Twelve months ago today, I moved out of the condo I shared with my wife and my daughter. I did this because my wife requested it of me. The reasons behind the request are still unclear; at the time I was told that I was causing or exacerbating my wife’s high blood pressure – though no elaboration was given as to how I was doing this – and also that the amount of “clutter” my presence generates was bad for her mental health.

It’s no secret that I tend to assume I’m the bad guy. This is likely due in part to my overabundance of empathy, the levels of which my therapist has categorized as “toxic”. I feel obliged to at least try to understand others’ points of view, and given how I see myself, it is rarely difficult for me to consider the possibility that I am at fault when there’s a conflict. This is especially true if the conflict is with someone I trust or whose well-being matters to me.

I believe that the two reasons I was given were untrue. Make no mistake, this is not meant to be an indictment of my wife, nor am I even suggesting malice on her part. I definitely believe that at the time, her reasons for asking me to leave were genuine, if only in her mind. But while I accepted them at face value I was at least somewhat skeptical, and a year later I am fully skeptical, if not altogether doubtful.

I don’t generate clutter. Sure, I own a lot of things, and when I still lived at the condo I owned more than I do now. I’m talking books, Lego sets, geeky T-shirts, and other such frivolity. But my possessions have always had a place, whether tucked away in a bookcase, hanging on a rod in my closet, or on display in a dedicated space commensurate with the awesomeness of the item being displayed. I do not leave my possessions strewn about the house, and have not done so since I was a young child who’d dump out his toybox and play for awhile before losing interest and moving onto something else. But for as long as I can remember, I’ve always been very good about cleaning up after myself. Even in that way-too-small condo, I always ensured that my belongings were in their place when not in use. That’s OCD for you, I guess.

I suppose what really made me question my existence – something I’m still struggling to recover from – was the assertion that I was having a negative effect on my wife’s physical health, i.e. causing her high blood pressure. The effects of this assertion on my psyche were severe; it didn’t turn my world upside-down so much as it rent said world unto atoms. It was probably not unlike Luke Skywalker hearing for the first time that Darth Vader is his father, but far more upsetting. How could I have allowed myself to cause my wife physical distress? How clumsy and stupid must I have been to inadvertently harm her in any way? I gave her everything I had. Causing harm was the last thing I ever wanted to do.

At the risk of publicizing something I should hold close to the vest, it isn’t hard to make me believe that I am bad for people. After all, most of the friends, partners, and family members who I’ve enjoyed having in my life have bailed, or at best remain at a distance. As far as I can tell the distance is never predicated by some manner of social faux pas, major transgression, or clash. No, it’s more like the novelty of me wears off. At this point it simply feels like the circle of life, an inevitability that shouldn’t sting so badly because I’m accustomed to it happening.

The thing is – and I guess I should acknowledge that my own personal barometer for what is good and what is bad may differ from that of the average human – I am not bad for people. I truly believe that. On the contrary, I give every relationship as much of myself as is healthy. I have certainly given more, typically, than I get back, and that’s okay. As I’ve said elsewhere on this blog, I do so because I want to bank as much good will with my loved ones as I can so that they’ll stick around. It’s also because I want people to know how much they mean to me; I know how it feels to be unsure of one’s value to others.

When I was nineteen or twenty, I accompanied a woman I was dating to an appointment with her therapist. At the time it seemed strange to me that someone close to my age would see a therapist; it was the mid-1990s and mental health wasn’t talked about as openly as it is today. She didn’t ask me to come with her because of issues specific to our relationship; it was just that her appointment was on a night when we were both off of work and school, and rather than cut short our evening together, she figured I could just go with her.

I didn’t really contribute to the session, nor did I retain much of what was said that evening. However, I distinctly remember her telling the therapist, “He just makes me angry”, and I remember feeling reflexively indignant. At that point I believe I requested elaboration, because I wasn’t sure of anything as much as I was sure that I generally didn’t do things that made people angry. As is still the case thirty years later, I was loyal to the people I cared about, and I prided myself on being a thoughtful and generous boyfriend.

I believed then, as I do now, that I lift people up. I certainly try to, anyway. I support them, and I encourage them to do things that are difficult, scary, or otherwise outside of their comfort zone. And to be fair, that therapy session was around thirty years ago. I wasn’t as mature then as I am now. And while I was better at relationships than most guys I knew, I definitely wasn’t the stellar romantic partner I would eventually become. And sure, I might have been clumsy with other people’s feelings once in awhile, but when that happened I always apologized sincerely, made amends, and learned from the experience.

That being said, it had become evident that most people angered this woman I was dating. Her mother made her angry by telling anyone who’d listen (including my parents) that the only reason she ever got pregnant was so she would have reason to leave her childhood home. Her stepfather made her angry by being a restrictive hardass, and presumably by replacing her biological father as well. The high school friend her parents allowed to live with them after graduation and who she said she considered her sister made her angry by being a woman and therefore competition.

So I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me when she said it. Maybe I should have considered it the delusional or deflective statement of someone with mental health issues I couldn’t begin to comprehend. But even taking into account my initial indignation over the remark, I wasn’t capable of disregarding what I’d been told. I couldn’t rule out the possibility that I was causing harm. Simply put, I cared too much to disregard it.

Back to the present. I believe I was manipulated by my wife into leaving. I was told that we would be separated for four or five months, and I immediately focused on March and April of 2025 as the likely point when I would be able to return home. Being forcibly removed from the life I knew was difficult and painful, but giving the situation a potential end date made things feel less insurmountable.

In reality, however, I believe that she wanted me to leave permanently, but couldn’t find the courage to say so. My wife has always been avoidant when it comes to communication, and while I’m sure I could point to specific elements of her upbringing that may have caused her to be, it isn’t my story to tell. Instead, I’ll simply surmise that when she asked me to leave she said whatever she thought would get me out the door. Unfortunately, I couldn’t help but put two and two together when she asked me soon after to begin clearing out all of my belongings.

It’s worth mentioning that I was struggling with my mental health in the weeks leading up to my wife’s request. I’d been full of anxiety ahead of the 2024 presidential election, and it got worse following the election itself. I’d also been dealing with several unrelated matters in my personal life, as well as a dwindling sense of purpose related to my professional life and my overall worth. (The move forced me to cancel a couple promising job interviews.) In fact, my wife actually proposed that I leave perhaps a week before I actually did; I was waiting for an anti-anxiety medication my psychiatrist prescribed and couldn’t very well pick up and leave if it was being delivered to the condo. (My current home is a several-hour drive from my old one, so I couldn’t simply swing by and pick it up once it arrived.)

In order to take the anti-anxiety medication I was forced to reduce my daily dosage of Wellbutrin, which compounded my already considerable depression. I was adjusting to life in a small space that wasn’t solely mine, in an area I couldn’t bear to consider home, separated from everything that was familiar to me. In addition, I was trying to accept what my life now was, struggling to find a way back to some semblance of normalcy, and desperate to make sense of it all. While dealing with all of that, I had to give up one-third of the pharmaceutical lifeline I relied on. If it wasn’t for my daughter – the only person who needed me and who I absolutely couldn’t let down – I suppose I might not have made it through the winter.

Ultimately I can’t fault my wife. She had to do what she thought would be best for her. I believe that she has high blood pressure, but there’s no way I’m the primary cause of it. If I had to guess, I’d say that a demanding profession and the politics related thereto, the challenges of raising a high-functioning teenager, eagerness to please a very large extended family, and the inability to confront and deal with stressors are as much to blame as I am, or perhaps moreso. I’m sorry I was the most expedient target, because having spent considerable time around my wife and child since the separation, I’m sure the household stress was more manageable when I was there.

For awhile, I wondered what it must say about me that my wife came to the conclusion that managing the household and raising a child day-to-day on her own is a better option than having me there to help with the cooking, cleaning, and child-rearing. What kind of a monster must I be if getting rid of me is worth her having to bear all of that herself? It caused me much self-recrimination until somebody put it in perspective for me:

“No, man. That’s probably not even true. Life is hard, she threw a tantrum and now she is dealing with the consequences.”

It was a nice thing to be told, and while it’s probably not 100% accurate, I think there’s some truth to it. At any rate, it helped me to see that it wasn’t as simple as “me = abuser, she = victim”, which is just another example of the kind of extremes my brain likes to take me to.

More than likely, my wife simply fell out of love. It happens to people all the time. Feelings degrade over the years for any of a number of reasons. You stop putting forth as much effort as you used to, either because the other person isn’t worth it, or because you just don’t have the energy for them anymore. Essentially, you do the bare minimum until you think of a way out. As someone in a support group I attend suggested, my wife “quiet quit”. And while that makes total sense to me, why the bullshit about clutter? Why not just be straight with me?

While my wife is still willing to vent to me about her job, commiserate with me about raising a teenager, or even talk politics with me, she is never going to discuss with me the state of our marriage and/or what led us to the place we are currently in. With the caveat that I don’t know the actual answer to the question of why she couldn’t just tell me the truth from the beginning, allow me to speculate. One possibility is that the notion that she fell out of love with me hasn’t even occurred to her. Another possibility is that she simply lacks the ability to speak candidly about such matters.

