Link to Part 1

Link to Part 2

Link to Part 3

Link to Part 4

There’s no lock on the bedroom door, and despite her certainty that no one is going to come upstairs, we move to an adjacent bathroom. It’s got a walk-in shower cabinet with a glass door, and opposite the toilet is a chest-high antique dresser that’s been repurposed as a sink with a huge vanity mirror behind the basin.

I pull the bathroom door shut behind us and as I lock it she asks me how I want her. I push her up against the vanity and raise her dress from the back without saying a word. She’s frantically trying to pull a pair of light blue panties down over her large, round ass when I grab the waistband with both hands and take them down in one smooth motion. Then, leaving her dress gathered way up her back I grab her waist and maneuver her so her back is arched. She rolls up her puffy sleeves and crosses her arms in front of her at the edge of the sink while I unbuckle and drop my pants.

The buckle clanks as it hits the cream-colored tile and I grab her waist again. But I feel too restricted with my pants gathered at my ankles; I take off my shoes with my feet and step out of my pants completely. My shirt and vest stay on, though; only two months into the semester I’m well on my way to the freshman fifteen.

“Hurry,” she says breathlessly. “I need it.”

I can’t adequately express how much her enthusiasm excites me. I know some guys like timid girls who pretend they’re not interested in sex, but the quickest way to get me hard is to demonstrate that you’re as into it as I am. I don’t mind shy when your clothes are on; it can be kind of cute. But when we’re about to get down to it, letting me know how desperate you are is only going to make it hotter.

When it comes to safe sex, I’m very responsible. The importance of using protection has been shoved down the collective throat of an entire generation as a response to the AIDS epidemic since the 1980s. The Department of Health mailed all of us brochures warning us of the danger. We saw David Kirby on his deathbed. We fidgeted awkwardly on the couch as commercials for condoms aired during prime time with our parents sitting right there. We watched our nerdy high school biology teachers roll condoms onto bananas. We saw rappers flaunting condoms as personal accessories, making a twofold statement: “This guy gets hella pussy”, and “This guy fucks responsibly”.

By this point, “No glove, no love” is as well known a slogan as “Just say no”, “Don’t have a cow, man”, and “Make a run for the border”. I always have a condom on me just in case, even if I’m just going to a night class and coming home. And I’m not one of those guys who keeps the same one in his wallet until it’s years past the expiration date. But actually, tonight I don’t happen to have one because last month I got with my ex and I never got around to replacing it.

I ask Tiffany if she’s got a condom. She shakes her head. “Just fuck me.”

This isn’t the response I expected. Normally that kind of irresponsible disregard would give me pause, but right now hearing a woman throw caution to the wind with regard to getting me inside her is the most erotic thing I can think of. Anyway, she’s half naked and bent over a bathroom sink in the home of some guy who I’ll lose touch with in less than a year so I grab her waist and pull her back to meet me.

She gasps as she takes my cock. I can feel how slippery she is as I move slowly inside her, but for good measure she lets out a long, deep moan from her very soul that slowly fades to a whimper. I give her one slow, agonizingly deliberate thrust and she responds by pulling out the top drawer of the cabinet and putting her right foot up on it for easier access. I tighten my grip on her waist and get to work.

That fine ass of hers wiggles as my hips move in and out. Soft whimpering gives way to full-on moaning again, and I reach around to feel her tits through her top. But she bats my hand away and tells me to pull her hair instead. And then, just in case I wasn’t hard enough already she asks, “Can you bite me, too?” She pulls on the collar of her shirt, giving me a wide swath of skin to graze over. I’ve never done this before but tonight I’m a vampire so I guess I have to. As I lower my mouth to the side of her neck she tells me not to bite too hard. I can leave marks, but I can’t draw blood. Or at least, I think that’s what she’s going to say before my teeth touching skin truncates her sentence.

