guys and save the world.

Or I would strap on my cap gun six-shooters and be the Lone Ranger. The neighbor boy would be my sidekick, Tonto. His little sister would be the Girl in Big Trouble. She kept messing up the plot by asking for a gun, and we would have to explain to her time and again that girls don't carry guns. Just scream for help until the Lone Ranger and Tonto come to save you. Then thank us and cook dinner. Or something.

It didn't occur to me until my adulthood what so many of these superheroes had in common: anonymity and isolation. They often had secret identities or, if not, kept very much to themselves. They could rescue babies and children, but could never really have relationships with them.

And women? Sheesh. They could be attracted to women (see upside-down Spider-Man being kissed by the Kirsten Dunst character clad in clingy, rain-wet T-shirt), or even love them (see Batman and Catwoman), but never in a reciprocal relationship with them.

The mind-boggling powers of superheroes, it seems, can withstand just about anything except recognition and relationship. Kryptonite is a minor inconvenience compared to the threat of being known and loved for oneself.

Superheroes cannot even hang around long enough to tolerate gratitude. By the time you'd collected yourself and turned to thank Tarzan for killing the marauding lion, he'd melted back into the jungle. "That is his way," the tribal native would explain.

As a boy, I thought this elusive masculine mystique was cool. As a man, I think Tarzan's "way" is wussy. He could defend our vulnerability, yet never extend his own. When it came to life's biggest challenge -- human intimacy -- Tarzan used mystique to disguise cowardice.

In "Superman II," Lois Lane discovers Clark Kent's identity as Superman. She says, "I'm in love with you." He goes to his North Pole headquarters to talk to his virtual reality mom about love, sex and women. "This is the question we had hoped you would never ask," is Virtual Mom's reply. She says that if Superman is to be in a relationship with Lois, he has to become mortal like Lois. Ergo, Superman has to make a choice between his power and intimacy. He can't have both.

Superman surrenders his powers. He and Lois have a romp. Bad guys come to Earth. All hell breaks loose. Superman regrets his decision to be known by Lois, regains his powers and kicks butt. Then, at the end of the film, we see a weeping Lois coming to grips with the limits of the relationship. She understands that she can never truly embrace the love between them.

No, Lois; it's actually worse than that. Because now Superman erases her memory. If he is to be Superman, he can't even tolerate her memory of their intimacy.

"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain," says superhero Wizard of Oz. But Dorothy does pay attention. And thank heavens; for until we meet someone who insists on looking behind the curtain, us guys don't stand a chance of ever becoming truly human.

"You're a very bad man," Dorothy scolds the wizard.

No, Dorothy. A very frightened man.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling and Wellness Center in Las Vegas. Contact him at skalas@review journal.com.