We’ve all got our faults; earlier this year I posted a twelve-installment analysis of my own and why I have them. If my wife has a fault – and in the interest of diplomacy I’m not saying that she does – it’s probably her avoidant nature. I’ve found myself wondering how much time passed between when she decided she wanted me to move out, and when she finally gathered up the nerve to ask me to. Given how hard it is for her to actually express what she wants, I suspect she’d been quiet quitting for months, if not years.

More than a few people have asked me why I left. I’ve got rights; even though the condo is not mine (it was purchased by my wife before we met and is therefore considered separate property), I had no legal compulsion to acquiesce to an unreasonable demand and move out. Sure, I could have dug my heels in and refused – this is my home too, and anyway, you made a vow to take me in sickness and in health and after everything I’ve done for our family yada yada yada – but ultimately what would this have gained me? It certainly wouldn’t have eased the tension between us. And I don’t think it would have been a happy home had I insisted on staying despite it being made clear to me that I wasn’t wanted there. That isn’t a healthy environment for either of us, and certainly not for our daughter.

I was raised to always step up and do the right thing. If you make a promise, you keep it. If you get somebody pregnant, you take responsibility and help raise the kid. If you tell someone you’re going to be somewhere at a certain time, you make sure you follow through. If you damage somebody else’s property, you apologize, replace it, and be more careful in the future. If somebody is counting on you, you don’t fail them. I’m sure there have been times when I’ve fallen short, but I’ve always tried. I’ve always done my best. Unless it was physically impossible I’ve always stepped up for the good of all concerned.

When my daughter was born and I had to abandon every aspect of my identity including my four-bedroom house and my successful small business in order to be a stay-at-home parent, I stepped up. Making that change was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life, but I did it. It was what my family required of me.

When my wife broke her wrist in a fall and all domestic responsibilities fell to me for several months, I stepped up. I did all the cooking, housecleaning, and laundry. I drove my wife to work and picked her up, something that took approximately three and a half hours every single weekday. It was what she needed.

When my wife asked me to move out, I stepped up. It broke me for awhile, both to lose the woman I loved and to acknowledge that she probably hadn’t loved me back for a long time. But I did it in good faith because I truly believed my absence would make my wife whole. I loved her, and I couldn’t imagine hurting her any worse than I was told I already had.

I wish I was as quick to protect myself.

Click here for Part 1.

Click here for Part 2.

Day 21: What is your favorite way to be kissed, or place to be kissed. Better yet, answer both!
My favorite way to be kissed is passionately. That’s not to say that I am likely to decline a non-passionate, i.e. platonic, kiss from someone I love. However, few things are more exciting to me than a really intense, hungry kiss. I’m talking about the kind of kiss where, to the extent that your brain can form a rational thought, you’re pretty sure all clothing is about to be frantically shed and discarded, but even if that’s not the case the kiss itself is still exhilarating. As for my favorite place, definitely mouth. There are various places on my body where the sensations of a kiss are especially appreciated, including but not limited to my neck, my shoulders, and the aforementioned spots on my body where my stomach meets my hip.But at its most basic, a kiss is a two (or more!) person activity, and being kissed by someone while actively kissing them back is the hottest.

Day 22: What is your biggest turnoff in a potential partner? Is it a scent, visual, a phrase or something else?
Lack of empathy, or any indication that the person thinks themselves arbitrarily above others. As a sapiosexual person, there was a time when I’d have cited lack of intelligence or something along those lines as my biggest turnoff. But (a) that makes me sound like someone who thinks himself arbitrarily above others, (b) lack of empathy is a far worse flaw than whatever I might have perceived as lack of intelligence, and (c) what I might have ignorantly categorized as “lack of intelligence” in the past might have been misidentified neurodivergence, introversion, unpretentiousness, etc. As someone who exhibits all of these things, I should have known better; what I likely meant when I said “lack of intelligence” was “willful ignorance”, which is probably my second biggest turnoff (and often goes hand-in-hand with lack of empathy). I wanted to end this by writing something funny about how if I take a date to a restaurant and she’s rude to the waitstaff, I’m probably not going to fuck her afterwards, but only because I’ll spend the whole meal passive-aggressively bashing her behavior to the extent that she rules out sex with me, not because I have sufficient principles to rule out sex with her. But honestly, that’s not true. If someone spends the whole evening acting like a royal dickhead, I’m probably going to pay the check and say good night.

Day 23: Hot seat time! Do you consider yourself a sex positive person? Why or why not?
I definitely consider myself a sex positive person, and I think others do as well. Or at least, I hope others do. I’ve always had what I think is a healthy attitude about sex in general. I believe that sex between consenting adults is healthy and good, and for that matter none of my business unless they make it so. Consent is of the utmost importance to me, and has been since before I was actually sexually active or even dating. I do not judge others for how they have sex, or even if they do. This includes but is not limited to slut-shaming. And while I acknowledge that “vanilla” is a widely-used term used to refer to sex that is conventional (whatever that means in this context), not kinky or otherwise out of the ordinary, I do not shame those whose sex life skews vanilla. I do not consider myself superior or consider their sex life lesser.

I encourage my partners to fantasize about whomever or whatever excites them, when they are alone as well as when we are together. I fully support their use of toys or anything else that makes sex more enjoyable for them. After all, my partner’s arousal directly fuels my own. But even if it didn’t – which is a weird thing to imagine – I’d still want them to be satisfied and fulfilled. In addition, I am committed to my partner’s climax, but I am not so insecure that I insist on getting her off even if she isn’t in the mood, or isn’t confident in her ability to have an orgasm. While I sometimes equate my worth to my ability to help my partner achieve a mind-blowing climax, if the other person declines for whatever reason and I felt the need to insist, I would have to ask myself if my determination is for them, or if it’s actually for me.

I do not view sex through a moral lens. I place no premium on virginity and acknowledge that virginity is a social construct that does not determine anyone’s actual worth. I voted for a female candidate in two of the last three U.S. presidential elections. I am a die-hard supporter of comprehensive, non-abstinence-only sex education in schools because I know that a sexually functional society is more likely to be a harmonious one. Additionally, I support any legislature that ensures womens’ health and reproductive freedom. I do not blame the victims of sexual assault, and I am enraged when society fails to adequately punish those who inflict it. I am pro-sex worker, and have no qualms about saying so in front of my daughter, which I’m sure some people find weird.

Areas where I could stand to do better include being able to discuss sex without embarrassment. Granted, I can talk sex comfortably with most adults, though I’m likely to be a bit apprehensive if that adult is, say, my mom. And I’m not sure how well I’d have done having The Talk with my daughter; apparently my wife took care of that without me present or even aware that it was happening. Additionally, I’m not consistently body-positive; some days I think I am the hottest thing on two legs, and other days I struggle. As I said previously, I am unfortunately more likely to maintain a positive self-image if another person helps me get there. Communicating my sexual needs within my relationships can also be difficult, which is unfortunate because I have a prodigious sex drive. Don’t get me wrong, if my partner demonstrates sexual enthusiasm (often at its most intense at the beginning of a relationship), I am more inclined to open up about what I want and need. But when I’ve had partners whose sexual interest over time diminished or evaporated completely, I’ve found it expedient to simply de-prioritize my needs. I am accustomed to de-centering myself, and while it may sound counterintuitive, the last thing I’d want to do is force my partner to acknowledge my sexual needs when they have possibly lost interest. I don’t want to risk making them feel guilty or inadequate and possibly push them away. Not that keeping quiet about it kept them close.

Day 24: The most sex positive holiday of the year is a week away: Halloween!!! What did that statement make you feel?
Generally excited. Not only because of any sex positive connotation, but because of the day itself. Halloween is probably my favorite holiday, a season – because Halloween is so much more than a single day – when all things spooky swarm the public consciousness and horror movies flood the airwaves and every streaming service. Simply put, this is the time of year that I spend the rest of the year waiting for. I wear horror movie-related T-shirts. I listen to seasonally appropriate music. That being said, yes, there is a sexual aspect of Halloween, which began as Samhain, a Celtic festival marking the end of the harvest and the beginning of winter. During this holiday, the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead was said to open and the dead were believed to mingle with the living. I know enough about pagan cultures to be aware that sex is often a significant part. Pagan deities revere consensual sex and encourage it among their adherents. Pagan festivals often concern sexuality, fertility, love, and nature. There’s much to be said about Samhain specifically, including a meeting between the Morrigan and the Dagda, and whether they were lovers or just fellow Celtic deities; but it’s best I not pretend I know enough about the subject to write with authority.

The Christian church attempted to co-opt Samhain circa the 8^th or 9^th century CE, naming the second day of Samhain All Saints Day, and the first day – October 31^st – All Hallow’s Eve. And while Halloween may be largely divested of its pagan origins in the mind of the average person, I believe the sex positive aspect remains. After all, how many times have you heard someone complain that the holiday has been sexualized, or more to the point, that Halloween is “an excuse for women to dress slutty”? As if the same thing couldn’t be said of men, were men held to the same standard.

My point is, there is a historic precedent for the so-called sexualization of Halloween. And while I’m guessing that the woman in the sexy nun costume, or whatever, isn’t a historian and is just expressing herself, feeling horny, showing off her body, and/or thumbing her nose at the religious establishment, who cares? Seriously, what is more sex-positive than giving some misogynist puritan a reason to burst a blood vessel?