She clenches tightly around me and moves her hips with more impressive rhythm than she’d exhibited when I saw her grooving by herself downstairs. If there was more oxygen making its way to my brain it might occur to me that if I can keep up with her here, I’d have no trouble keeping up with her on the dance floor. But it takes a lot of blood to power this thing I’m using, and to the extent that I’m capable of thought, dancing isn’t where my brain is at.

I’ve got long locks of black hair in my fist as I thrust my way to Elysium. She’s half climbed onto the sink, one leg all the way up on the counter. Meanwhile her other foot scrabbles against the top drawer for a foothold like a cat that’s trying to escape a bathtub. Try as I might to steady her with the hand that’s still on her hip, her ass bucks against me like she wants to snap my dick in half.

She puts one hand against the mirror as a brace and with the other hand she grabs the side of the counter and pulls herself all the way to the edge of the sink. I pull her head back by her hair and thrust deeper, faster. I say something sexy – “You like that?”, probably – but as soon as the words leave my mouth they’re forgotten. She’s not moaning anymore; the sounds she makes are loud and primal, unconcerned with discovery, and almost inhuman. I’ve never heard sounds like these come out of a girl before.

The front of my white shirt is soaked. I feel it on the back of my neck, around my shoulders, and right at the center of my back, too. A cold droplet of sweat rolls down past my eye and to the tip of my nose, where it hangs out trying to decide whether to stay there or fall off. It’s itchy, but as I look down at myself moving in and out between her cheeks, the sweat doesn’t bother me anymore. I can’t even feel it.

She tells me to bite her again, and I feel her body react as my teeth rake her flesh. After a low and sustained moan of satisfaction she tells me to do it once more. She’s pushing back against the cabinet now, actively working to meet each thrust, and I briefly wonder if I’m fucking her, or vice versa. Her ass crashes against my hips and my balls slap against her pussy like a boat banging against the dock in a thunderstorm. Her back undulates and she shoves herself onto me as I shove myself into her.

I continue grappling with that lush black hair. It’s wound around my fist and the only reason I’ve left her any slack at all is because if I gave her any less than she’s got I’d probably hit her in the back of the head with every thrust. Her squeals are deeper and more urgent, almost a whine. She’s pushing back more violently now. I’m almost there, and I think she knows it because she holds the counter with both hands and her body goes completely still. It won’t be long now.

When I tell her that I’m going to come, she manages a low and throaty “Good.”

“So where do you want me to…”

“My ass,” she says, then clarifies: “On my ass, not -”

I tell her I know, but the thought of coming in her ass takes me over the finish line. As I pull out and jerk myself off onto her lower back, I don’t even try to keep from moaning; it feels too good. I hope all the noise doesn’t turn her off. Anyway, she’s moaning too. As I watch it drip down between her cheeks she lowers her face to the cool surface of the counter and sighs contentedly.

In the mirror I see that the widow’s peak I drew on my forehead with makeup has run into the white makeup I put on my face before I left the house, and now the whole thing is just a sweaty, gray mess. I look more like a monster than I did before we got started. Tiffany’s hair is all over the place, including a few knotty strands tangled up between my fingers, which are no longer anywhere near her head.

“Want me to clean you up?” I ask, and she says yes. I pull up my pants and buckle my belt without even bothering to tuck in my shirt. There’s a hand towel hanging on the rod next to the sink along with a matching bath towel. I wet the hand towel and wash off my makeup as best I can. Then I fold the towel over on itself and mop up Tiffany’s ass and back.

“So how was I?”

“I had a good time,” she says, looking away shyly. It’s not the “Fucking amazing” I was hoping for, but she sounds sincere, and given the circumstances I wasn’t expecting a rave review anyway. Sex in a cramped bathroom is rarely superlative.

After a moment she asks if there’s a dry towel anywhere. I drop the hand towel on the floor and look around the bathroom for another, but all I can find is that bath towel. I pull it from the rod and dry her off, and then the bath towel joins the hand towel on the floor.

“You’re really hot,” I say, and I mean it.

“Thanks,” she says as she pulls up her panties and smooths out the dress.