As for me personally, sex and Halloween have been intertwined throughout much of my adult life, which is not to say that I need the latter to appreciate the former. When I was eighteen, I hooked up with a woman in a traditional witch costume – pointy wide-brimmed hat and everything, though she took it off – bent over a bathroom sink at the home of some long-forgotten college acquaintance. When I was twenty I blew off a Halloween party altogether and had sex with my then-girlfriend, partially dressed as Columbia from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, while her parents were out for the evening. When I was twenty-one or twenty-two I got head in my car after visiting Gyro’s World of Terror, a local seasonal haunted attraction, with a casual date. When I was twenty-six, my girlfriend and I stayed at her quiet apartment on Halloween night and fucked until the doorbell rang, at which point we’d stop, I’d pull up my pants and she’d smooth out her dress, and she’d hand out some candy to the trick-or-treaters at the door. Then we’d resume until the doorbell rang again. When I was twenty-eight, my wife-to-be and I left my cousin’s party early because we’d only been dating for six months and couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. When I was thirty-one – the first Halloween after we were married – we watched The Shining while handing out candy, then turned out the porch light as soon as there was a lull in trick-or-treaters and had sex while still more or less in our costumes. When I was thirty-five, we made our first visit to a sex-club for their annual “Swalloween Ball”.

I will leave you with this relevant clip from The Simpsons:

Day 25: Today’s challenge is all about dressing in something that makes you feel amazing. That could be putting on something silky, sexy, or soft. This is your self love adventure, so wear whatever you dare!
The clothing that makes me feel amazing is most likely a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, or shorts if it’s warm out. If I am at home or going about my daily routine, this is what I am probably wearing. This is because to me, feeling amazing means being comfortable. However, if I want to feel confident and attractive – which is also an amazing feeling – I usually go for something on the formal side. This could be a collared shirt and a pair of Dockers or similar pants that are slightly less casual than jeans, or it could be a suit and tie. The former is a decent alternative to a T-shirt and jeans, whereas the latter is strictly for events wherein that level of formality is appropriate. In other words, I’m not getting that dressed up to go grocery shopping. If I am holed up in a hotel room with somebody and I’m actually wearing clothes, it’s probably a cozy pair of lounging pants or sweatpants and a T-shirt or sweatshirt. But in that situation I’d rather be naked.

Day 26: What’s in your aftercare kit? Wait, what is aftercare anyways? Think snuggles, positive affirmations, water, snacks. Intimacy is more than just orgasms.
As with a lot of areas, I try to get a sense well beforehand of what my partner might like when we are finished having sex. I usually have no problem asking if there is anything they would like me to have on hand (especially if they’re staying at my place for a couple days – a good host goes grocery shopping before company arrives) and ensuring it’s there for their convenience and comfort. Bottled water is an essential, though I’ve had partners who preferred Gatorade or other electrolyte-replenishing sports drinks, as well as soda and even energy drinks. Snacks are another essential, not just when the sex is over, but when quick sustenance is needed in the middle of it. In the past I’ve tried to have fresh fruit on hand, but salty or sugary junk food is often appreciated as well. And charcuterie is the perfect quick, easy lunch, though when I’ve partaken it’s simple – cheese, deli meat, crackers, nuts, and the like – and the presentation is anything but fancy.

It’s also important to provide a comfortable surface on which to rest. If the bed is 85% wet spot, I will offer to change the sheets in a hurry while my partner is taking a shower, or I’ll suggest we move things to the sofa in the living room, or a spare bedroom if there is one. (Something to consider when booking an Airbnb or a hotel room.) Wherever we end up, I’ll be sure to provide pillows and blankets. Something else I like to give my partner the option of enjoying as aftercare is my presence, which usually comes with lots of nonsexual touch, as well as small talk and/or jokes, and sharing of memes on my phone. However, I don’t take it personally if my partner needs a sensory reset and prefers to be alone for awhile.

Day 27: Trick or Treat! What do you think best applies to how you do the deed? Are you the trick or the treat?
Most definitely the treat. That’s not overconfidence, just simple fact. There aren’t a lot of areas in my life where I have absolute confidence, but when it comes to sex, I do. I acknowledge that everybody’s wants and needs are different and I’m probably not great at sex by everyone’s standard. I also acknowledge that sometimes there’s a learning curve when it comes to new partners and figuring out what they like, and I’m sure that over the years I’ve had a one-night stand or two that my partner found merely satisfying and not completely mind-blowing. That said, if my partners graded me on my sexual talents the way the Board of Health grades restaurants in certain American cities, I’d display my “A” certificate proudly.

I wonder what “the trick” would be in this situation. Is that where Person A lures Person B to a secluded location with the promise of sex and when they get there Person B falls victim to a humiliating and/or psychologically damaging prank? If so, I’d never be the trick; it’s a horrible dick move, and besides, I’ve seen no fewer than four horror movies that utilize this trope – Terror Train (1980), The Toxic Avenger (1984), Slaughter High (1986), and Ma (2019) – and in each case, things went badly for Person A.

Day 28: Costumes and fantasy often go hand in hand. What has a partner (past or present) dressed as that got your motor revving?
I was going to use this space to write about the aforementioned girlfriend who convinced me to skip out on my friend’s Halloween party by riding me on her parents’ bed while dressed in about 45% of her Columbia costume. (I had been dressed as Riff Raff.) But it’s occurred to me in recent years that her convincing me to miss social events with my friends was one of many tactics she utilized to isolate me from my social circle and anyone who might have talked sense into me about the nature of that relationship.

Instead, I’ll talk about the woman I dated in my mid-twenties who put together an impressively accurate Carmen Sandiego cosplay: Black catsuit, red coat and fedora, plus gloves, scarf, and even little red earrings. She wanted to wear it to a convention, though as far as I know, she never did. I don’t even think she had a specific convention in mind when she assembled it. But one day she happened to be wearing it when I got to her apartment. Or rather, she was wearing the hat, the boots, the scarf, and the coat with nothing underneath it. I was never a particularly big fan of the character. Of the entire computer game series, I only ever played the original Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego, probably fewer than ten times and all in elementary school on the classroom computer. The character holds no significant nostalgia for me. But I’ll be lying if I said that the thought of Carmen Sandiego doesn’t still turn me on a little sometimes.

Perhaps surprisingly, my wife’s Halloween costumes were usually pretty chaste. That’s not to say that she didn’t wear something less so, or even something overtly provocative, when we were invited to Halloween parties – Vampire Woman in 2004, Sexy Cat in 2012, Rose Tyler in 2014 – but she’s a teacher, and most years her costume fit into a school-appropriate theme shared among other teachers at her grade level. She wasn’t going to dress up for work as, say, an orange and then plan something completely different to take our daughter trick-or-treating in.

Day 29: We are down to the final 2 days of this challenge and now I’d like to hear from you! What did you like/dislike or wish I had included?
I have thoroughly enjoyed participating in 30 Days Sex Positive this month! I appreciated the motivation to not only blog something regularly, but also to write on a daily basis. I used to sit and write for at least half an hour every day, but over the last year this practice has regrettably fallen by the wayside as other things take priority. I especially liked the Halloween-related prompts, as Halloween is my favorite holiday and holds a lot of nostalgia and emotional significance. Being able to revisit certain episodes from my past was exciting, and actually inspired me to adapt one (and eventually maybe more than one) of these episodes as a standalone post, currently in progress. Perhaps what I liked best was how liberating it felt to write every day. Because I was prompted, I felt like I could open up and write freely, without restraint. Given my current semi-isolated state, I relish any opportunity I have to communicate my feelings to others. And while I sometimes have such opportunities, sex (my favorite subject) is almost never a topic that comes up.

As for what I disliked, other than the fact that it’s coming to an end I can’t think of anything. I am confident that I will not come away from 30 Days Sex Positive wishing the prompts had been different or feeling like there’s something I need to express but didn’t get the opportunity to do so. I don’t feel as though anything is lacking in any way. The prompts were thought-provoking, fun, and often very sexy. They covered a wide array of intriguing topics, and gave me reason to dig deep in order to answer them frankly, honestly, and sincerely. As soon as I finished answering one prompt, I usually found myself wondering what the following day’s would be and wishing I could start writing my response right away. For this jaded fortysomething, that anticipation is sadly all too rare. 30 Days Sex Positive also gave me cause to reflect on what “sex positive” means to me, and whether the label applies. Fortunately, I am confident that it does.

Thank you for this opportunity! I look forward to seeing what you come up with next year!

Click here for Part 1.

Day 11: Safe sex is great sex!!! What is your preferred method of protection?
Condoms, typically. When I’ve had fluid-bonded partners, we’ve relied on oral contraception to prevent pregnancy; in those relationships STIs were at least in theory not much of a concern. I’m not sure if I’ve utilized any other method.

Day 12: Gratitude. Is this a word you have ever associated with sex? Yes, no, maybe?
Definitely. I associate gratitude with anything that brings me happiness and joy. I feel gratitude for a delicious meal, even if I prepared it myself. I feel gratitude for cozy, rainy nights, as well as familiar, comforting music and the health of myself and my loved ones. I feel gratitude for my own mental well-being, and for positive circumstances that contribute to it. Why shouldn’t I feel gratitude for sex? It’s just one more thing that makes life great.

Day 13: Have you ever thanked a partner during or after sex? Try thanking them for something specific that worked for you!!!
I once heard (or more likely read) that a person should not thank their partner for having sex with them. Apparently, doing so might imply that one’s partner was just doing them a favor, and didn’t get anything out of the experience. I guess whoever posited that was suggesting that the pleasure one’s partner receives from sex is thanks enough. But I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Sure, your partner likely did get something out of the sex, but I have to think that they gave you pleasure because they know you enjoy it. You’d thank them for cooking a meal for you, or for taking care of you when you’re sick. You’d thank them for doing anything that benefited you, so I think it’s understandable that you might thank your partner for having sex with you whether or not they derived any physical enjoyment from the act.

Day 14: Today is simply a shout out to lube! The slippery, sex enhancer that resides in almost every nightside table. What’s your favorite type?
Years ago, when I might have had two or three ongoing relationships at a time, I was known to have several different kinds or brands of lube in my nightstand. My partners appreciated my consideration, and I know it made a positive impression even before we’d gotten down to the actual sex itself. Additionally, if I was talking to someone early in the relationship and we hadn’t been intimate yet, I would usually ask the person if they had any preferences. Gel versus liquid? Water-based versus silicone-based or oil-based? Any brand loyalties? I feel compelled to note that in my most recent (now ended) relationship, lube was never used, and that was at my partner’s insistence. She was a self-proclaimed masochist, and needed to feel everything as intensely as possible. To say that this was initially outside of my realm of comfort is an understatement, but a little enthusiasm goes a long way, and I quickly became accustomed to it. As far as my own preferences go, I don’t know that I have one. I don’t typically use lube solo, but I guess I’d opt for a thicker gel variety as it’s far less likely to get everywhere than liquid. During partnered sex, I leave it entirely up to the other person.

Day 15: Congrats! We are halfway through our 30 day challenge. Pat yourself on the back and tell yourself that you love you!!!
Okay. I love me!

Day 16: Safe words! Do you have one? Does your partner know it? Do you even know what that is or why we need one? Let’s chat about them!
I don’t have a standard safe word that I’ve used across multiple relationships. Granted, I am generally the dominant in any D/s relationship I’ve ever had, but I acknowledge it’s still a good idea for me to have one. It’s just not something I have ever thought to adopt. However, I’ve always been conscientious about asking my partners if they have one. My most recent relationship – the one that delved the deepest into D/s – didn’t involve safe words, though this is because we generally didn’t do scenes as I understand the concept, and my partner, though the most submissive partner I’ve ever had, was comfortable giving direction where appropriate to do so.

Day 17: Are you comfortable saying “no”? Declining sex for any reason is fundamental for your physical as well as mental well being. Consent always matters!
Throughout my life, the only time I’ve ever declined sex was when not doing so would have amounted to cheating on someone else. In theory, I am comfortable saying no to sex, but – and this might come as a huge, mind-blowing surprise – when it is offered I generally say yes. Though now that I think of it, I have politely declined sex when proposed by men. I’m mostly straight. I’m so sorry about that, dudes.

Day 18: Is there something that helps get you in the mood for sex? Music, a scent, a touch, a phrase? Or something completely different?
To paraphrase Mark Ruffalo in The Avengers (2012), that’s my secret: I’m always in the mood for sex. I could be performing a complicated coronary revascularization, but if I have a sexual thought somebody had better come relieve me because I can’t guarantee sufficient blood flow to my brain. Seriously, I really am always in the mood for sex, or at least, my mind is never far from the subject. If my partner wants to ensure I’m in the mood, the best way to do that is to express their desire for me. This can be done using words – sexting and in-person dirty talk are always exciting – or actions and/or body language. The ever-popular lip-bite is a simple visual cue that lets me know what’s on their mind. In addition, I have a couple erogenous zones, including the spot on either side of my body where my stomach meets my hip. Those aren’t the only ones, but I definitely react when attention is paid there.

Day 19: We give the word sex a lot of different names. Nookie, getting it on, sexy times, etc. What is your nickname for it? And why do you use it?
I usually just say “fucking”. Obviously it depends on my partner and what they are comfortable with, but I can’t think of a relationship I’ve had, ever, in which that wasn’t the expression we used the most. (“Can’t wait to fuck you tonight!”) Outside of a relationship, I might just say “having sex”. (“My co-worker got caught having sex with the boss’ wife.”) However, it’s not unthinkable that I would use less formal language when speaking to a friend with whom I am more comfortable. (“Randy? That asshole can get fucked with a rusty bike chain.”) A quick Google search lists an amount of English-language euphemisms for sex so great that only a society steeped in undue shame and embarrassment could possibly cultivate so many, and now I’m going to list some of them.

I’m starting with terms I have actually used, though not for years:
1. Being intimate: This one enjoyed occasional usage in my early twenties, when talking about my sex life with a platonic female friend. I considered that “being intimate” might have come off as less aggressive than “fucking”. (“I was intimate with my ex-girlfriend last night. I’m not sure how I feel about this.”)
2. Doing it: This was when I was probably nine years old. I was way too cautious to say anything sexual within earshot of my parents, so even “doing it” was reserved for the schoolyard and the homes of friends with permissive parents. (“The guy and the girl in that movie were totally doing it!”)
3. Getting busy: Early-to-mid 1990s, I think. While I had no objection to engaging in sex, I think my Catholic upbringing and various other dysfunctions instilled in me by my parents gave me the sort of hangups that led me to say things like “getting busy” when what I really meant was “fucking”. (“As soon as your parents leave, we’re getting busy.”)
4. Knocking boots: Early-to-mid-1990s as well. I didn’t use this terminology often because I thought it made me sound like a wannabe R&B singer, though it bears noting that “knocking boots” is used in country music as well. (“Tommy found out that his ex knocked boots with some other guy, so he is finally over her.”)

Moving on to the short and sweet, i.e. single-verb euphemisms, all listed in present participle:
1. Boffing
2. Boinking
3. Boning
4. Bonking
5. Canoodling
6. Humping
7. Mating
8. Nailing
9. Porking
10. Railing
11. Rutting
12. Screwing
13. Shtupping
14. Smashing

And now for a few single-noun euphemisms:
1. Antics
2. Coitus
3. Copulation
4. Coupling
5. Fornication
6. Intercourse
7. Lovemaking
8. Mischief
9. Nookie
10. Relations
11. Shenanigans
[I’m not sure how widespread “antics” is; I haven’t encountered it often. But it was the preferred euphemism of a former long-term partner of mine, and it’s always kind of stuck.]

The next category are euphemisms that follow a “[verb]ing the [noun]” formula:
1. Bagging the groceries
2. Checking the oil
3. Dipping the wick
4. Doing the deed
5. Feeding the dumb glutton
8. Feeding the kitty
9. Field-testing the furniture
10. Glazing the donut
11. Hiding the sausage
12. Paddling the pink canoe
13. Piercing the hogshead
14. Riding the baloney pony
15. Shaking the sheets
16. Sliming the banana
[CW: Sexual harassment of a minor: My junior-year geometry teacher once asked a student if she wanted to ride his “baloney pony”. I believe this was 1992. Evidently the comment was made during a school Halloween event and the girl was wearing a cowgirl costume. I didn’t witness the incident, I have no idea how the student reacted at the time, nor do I know whether the teacher was interested in doing more than making inappropriate comments. I heard about the incident after the fact, and some time later I overheard the teacher talking to the student about it while I was sitting at my desk waiting for class to start. I noticed that she didn’t seem traumatized casually revisiting his lewd come-on, but it didn’t occur to me that she may have (a) have felt threatened and been trying to de-escalate; (b) been afraid of academic reprisal; or saddest of all (c) been accustomed to older men talking to her in such a manner. This was decades before #metoo, and while such behavior wasn’t condoned, there wasn’t always immediate backlash when it happened. All I can say for sure is that the teacher was still employed when I graduated two years later, and I never thought of him as anything but a creep ever again.]

To some people, sex is like a form of dance, which makes sense because dance can be very sensuous. For a lot of people, the first pseudo-sexual experience they have with another person comes when grinding against a classmate at a school dance. So here are a few related euphemisms:
1. Dancing Barnaby
2. Dancing in the sheets
3. The Devil’s tango
4. The horizontal hustle
5. The mating dance
6The matrimonial polka
7. The mattress jig
8. The mattress mambo
9. The no-pants dance
10. The Paphian jig

There are a lot of agricultural/farm-related euphemisms, too. I wonder if these expressions are (or more likely were) popular exclusively among rural folks, or if they were in general use back when they were in fashion. Actually, some of them are so esoteric that I wouldn’t be surprised if the majority or even the entirety of society was agrarian back then. Here goes:
1. Having one’s corn ground
2. Irrigating the garden
3. Making butter with one’s tail
4. Piercing the hogshead
5. Planting zucchini
6. Pulling wool
7. Taking a turn among the cabbages
[I suppose “pulling wool” could actually refer to removing a sweater prior to copulation. And I’m going to hope that it does, because any other sexual connotation of pulling wool in a farm setting is, frankly, not something I want to think about.]