“Can I kiss you?”

She smirks and says, “You better,” so I do. It’s a quick but very sweet kiss with only a little tongue, and when it’s over she checks herself out in the mirror. The flush is fading from her cheeks, but she’s got a hell of a bruise on her neck that’s going to take a lot longer to go away. She tries to hide it by adjusting her collar, but there’s just no way.

“Good thing I’ve got a hat,” she says as she picks it up and puts it on her head. You almost can’t tell I’d been yanking on her hair for the last ten minutes.

I open the bathroom door onto a dark hallway, and ask if she wants to go downstairs before me. She says no, who cares if we come down together. She’s right – I’m sure no one will even notice – but I wanted to give her the option.

Back downstairs, Tiffany heads toward the kitchen. It’s almost midnight and the party is still jumping. Still, I think it’s time to leave. Nothing is going to happen tonight that will top what’s already transpired. Rather than seeking out Will or anyone else to say goodbye, I decide to just head out. I’ll see them in class next week.

The jean jacket guy is gone when I step out onto the porch. I wonder if he ever just went in, or if he gave up and went back to his dirt pile.

I never did get Tiffany’s number. First thing Tuesday morning for sure.

Click here for Part 1.

Click here for Part 2.

Day 21 Action: Movement is critical for our physical and mental health, and so is being playful. Think “ministry of silly walks” and move with purpose today.
This reminds me: I have a silly walk and I was hoping to obtain a government grant to help me develop it. Much to my disappointment, the guy at the ministry told me my walk wasn’t particularly silly. When I suggested that with a grant I could make the walk very silly, he gave me some excuse about the Ministry of Silly Walks no longer being properly funded. Frankly, I blame DOGE.

All kidding aside, I know how unhealthy being sedentary can be, so I try to stay active. And I know being playful is vital to one’s mental health, as being constantly serious seems like a sure way to lead an unfulfilling life. I should make a conscious effort to be more silly.

Day 22 Reflection: Let’s talk satisfaction and the afterglow that follows. When was the last time you were fully satisfied? And yes, it could be from anything…
My emotional satisfaction comes largely from my daughter’s love. Granted, I would never willingly put that burden on her shoulders, so I’m glad her love flows freely and she (presumably) does not see it as an obligation. Outside of that, I get satisfaction from my weekly support group, and my weekly writing meetup as well. It’s nice to feel like I belong somewhere. So the last time I felt emotionally satisfied was probably when I attended my support group, which as I write this was yesterday.

My physical satisfaction is probably tied to food. I could list some of the foods that I love, and that make me feel satisfied, but that could probably be a post unto itself.

The last time I was sexually satisfied? Awhile back some polyamorous friends invited me to a sex-focused weekend getaway. Although this wasn’t the last time I felt emotional satisfaction, there was a hell of a lot of that in addition to the sexual satisfaction.

Day 23 Action: Gratitude comes in all shapes and forms. Try saying 3 things that you are grateful for. Then think about 3 people you love being in your life.
I’ll list my three people first, because it’s easiest: My parents and my daughter. They’re the only people who have been in my life consistently the past couple years.
Three things that I’m grateful for are the roof over my head, easy access to food, and health insurance. Granted, those are necessities (albeit ones that a great many people do not have) and therefore perhaps a bit dry. So I’ll cite three arguably more interesting things:
1. Halloween. I love this time of year. I love all things spooky, and I love the segue from the unforgiving heat of summer to the cooler weather of fall (though it’s 79 degrees right now and I’ve got a fan pointing at me as I write this).
2. My niece. She is the one member of my wife’s family – my wife included – who has no trouble nor hesitation telling me that she loves and values me, and that she misses me when I am not around (which is most of the time).
3. Being allowed to have a relationship with my daughter post-separation. I know I already listed her as one of my three people, but this isn’t about her; it’s more about the fact that when my wife and I separated, she did not turn my daughter against me as the ex-husband of a past partner did with one of their kids, and as the ex-husband of a close friend has apparently done with both of theirs. Obviously there’s no reason why I should be denied a relationship with my daughter; I’m not a threat, and in fact I’m a loving father and a much better partner than I suppose one might think given the present circumstances of my life. But as I said, I’ve seen it happen with other people, and it’s one of my worst nightmares.