Speaking of esoteric turns of phrase, the following euphemisms are particularly arcane, certainly by modern standards.
1. Amorous congress (19^th century)
2. Blowing off the groundsills (19^th century)
3. Chimney (19^th century)
4. The culbatizing exercise (17^th century)
5. The deed of darkness (16^th century)
6. Fadoodling (17^th century)
7. Giving a green gown (14^th century)
8. Groping for trout in a peculiar river (17^th century)
9. Hauling someone’s ashes (early 20^th century)
10. Playing itch-buttocks (18^th century)
11. Playing nug-a-nug (16^th century)
12. Playing the pyrdewy (16^th century)
13. Putting four quarters on the spit (19^th century)
14. Riding below the crupper (16^th century)
15. Shooting twixt wind and water (17^th century)
16. Taking a turn at bushy park (19^th century)
17. Winding someone’s little ball of yarn (19^th century)
[Are we all thinking “chimney” refers to vagina or just me?]

Just…no:
1. Bone smuggling: I can’t put my finger on what I dislike about this one, but I dislike it. However, a cursory search suggests that this term applies more to gay or bi men than straight ones, so maybe it wasn’t for me to begin with.
2. Bumping uglies: I know this is a popular euphemism, but it comes off as particularly sex-negative. Genitals are anything but ugly. Mine especially.
3. Getting two tickets to Poundtown: Awfully wordy, isn’t it? At that point wouldn’t it be easier to say “fucking”? Or, if you’re too demure for that, “Having sex”? Though I feel like if you’re too self-conscious or concerned with perception to say “fucking”, “getting two tickets to Poundtown” isn’t much of a fix.
4. Hot beef injection: There’s no way you can convince me that this euphemism originated anywhere other than Chicago. Hell, I’m pretty sure “Hot Beef Injection” is the name of an Italian beef joint I went to on West Taylor Street.
5. Making feet for children’s stockings: I don’t want to think about children when I’m getting in the mood. I don’t want to be reminded that they exist as a possible result of sex, or as an interruption to it. On the basis of that alone, this eighteenth-century expression was never going to appeal to me. Beyond that, the imagery it conjures is frankly unpleasant. I suspect it was meant as a euphemism for procreation specifically, as in having a baby. And that would be weird enough, but “making feet” suggests some sort of selective reproduction. I acknowledge that “making entire babies for baby clothes” would also be weird, so I guess this is a “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” situation. Anyway, don’t bring up children while we’re fucking, please and thank you.
6. Rubbing tummies: At the risk of inadvertently shaming anyone who’s into ageplay, I find this too cutesy. Barring several years when I was raising my daughter, “tummy” isn’t a word I’ve used as an adult, so I can’t reconcile hearing it or saying it in a sexual context. Granted, I wouldn’t say “rubbing stomachs” either.
7. Taking ol’ one-eye to the optometrist: Remember how “getting two tickets to Poundtown” was too wordy? This is three whole syllables longer. Not only that, but I have to assume that this specific sequence of words is a spell that magically dries up every vagina in earshot. I know I said I almost never decline sex, and I’m not contradicting that now, but if a woman ever asked me if I wanted to take ol’ one-eye to the optometrist I’d probably have to do some serious mental gymnastics in order to remain hard.

With the caveat that most of them weren’t exactly on my radar to begin with, the following euphemisms have way too strong a pop culture association for me to ever use unironically:
1. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang: Were you aware that this was slang for sex before you read this? I wasn’t aware before I wrote it.
2. Makin’ bacon: This one is too closely associated with The Simpsons for me to ever use it to mean sex. But also, it’s too closely associated with bacon.
3. Making sexytime: Fuck you for this specifically, Borat.
4. Making the beast with two backs: This euphemism conjures up memories of zoning out in my Honors English class, doodling in the margins of my notes, and counting down the minutes until the bell.
5. Making whoopee: I’m showing my age here, but even though “making whoopee” is a widespread term that originated in the late 1920s, I associate it with Chuck Woolery, who served as host of the American game show Love Connection from 1983-1994. Though the salacious details of the arranged dates contestants were sent on flowed freely, “making whoopee” was the default euphemism. Also, in 2020 Chuck Woolery insisted vehemently on social media that COVID-19 was a conspiracy before recanting the following day once his son had contracted the virus. I felt compelled to share that.
6. Nudge nudge. Nudge nudge. Know what I mean? Say no more. Know what I mean?: Okay, this is part of a Monty Python routine, and even though Eric Idle’s character is referring to sex, it isn’t something I consider a legitimate sexual euphemism. Still, it came up when I did my search, so I’m including it.
7. Rogering: Spoken by Lee Evans in There’s Something About Mary.
8. Rolling in the Hay: Sung by Teri Garr in Young Frankenstein.
9. Rumpy Pumpy: This is a British expression included by Scottish comic writer Mark Millar as dialogue spoken by the very American Tony Stark in The Ultimates vol. 2 #13. And while someone as world-traveled as Tony Stark would conceivably do and say things common among other cultures, this one is such an expression that it kind of disrupts the conclusion of a satisfying comic series. Also, “rumpy pumpy” sounds way too childish for my liking, but no judgment if it’s your preferred euphemism.
10. Shagging: Austin Powers, obviously.
11. Snuggling: This is another one I’ll always associate with The Simpsons. I’ve used the word in other contexts, but as a stand in for “having sex” I’ll never not be able to hear it in Marge Simpson’s voice.
12. The old in-out: Used to great effect in A Clockwork Orange.

Day 20: Take a picture of your favorite part of you. Maybe your eyes, nose, or something a little more intimate. For an extra challenge, watch yourself in the mirror as you look at your photo. Reflect.
For this prompt, I took a simple picture of my face. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a photo taken head-on with a neutral expression. I don’t know if I would say that my face is my favorite part of me, but I am confident in my looks, even if I don’t feel I am as youthful-appearing as I was a decade ago. My salt-and-pepper beard is more salt than pepper these days, and the crow’s feet near my temples are more conspicuous than they’ve ever been. As of today, I have gone about two weeks longer than I typically do between haircuts, and the hair on my head is way too bushy. But it’s styled decently and not as unruly as it usually feels. Beyond that, there’s something in my expression, I guess, that suggests a youthful spirit. Or maybe it’s not my expression. Maybe it’s the fact that even though my life feels like a dumpster fire right now, I usually manage to compartmentalize the negativity and focus on the positive as much as I can. Or maybe it’s the Marvel Comics T-shirt I’m wearing. As for my facial features, my eyes are sexy. I’m not sure what it is about them specifically, but I think that if I saw me on the street or rang me up at a Starbucks or something, I’d want to know more about this guy with the enticing eyes. Also, I’ve got very noticeable eyelashes and I’ve been told going back to childhood that they are cute, and later in life that they are attractive and make me look hot. My smile is pleasant, warm and nonthreatening, but also playful and even mischievous at times. And my lips are extremely kissable.

I don’t have any strong feelings about my nose or my ears.

Thanks again to K-ghislaine for coming up with these prompts! Stay tuned for Part 3!

Throughout the month of October, writer and content creator K-ghislaine has been publishing a series of daily prompts relating to sex-positivity. It was my intention to post responses to these prompts every day, or at least to answer each new prompt when it was posted and publish my responses at set intervals. But life interfered and it got away from me. I intend to publish three posts by the end of the month, each with ten prompts addressed. Here’s the first one.

Day 1: What is the first word that comes to mind when you read the word SEX?
The first word is “fun”. Sex has always been a major focus of mine, since long before I was sexually active. I can’t fully explain why, but my curiosity about sex dwarfed my curiosity about any other subject. I read as much as I could, usually in the general collection (i.e. not the kids’ section) of the local library. It always sounded like fun to me, and this is years before I would have any concept of the deeper emotional implications of sex. I suppose any positive adjective would work, but “fun” is the one that immediately comes to mind. Appropriate, really; sex should be fun. It doesn’t always have to be a serious thing. Can you imagine how ridiculous it would be for two people to maintain totally straight faces while engaging in it

Day 2: Do you like your sex life? If not, what’s missing?
I never thought I’d have to say this, but no. I’m not satisfied with my sex life, to the extent that I actually have one. What’s missing is physical and emotional intimacy with another person. For the first time in more than twenty years, I suddenly find myself without a partner, as my wife and I have been separated for nearly a year, and my other relationship ended a couple weeks ago. Yes, I realize that one’s sex life doesn’t have to involve anyone else. I’m not trying to invalidate masturbation in any way – hopefully my answers to some of the following questions will make that clear – nor am I trying to further the antiquated notion that sex requires at least two people. I can get off just fine solo, and I certainly enjoy doing so. But I crave closeness with another person, or other people. That is what I lack.

Day 3: What makes you feel sexy?
I think the thing that makes me feel the sexiest is being told that I’m sexy or attractive by another person. There is so much that I do that ought to make me feel sexy, including dressing up in a flattering outfit, trimming my facial hair with Pythagorean precision, working out, and even having moments of clarity when I see myself in the mirror as I’m getting out of the shower and I realize that I am the sexiest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on. But unfortunately, external validation goes a lot farther than any of these. I don’t know why my brain works this way, though I’m guessing a psychologist could read my twelve-part blog series from earlier this year and make an educated guess. I’m working on it, though.