Day 24 Reflection: We are almost in the home stretch of this 30 day challenge. Let’s take a beat, and ask, how are we feeling about ourselves?
Honestly, pretty exhausted. This month has more travel and big events than I usually experience in the space of several months, and lots of doing things for other people, sometimes at least in theory at my expense. But I’m happy with the person that I am in this moment. I could be closer to self-actualization than I am at the moment, but why focus on what’s missing?

Day 25 Self Love: Today, choose your own adventure for self love and pleasure. This could be a glass of wine, bubble bath, or getting out your favorite toy!
Today I will be flying home from a different state. Perhaps I’ll treat myself to a drink at the airport bar. Unfortunately, any physical pleasure is probably going to have to wait until I get home. I don’t want to be put on the no-fly list.

Day 26 Reflection: Think about someone that you admire. Do you see them as a whole flawed person, or do they live on a pedestal in your mind?
I don’t really think I admire anyone. Maybe when I was younger, but as I’ve gotten older I’ve seen clearly that everyone is flawed, and in many cases the people who are most in a position to be admired by me – think parents in particular – are supremely flawed. I guess I’m kind of begrudging with admiration. Maybe I admire myself. If so, I absolutely see myself as flawed, because I am.

Day 27 Action: Be the good you want to see in the world. Go out today and do one good deed. Pick up some trash, smile at a stranger, or thank someone in traffic.
I like to think that I do more good than harm. I don’t know if this is true, but I sincerely hope it is. It’s never my intention to do harm. That being said, while smiling at a stranger is increasingly difficult these days as I process a lot of frankly unearned shame over the collapse of my marriage, I know it’s something I need to do more of. I just don’t want to be perceived as a creep. I know that shouldn’t matter, and that if someone is inclined to view me that way for simply smiling as we pass on the sidewalk, that says more about them than it does me. However, I always wave someone in when we’re merging, and I always give a thank you wave when I’m the one waved in. And I hold doors open for people so often that it’s become something I’m known for among offline friends and family. I’m the guy who exits the building and holds the door open while glancing behind me to see if anyone else is trying to exit. I’d hate to thoughtlessly shut the door in someone’s face, in part because I don’t want that done to me.

Day 28 Reflection: Has a compliment ever stuck with you? What was said? Why do you think it mattered so much? When was the last time you complimented someone?
Ooh! A four-part question. I’m sure there have been a few compliments I’ve received over the years that I didn’t laugh off or otherwise disregard. Right now, though, the only one that comes to mind came from a somewhat flustered young lady I was trying to woo who told me, and I quote: “You are most sex.” Obviously she was trying to say that she found me the apex of hotness, and why shouldn’t she? I am quite hot. But for whatever reason, her nervousness, awkwardness, or a combination thereof – which for the record I found adorable – led her to express her feelings in the unorthodox manner quoted above. The reason it mattered to me is probably twofold: (a) It was a compliment about my sexiness, which at the time was kind of all that mattered to me. I’ve written elsewhere on this blog that for many years virtually every decision I made came down to “Which choice is more likely to get me laid?” That’s perhaps a slight exaggeration, but it’s essentially true. Someone could compliment my cooking, my writing, my thoughts on contemporary pop culture, or any of a number of other things and even if I’d never say it aloud, there’s a good chance my internal monologue was along the lines of “That’s great. Does it make me more sexually desirable to you?” Also (b) Her vulnerability in that moment, i.e. just blurting out a string of words that while technically intelligible don’t conform to English-language vocal patterns, as well as her ability to laugh about it afterwards, made her even more attractive in my eyes. As for the last time I complimented someone, it was directed at a fellow writing meetup attendee who shared a professional accomplishment with the group.