Day 4: What do you find sexy in a partner?
What’s on the inside. Of particular interest to me is empathy, i.e. concern for people who don’t ultimately have any bearing on one’s life. I don’t think I could be attracted to someone whose values and attitudes about the people around them skew toward indifference. Actually, empathy is what I find attractive in general, not specifically what I find sexy (though I prefer to have sex with women who have never vented their aggression at a minimum-wage retail employee who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time). But as for sexy, that’s hard to say. I don’t really have a physical type; blondes, brunettes, redheads, women with big boobs or small, women with short legs or long, women with thick asses or flat ones, curvy, skinny, tall, short – all types potentially turn me on. (When I’ve been asked for my type in the past, I generally answer “Women who find me hot”.) Again, the things that excite me the most are on the inside, namely confidence and genuine enthusiasm for sex.

Day 5: Self-Love Challenge: Stand in front of a mirror and tell yourself that you are SEXY!
Okay, done!

Day 6: Do you have someone that you feel comfortable talking about your sex life with?
I can’t say that I do. I currently have no intimate partners, and I don’t have the required level of comfort and openness required to talk about sex with my family. (Full disclosure: I don’t have close relationships with many of my relatives.) As for talking about my sex life with friends, most of my close friends are women, and although some of these friendships have been sexual in the past, none currently are, and I would hate to make a close friend worry that by bringing up sex I am attempting to violate a previously established boundary. Granted, anyone who knows me well enough to be a close friend hopefully knows that’s not the kind of man I am, but I still worry. Beyond that, I generally don’t see the point or feel the need. Most of my friends seem to be getting laid like crazy. I don’t want to complain to them about my prolonged dry spell.

Day 7: What do you wish you knew about sex at a younger age?
Women can be just as depraved as men. Moreso, even.

Day 8: If you have questions about sex, where do you go?
The internet, I guess. Not Chat GPT, obviously; and I certainly don’t believe everything I read online is the absolute truth. I guess if I had a specific question about something sexual, I might post it to social media, where I would hopefully get an answer from someone I know well enough to tell whether they’re full of shit. This is all a far cry from when I was a kid and my curiosity was sated by a trip to the library. But back then, I read so much about sex that I don’t often have questions about it. If I’m seeking information online, it’s likely related to some kind of new trend or slang that I’ve encountered but cannot define. I am reminded of the time a younger woman I was seeing said I was “Daddy AF”, and I had to ask Twitter what “AF” meant.

Day 9: What is something you believed about sex, and later learned was a myth?
Perhaps contradicting my previous answer, I got a lot of conflicting information from my visits to the general collection of the local library. One book might describe a specific bundle of nerves inside a woman’s body which could be stimulated to spectacular results, while the next book insisted that the G-spot was a myth. (It isn’t.) At the time, I wasn’t aware of the possible sociological reasons for the discrepancy – a stodgy academic who sees sex primarily as a means of procreation might come to a different conclusion than a woman who knows her own body well – but it did condition me to be skeptical of what I read, and to get my information from as many sources as possible. Specific myths I encountered and later unlearned are:

The male sexual peak occurs at eighteen years of age and everything after that is downhill. I have had much more exciting and fulfilling sex in the last twenty years than I did at age eighteen, and while some of that is due to my having greater knowledge and openmindedness as an older man, I also believe my sex drive has become much greater in my thirties and forties.

Penetration is the natural endpoint of sex. This belief focuses on the male orgasm as a sort of objective, and in doing so discounts not only women’s sexual pleasure, but also trivializes relationships that don’t involve penetrative sex, whether because no dicks are involved, or because one or more people cannot achieve erection, or because they’re religious and just do hand stuff in order to exploit God’s Sex Loophole.

Sex is most exciting when it occurs spontaneously. Pop culture has tried desperately to make us believe that when a man does a “kiss lean” or otherwise makes a physical advance toward a woman, she will sort of melt into it and they’ll have sex. She will not push him away, have him arrested for sexual assault, or break a lamp over his head, chop up the body, and dispose of it in several out-of-state dumpsters. Honestly, I feel like the myth of “spontaneous sex is the best sex” needs to go already, and not just because it’s dangerously irresponsible. There are few things more exhilaratingly sexy, in my opinion, than the anticipation you feel when your partner texts you everything they’re planning to do with you after work.

Masturbation is harmful. It’s not. It doesn’t make you go blind. It doesn’t make hair grow on your palms. It doesn’t cause infertility. It doesn’t decrease one’s testosterone. It does not cause, nor is it a sign of, mental deterioration. It doesn’t make Baby Jesus cry. Hell, I’ve got to think Jesus would be 100% in favor of us using what His Father gave us in all the ways He intended. Simply put, masturbation is too wonderful a thing to warrant all the hand-wringing it has inspired. Honestly, I think this myth is nearly as harmful as the previous one. Imagine a world wherein everyone was taught the benefits of self-love. Imagine a world wherein shame was reserved for people who maliciously and unrepentantly do harm to others, and not those who jerk off. We’d all be so much happier. Remember when President Clinton fired Dr. Joycelyn Elders – his Surgeon General – for advocating the teaching of masturbation as a normal part of one’s sexual health? That’s the kind of abject stupidity I’d have expected out of a Republican president, made even more egregious by the fact that Clinton seemed to be perpetually horny, so you know damn well he was beating off on a regular basis. In addition to her views on masturbation, Dr. Elders suggested that legalizing drugs could lead to lower crime rates, pointed out the hypocrisy inherent in opposing safe, legal abortion while showing no concern for child welfare, and considered abstinence-only sex education akin to child abuse. I agree that this woman should not have been the Surgeon General, but only because she should have been the President of the United States.

Day 10: Self-Love Challenge: How do you show yourself … “Self Love”? Hands, toys, props, or maybe something else?
I usually use my hands. But I’ve got a Magic Wand, and sometimes I’ll use that. It’s not a regular thing, as I don’t want to become overreliant on any one kind of sensation in order to cum. But sometimes, when I’m tired or when I don’t have much time, light, sustained pressure on my frenulum can trigger a very intense orgasm. When I was younger, and getting accustomed to the kinds of sensations I enjoyed, I experimented more. I might use a piece of soft fabric, a feather, or something else with a unique texture that I thought might be pleasurable. I used to rub the head of my cock a lot, too, in addition to stroking the shaft. That’s something I eventually sort of abandoned, perhaps because I realized it was less direct, and stroking would achieve the desired result more quickly. Still, it felt really good. As for position – because the question does leave room for a response beyond “do you use your hands or a toy?” – I often kneel if I am pressed for time, usually while leaning against my bed. In this case, I might be completely naked, or I might drop (or even just open) my pants. If I can expect a few minutes of privacy I will probably lie on my bed on my back. In this case, I’m probably naked, though it’s not unusual for me to start out completely dressed and lose clothing as I get more and more turned on. Less common positions include sitting, as well as standing, usually in the shower.

Thanks to K-ghislaine for inspiring me to write this. Stay tuned for Part 2!

Link to Part 11

Boy, that last post sure ended on a down note, didn’t it? I’d love to be able to turn it around here, to say that things are much better now. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is compound that downer ending by denying you, the reader, a happy ending or even some sort of catharsis to give everything you’ve read perspective. But there is no happy ending. Or at least, not yet.

If you take anything from the preceding eleven posts, I hope you are able to discern that I’m not a bad guy. Or at least, I hope that’s how I come across. Despite my glaring flaws, I genuinely believe I’m not a bad person. That’s not to say that I’m a good person, though I do hope that I am. I certainly strive to do no harm, though I understand that simply not doing bad does not make one good. But at this point, faced with what I perceive to be signals from all over the universe that I’m a villain, that I’m the cause of all of society’s ills and that I should be wracked with guilt unto death, simply being able to see that I’m not a bad guy is progress. Simply declining to accept these signals has to be a minor victory.

And it’s not just cognitive distortion that tells me I’m a bad guy. Sure, some of it is cognitive distortion. Maybe most of it is. But it’s a fact that much of my family – that is, my extended family, not necessarily my wife and child – don’t take me seriously. To them, I’m still a pre-teen in short pants who can’t possibly know better than they do. That shit stings when you’re approaching fifty.

And that’s just the members of my family with whom I still have regular contact. I overextend myself in virtually all of my relationships. I give as much as I can – usually more than the other party does – because I am desperate to prove that I have value. I want people to stick around. I don’t want to be alone in my twilight years. Still, most people walk away. Friends get bored, I guess. Most relatives don’t return calls or texts. Maybe I’m just too weird to fit into their lives.

If that’s the case, though, I guess I don’t mind. I spent most of my life trying not to be weird so people would want me around. I tried to force myself into whatever box society said I belonged in. I denied most of the things that made me me, or at least downplayed them. I tried to be the same kind of guy that every other guy was. I pretended I gave a fuck about football. In the end, it didn’t make much difference. Maybe Trying-To-Be-Normal Jack was weirder than default Weird Jack.

Unfortunately, this means that I have little if any reliable social support, and in person I have virtually none. Not only does the inability to keep people in my life suggest that I’m a villain, but the lack of a social circle gives me time to ruminate. With no one in my corner to offer conflicting opinions of my worth, I’m free to entertain the notion that at best, I don’t have anything to offer, and at worst, what I have to offer is all bad.