Day 29 Action: We are nearing the end of our journey together so it’s time for a goal. What is one thing you want to achieve in this moment, week, or year!?!
In this moment I’d like to get the last of these questions answered and schedule the post to publish on October 30. This week I’m hoping to show my daughter a good time on a trip we’re taking together. And as for this year, I think I’d like to complete the rough draft of my current long-form writing project.

Day 30 Self Love: The final challenge is to set your plan in motion!!! When you have finished, it is time to say out loud “I Love You” in the mirror! Congrats!!!
Well, I’m about to schedule this post. Everything is all set for the aforementioned trip. I guess all that I’ve yet to do is figure out a plan for my writing project – I guess sit down and finish it? – and tell myself that I love me!

Once again, I’d like to thank K-ghislaine for inspiring the last three posts, and for giving me something fun with which to preoccupy myself throughout October. If you’re so inclined, click the link and check out her website where she offers relationship coaching, deep thoughts on non-monogamy, and a lot of fantastic writing. While you’re at it, read more of her stuff on Medium, follow her on Bluesky and Instagram, and for that matter, check out her Patreon.

Link to Part 1

Link to Part 2

Link to Part 3

I’m almost there, and I think she knows it because she holds the counter with both hands and her body goes completely still. It won’t be long now.

I ask the two of them if they want something to drink since I’m going inside to get something for myself. Pat declines, while Tiffany asks me for a Diet Coke with ice, and two cherries if there are any left, then shouts “And a Snickers?” after I’ve turned to leave. In the kitchen Grace is at the counter, sifting through the candy bags.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she says playfully when she notices me. She walks over and gives me a hug, her arms tight around my back. She leans close to my ear and whispers, “My boyfriend is right in the next room”, then laughs like it’s the most original joke she could have come up with, and not something people used to say in the forties. I enjoy the hug, but it occurs to me that Bill Clinton could walk in at any moment and beat me to death with his borrowed saxophone.

She pulls away and confesses that she’s a little drunk, then asks if I’ve seen an Almond Joy anywhere. I reach into my pocket and pull out the Twix and the Butterfinger I’d stashed there earlier. (I ate the Three Musketeers during The Lost Boys).

“Afraid not,” I tell her with a look of forced disappointment in my eyes.

“Oh! But can I have the Twix?”

When I tell her she can, she snatches it from my hand, unwraps it, and shoves it in her mouth seemingly all in one fluid motion. With her mouth full of pulverized cookie and sticky caramel, she tells me I’m a useful man to know and leaves the room. I pull a Snickers bar out of the bag.

When I return to the patio carrying two Cokes – one Diet and one rum and – Tiffany is standing at the table by herself. Everyone else has gone downstairs to watch Pet Sematary.

I hand her the Snickers bar and her drink. She thanks me and takes a sip. I take a sip from my own, and then we stand there in silence. Finally she says “It’s getting cold,” and I glance down quickly at her thick legs peeking out from her knee-length black dress – I can’t help it! – then look back up. I make a point of holding eye contact as I ask her if she wants to go inside. “Can we?” she asks hopefully, and soon we’re sitting on folding chairs along the perimeter of the dance floor just on the other side of the sliding glass door. “Bump n’ Grind” is playing but we’re on the opposite side of the room from the speakers and I don’t anticipate tinnitus.

I hope she doesn’t ask me to dance. I saw her dancing earlier so I know she enjoys it, but I’m not good at it and I’m too self-conscious to just let loose. By the time I’m thirty I’ll have taken several years of social ballroom dancing and even gotten private lessons. At age thirty-two I’ll win third place in a foxtrot contest. By the time I’m thirty-four the trophy will be in a box in the garage, forgotten.

If Tiffany and I meet again in twenty-five years and she asks me to dance, I’ll give her more than she bargained for. But right now, two days before Halloween during my first year of college, if she asks me to join her on the dance floor I might give myself a bloody nose just to get out of the situation.