If I was some sort of monster who abused his loved ones, who got drunk and made an ass of himself at weddings (or funerals), who thought himself better than everyone else, it would make sense for people to walk away. But I’m not some thoughtless husband who leaves dishes in the sink, forgets birthdays, and makes plans with the guys that conflict with anniversaries. Nor am I the sort of person who borrows money from a friend with no intention of paying it back and then hits on said friend’s wife without express permission to do so. I didn’t build a meth lab in the spare room and invite shady people over at all hours of the night to drop off cash and pick up a fresh supply. I don’t make casual racist comments and then act like a victim when everyone at Thanksgiving dinner calls me on it.

Not only do I not have these specific flaws, I’ve spent the last several months actively working on the flaws I do have. I’ve practiced mindfulness and let go of grievances I’d spent years dwelling on. I’ve learned techniques for managing my stress and anxiety. I’ve set and enforced boundaries with other people, which is something I’ve always found difficult and which those people are now being forced to respect for the first time ever. In a variety of therapeutic settings I’ve dredged up much of the stuff you’ve read about over the course of this extended series of posts. I’ve analyzed my flaws, and I’m working on fixing them or accepting that they’re a part of who I am. None of us are perfect, after all. This intense focus on my mental health may be the subject of a future post.

I almost wish I was a villain. If I was the kind of person who committed aggressions like the ones described above, then the loneliness and despair I’ve been dealing with would simply be a case of a villain getting his comeuppance. But since I’m not, none of it makes sense to me. So I guess that getting my head around the situation and accepting it – if not necessarily understanding it – is something of an accomplishment. I mean, it has to be, right?

I’m still trying to figure it out. When I do, I’m sure I’ll blog about it.

Oh, and much like The Obsolete Man, the title of this post also references The Twilight Zone. The episode in question, “It’s a Good Life”, involves a child with godlike powers and control over reality itself. Having isolated his small Ohio town from the rest of the world, he rules over the terrified residents. If you’ve ever seen the 1991 Simpsons Treehouse of Horror episode where Bart turns Homer into a jack-in-the-box, this is what it was referencing. Until 2016, “It’s a Good Life” was the single best argument for keeping power out of the hands of those too immature to handle the responsibility.

Link to Part 10

When my daughter switched school districts it became clear that I needed a steady job. Though less lucrative than it had once been, my business was still running. But we weren’t sufficiently well-off that I could justify not re-entering the workforce in some way. And even if we were, I was afraid of appearing lazy by focusing on my own interests rather than what was best for my family.

There was just one minor problem, and that was that I found myself absolutely and totally incapacitated by the very thought of doing so. My inability to take action was so extreme that it felt as though something was physically holding me back. I hadn’t applied for a job in almost twenty years, and the prospect of having to do it again – interviewing, playing politics, kissing ass – was daunting. Hell, I didn’t enjoy that stuff even when I did it semi-regularly.

As always, my mental state played a huge role. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was still recovering from the major life changes that occurred – or were thrust upon me – after my daughter was born. I had been forced to put my career on hold, had spent the better part of a decade finding purpose elsewhere in spite of extensive programming telling me that my primary value was in how I made my living, and was now being expected to resume some sort of career.

And then there’s anxiety. My anxiety disorder is so all-encompassing that it is visible on Google Earth. Or rather, it used to be before I made a formal request that it be censored. Google may be an entity so evil that their former slogan, “Don’t be evil”, meets the legal definition of gaslighting, but to their credit they did respect my privacy and censor my anxiety from view.

Perhaps it was the thought of being faced with such a major life change. Perhaps it was the thought of not having some semblance of control of my daily life for the first time in nearly twenty years. Perhaps it was the knowledge that by getting a job I’d be essentially admitting that my business had failed. Sure, it wouldn’t have been my fault; I didn’t ask to give up control of my business to become a stay-at-home parent. But there was no way that voice in my head wasn’t going to tell me that if I’d worked just a little harder at it before my daughter was born, I wouldn’t be in such dire straits now.

Another reason for my inability to put myself out there was my impostor syndrome. If I couldn’t see sufficient worth in myself to make friends or even to be social half the time, what chance did I have of impressing an employer? Given the enormous gap in my resume, I was convinced that any respectable business would have been crazy to take a chance on me.

By this point, it was clear that the situation had caused severe strain in my marriage and I had to figure things out or risk losing everything I held dear. Please understand that during this time, I was not simply hiding from the problem, or hoping for some deux ex machina to intercede on my behalf. For all my faults, I’ve never been lazy. Unsure? Maybe. Afraid of making a bad choice? No doubt. But in this case, I was working hard to get my brain to a place of sufficient health to proceed.

I looked into positions related to my business, thinking that the extensive expertise I had in that field could prove useful to an employer. But I didn’t get far into my search before my efforts were tabled by the Coronavirus. It wasn’t until months into the pandemic that I managed to resume. But the process proved difficult, and before long I took a job that I found beneath me.

(I realize that that last comment sounds elitist and privileged as hell. For the record, I do not actually believe that any job is beneath me, certainly not at this point in my life. However, much like being a stay-at-home parent, it wasn’t a job I could ever have imagined myself doing prior to actually doing it.)

The nature of the job doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that it was semi-solitary, meaning less chance of breathing in somebody’s Covid vapors. This was months before I was vaccinated, and the thought of contracting the virus and passing it along to my loved ones was, frankly, terrifying. The job required me to get up at 5:00 AM five days a week, and for much of the time that I was doing it I was out of the house approximately ten hours at a time. Additionally, weekends and evenings were not off the table, especially in the beginning. It was tiring, and at times it was really stressful, but it was something I could handle.

It wasn’t the greatest job out there. It wasn’t the most glamorous, or the highest-paying. But my ability to do it wasn’t affected by the psychological barriers that had inhibited me for so long, and that was the only thing that mattered in that moment. I got the hang of it quickly, and I was really good at it. Reviewing my work, a client said I was a god. And that was maybe two months into it! Further praise from satisfied individuals followed, and would have proven one hell of an ego boost if I’d not been too exhausted to appreciate it.

I held the job for several years, and the sense of accomplishment I got from it made a huge difference in my mental health. Sometimes when things feel particularly dire I try to remember how it felt. It’s been a long time since I experienced that sense of purpose and pride, and I’d very much like to again. Plus the money I was making may not have been what I made when my business was at its peak, but it gave my self-esteem a needed boost. As I’ve said elsewhere, I’m unable to shake the notion that I’m only as good as the last time I got paid.

Right now I can’t get past the fact that everything I did – every 5:00 alarm, every late night, every $50-to-$60 tank of gas, every bit of stress I experienced on the job – ultimately counted for nothing.

Up next: Conclusion, wherein I conclude this long, unwieldy mess.

Link to Part 9

(cw: child abuse)

Okay, I lied.

Despite the promise I made in the teaser at the end of the previous post, there is no way to completely undo the mistakes your parents made. Sure, you can take steps to correct these mistakes; taking your mental health seriously and seeing a therapist seems to work wonders, although I don’t recommend you wait until your forties like I did.

No, as I’ve stated previously, the closest you’ll actually get to a do-over is to be aware of what your parents did wrong and strive to not make those same mistakes. Of course, you’ll make your own mistakes, because parenting is in no way an exact science. There is no definitive instruction manual, nor do children display error messages one can type into Google in order to find solutions. Plus, kids are always growing and changing, installing new software updates if you will. All you can do is parent them to the best of your ability, accept that something you did might someday inspire your kid to seek therapy, and hope it’s more “embarrassed them in front of their friends by being uncool” and less “carelessly caused easily-preventable harm”.

My father raised me as best as he could. He never beat me, never threw household objects in the direction of my head with intent to injure me. That’s what his father did. And while I have no basis for this assumption, I’m going to guess that my grandfather, miserable and abusive though he was, didn’t terrorize or physically injure his kids quite as abominably as his own father did him and his siblings. (Which is not to excuse any of it.) But whether it’s physical or sexual abuse, neglect, gaslighting, narcissism, or even just gross negligence that we suffered, I like to think that most of us are capable at some point – maybe not while it’s happening, maybe not for years after it stops, and maybe not without the help of a mental health professional – of recognizing that what we went through is not normal or healthy, and then find it in ourselves to do better.

Even before I realized just how many missteps my parents made, I had already identified problematic child-rearing behavior in my extended family. Long before my daughter was born – hell, before my wife and I had even met – I saw things that made me say, “Okay, I’m never doing that.” And yeah, people without kids talk a big game about the compromises they see other parents making, insist they’ll never make the same ones, and then immediately backpedal once they have kids and realize some of the compromises they previously condemned are part of an ongoing negotiation that comes with being a parent.

At the end of the day, who cares if the kid wears Spider-Man pajamas out of the house? They’re fun and they’re comfortable, and besides, you’re just going to the grocery store. Let them wear the pajamas so they can pretend to be everyone’s favorite friendly-neighborhood wall-crawler or you’re never going to leave. Plus, you have given your child agency – I got to choose what I wanted to wear! – and you’ve allowed them to use their imagination, because any kid wearing Spidey jammies in the car is probably imagining they’re swinging on webs from building to building as you drive to the store.

Sure, when my daughter was a baby I hoped that when she was old enough to pick her clothes she’d opt to wear something other than a princess dress, a reflective construction worker vest, or last year’s Halloween costume when we ran errands. But suddenly she’s three and her whole universe depends on her being a princess at Target. You learn to pick your battles.

Beyond that, I was giving my daughter the freedom to be herself. In that moment, for reasons I can’t fathom, wearing something batshit crazy allowed her to do that. Ultimately it does no harm, and if anyone at Target judged me for letting her do it, they were either not a parent, or else they were the sort of parent whose kids currently resent them.

(Also, don’t shop at Target if you’ve got other options. Fuck them and their racist, anti-LGBTQIA+ garbage.)

But the aforementioned problematic child-rearing behavior I saw in my extended family is nothing as innocuous as superhero jammies. I’m talking about demonstrating in front of an impressionable child just how tenuous your relationship is by arguing vehemently in front of them, or even fighting. I’m talking about using the child as a pawn in your petty marital conflicts. I’m talking about being so suffocatingly overprotective that you install iron bars on their windows and then insist they sleep in your bed until it’s years past the point of being acceptable, thereby instilling in the child a sense of fear so all-encompassing that it makes me look like Daredevil. You know, the Man Without Fear.

Every time I consider that my parents may have screwed me up somewhat, I usually feel gratitude that I’m not the cousin who went through everything I described in the previous paragraph. Still, I don’t let them off the hook. Beyond the aforementioned “something to fall back on” line, I was also told that while my parents loved me, I shouldn’t expect anyone else to. Now, that’s not necessarily the exact wording they used. I don’t even remember it being said, but my mom does. And as with the other line, I understand her reason for saying it; she was trying to keep me grounded and create realistic expectations so that I didn’t go through life with delusions of grandeur and expect that people were going to fall down at my feet and worship me.

Or was she trying to further my dependence on her and my father? I suppose it’s possible. Maybe it’s even probable. Honestly, I don’t want to know. It’s not like I’m going to confront them and tell them what awful parents they were. I’m sure they already have a pretty good idea; I doubt either of them look at me and think, “Damn, we really knocked it out of the park with this guy.” But you know who does have thoughts like that? Me, every time I think about my daughter. And that’s what I mean by a do-over childhood.

Oh, is this where I’m supposed to mention that the reason my daughter is so capable, so high-functioning, and so successful is that I analyzed my own damage, learned from my parents’ mistakes, and did the opposite? Any praise of my daughter is praise of my parenting skills as well. As I said previously, I mention this a lot.

Up next: Back to Work, wherein I go back to work.

Link to Part 8

(cw: child abuse)

Once my daughter switched districts, I couldn’t discern my purpose. I didn’t even know who I was, really. Maybe I should have spent some of my stay-at-home Dad years figuring it out because obviously that era was destined to end eventually. My daughter was nine years old; though I had been taking her to school in the mornings and picking her up in the afternoons right up until the switch and would have continued to do so had she remained where she was, the fact is that she was less dependent on me than she was when she was five. So it was inevitable that there would come a time when stay-at-home parenthood ended for me and I segued into some other phase of life. It was necessary for my daughter’s independence.

In other words, I had to put my own needs aside for the sake of her well-being. And I hate to keep beating the “my parents didn’t know what they were doing” dead horse and I hate to suggest that the reason my daughter is so well adjusted is because I learned from my parents’ mistakes and vowed to do better than they did*, but I really wish my parents had the same foresight and the same consideration for what was best for me and for my independence.

*Okay, no. I don’t actually hate this. I’m proud of it, and I bring it up in therapy as well as in casual conversation as often as I possibly can. Keep an eye out; I’m sure to mention it again.

My mother lives to be useful. My father too, to an extent, though in a more misanthropic way than my mother does. I don’t believe I cooked a meal for myself until I was a legal adult, or at least until I was in my late teens. This is either because my mother needed to have purpose more than she needed to know I possessed basic life skills, or because she thought I was too stupid to figure out how to microwave a TV dinner according to the package instructions, and she figured it would be easier to do it for me than to try and teach me to do it myself.

If it’s the latter, I realize it speaks more to the nature of my upbringing, or at least to their inability to guide me, than it does to my actual intelligence or capability. Either way, it’s a moot point; I was never as helpless as they assumed – or perhaps hoped – I was. But I can admit that I’d be a lot more well-adjusted at age forty-eight had they assumed instead that I was capable of doing the things they insisted on doing for me, and perhaps of doing even more than that.

`When I was a child and a teenager, my parents were overly protective and somewhat controlling. They raised me with an unhealthy amount of fear – not only of them, but to an extent of the world at large – which conditioned me to be dependent and compelled me to pass up many of the opportunities I was given, but also led me to take risks and make bad choices in order to prevent them from finding out when I rebelled, or to evade the consequences if they did. It took me years to purge myself of as much of that fear as I’ve been able to; I know I haven’t gotten all of it.

I don’t know their motives. Maybe they weren’t deliberately trying to raise me to be dependent in order to further their sense of purpose. Maybe they did what they thought was best but fell short because what they thought was best was based on antiquated and unhelpful advice handed down by similarly uninformed, wrong-headed relatives and friends. I’m talking about an era when it was considered perfectly sensible to throw a child into deep water in order to teach them to swim. (No, this never happened to me.)

Moreover, my father – and perhaps my mother as well, but definitely my father – was raised in an abusive household by a man who terrorized his wife and his children to an extent that one day my grandmother gathered up all five kids and, in the words of Raekwon, bounced on old man. She raised five kids on her own in the 1960s when unmarried women had significantly fewer rights than they do today. Until 1974, women in the United States could not open a bank account or apply for loans or credit cards without a husband or other man to co-sign for them. Until the same year, landlords could refuse to rent to single women. To suggest that my grandmother had a difficult time once she and her kids left would be a colossal understatement, but she had to either find a way to make it work, or continue living in the same house as the violent and manipulative man she married, and my grandmother had no time for that bullshit. She worked her ass off to support herself and her kids, all of whom turned out far less screwed-up than they would have been if they’d stayed. Twenty-five years after her passing, I still miss her, but not my grandfather. Fuck that guy.

The point I’m trying to make with all of this is that in childhood my parents – my father especially – suffered the kind of trauma that makes me hesitant if not ashamed to use the word “trauma” to describe my experiences. While they may not have been the most effective or efficient parents in the world, they’re considerably better than the parents who raised them. I believe it is the job of every parent to improve upon their own upbringing, which leads me to the obligatory reminder that I learned from my parents’ mistakes and ultimately raised my child better than they raised me. Look, I warned you that I was going to mention that again.

Up next: The Do-Over Childhood, wherein I impart to you my sure-fire method of completely undoing every mistake that was made by your less-than-qualified parents as they were raising you! You do not want to miss this!

Link to Part 7

I think some of the reason that I de-prioritized my needs – or at least my wants – after my daughter was born is because when we found out my wife was expecting, people – my mom, mainly – impressed upon me that the purpose of my life was now to provide for my child, and that making sacrifices for the good of my offspring was the only accomplishment I had to look forward to. (That’s not verbatim, but it’s definitely the lesson I retained.) No one said this to my wife, just to me. Maybe the people who knew me best saw me as a selfish manchild who was likely to trade his baby for a mint-condition copy of The Incredible Hulk #180 or a life-size replica of Han Solo in Carbonite. Granted, I don’t think I’ve ever come across that way, but there had to be a reason that multiple people felt the need to tell me this.

I’ve always been pretty easygoing, the sort of person who goes with the flow and tries not to make waves. I suspect this behavior was modeled by my mother, with whom I spent a lot of time growing up. Additionally, while my parents were good providers who made sure I had everything I needed and much of what I wanted, there were no promises or guarantees made about anything in the latter category. I grew to not like asking for things.

To be clear, my parents didn’t scream at me or physically abuse me if I asked for something. They didn’t send me to my room for not being happy with what I already had. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for me to get the thing I was asking for, though depending on what it was I usually had to wait for my birthday or Christmas. But again, I didn’t like asking.

The lesson I should have taken away from my upbringing is that parents need to see to their own emotional and financial needs before indulging their kids. When you’re on an airplane listening to the safety demonstration, they tell you that if there’s a change in cabin pressure you must put on your own oxygen mask before assisting your children with theirs. If you don’t take care of your own needs, you’re not going to be able to see to those of a child.

(More than a decade before I became a parent, I remember trying to impart this very lesson to a much-older cousin who found himself in a similar boat. This was a person who, while raising two young children solo and in an isolated setting, regularly found himself overextended and couldn’t make time for self-care. We were close, but I doubt he appreciated the unsolicited (but sound) advice from a kid twelve years his junior who had barely started living.)

Unfortunately, the lesson I actually took from my upbringing was that my needs are less important than anyone else’s, and this programming came back when I was told that my own life was essentially over once I became a father. I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on myself for not learning the other lesson. It’s not as though the messaging I received once my baby was born – not just from people I knew, but to some extent from cultural osmosis – was anything but “Your own journey as a person stops here.”

In the years since then, I’ve tried to justify it by convincing myself it was for the best. “My own journey wasn’t leading anyplace good [though in moments of clarity I know that this is 100% untrue] and the most important thing I’ll ever do is raise my daughter to be a strong and successful adult [this is probably true].”

In that respect, I seem to be succeeding.

Up next: The Parent Trap, wherein I consider that my parents might be partially responsible for the mess that I currently am. More than I have thusfar, I mean.