We talk for awhile, mostly about Brenda, Jamison, and what’s-his-name. The Oakland As guy. Tiffany says that she and Brenda were best friends when they were kids, but doesn’t volunteer any information about why they aren’t anymore. They didn’t seem like enemies just now.

She tells me about a guy who harassed her during junior year of high school, and how Jamison and Kevin – oh, Rollie Fingers’ real name is Kevin – “straightened him out”. When I inquire, she denies that they gave him a beatdown. Still, what else could it have been? Those guys tuned him up for sure.

“I like your costume,” I tell her. I’m not just saying it because I want to see it on my bedroom floor or something. It’s genuine. She thanks me, and says she planned to bring a broom with her to complete the look, but then it would have been one more thing she had to keep track of all night.

“I like your costume too!” Her eyes light up in a way that suggests she’s got a thing for bloodsuckers. “You look like Tom Cruise.” I’ve never had anyone make that comparison before. I’m not saying he’s a bad-looking guy; I just don’t think I resemble him at all. Sometimes people say I look like Jeff Goldblum, and once in awhile I get Steve Buscemi vibes when I look at myself in the mirror. But no one’s ever said I looked like Tom Cruise before.
“He’s got a new movie coming out where he plays a vampire.” Oh, that’s right! I guess I can see it a little bit, given what I’m wearing.

Tiffany tells me that Rollie Fingers has read all of the books. In my brain, the conversation branches off into several possible paths. I ignore the glaringly obvious one where I take her lead and ask if he’s planning to go see the movie when it opens next month. I also resist the urge to tell her I tried reading The Vampire Lestat in high school but quickly lost interest. I also refrain from saying that I watch a lot of horror movies in the hopes that she does too so that we can talk about something more interesting for the rest of the night. Instead I just blurt out, “So are you and Kevin dating?” She says no like it’s the most ridiculous conclusion I could have come to.

It’s not literally the next second that she’s sitting astride my lap, but it feels that way. In spiteof a round, very firm ass that my hands enjoy roaming over, she’s about as light as she looks. She’s got her hands on the back of my chair and her tongue is in my mouth. I can feel myself get hard and I try to think about baseball but it’s been almost three months since there’s been any and I almost can’t even picture what the game looks like. Anyway, there’s no way a woman suddenly writhing in my lap isn’t going to get me hard. It would probably be an insult if I didn’t get hard.

I guess she can feel it because she starts grinding against me, slowly and deliberately. I move my hands up to ride her hips while her legs tighten around mine. She smells good, like expensive perfume, but subtle. The strangest thought crosses my mind: I need to get her number as soon as possible because I’m going to want to go further with this girl than just making out and dry humping.

The kiss breaks. I see the First Couple among the crowd on the dance floor. I wonder if they’ve seen me.
Tiffany asks me if I want to go somewhere private.

“Where?” That was stupid. The only word that should have come out of my mouth is “yes”. As if my willingness to abscond with her is dependent on how she answers that question. Motel Six? Yes. Back seat of your car? Totally. Gas station bathroom? Absolutely not.

“There’s a spare bedroom upstairs. No one’s going to come up.” I say okay, but the way I’m throbbing underneath her communicates more clearly than anything I can say out loud.

Concluded in Part 5.

Link to Part 1

Link to Part 2

She tells me to bite her again, and I feel her body react as my teeth rake her flesh. After a low and sustained moan of satisfaction she tells me to do it once more.

The “home cinema” is just a big rec room. There’s a rowing machine and a weight bench in an otherwise empty corner. No weights, though. A few folding chairs are set up against the back wall, and an L-shaped sofa in the middle of the room holds a few people. A few more lie on big throw pillows and bean bags close to the TV. Dawn of the Dead is over and Will is switching out the tape for The Lost Boys. As he turns the lights back down I lean back in my folding chair and watch the movie for awhile. I nod at the First Couple as they walk in, just as all the guys are hanging off of the trestle bridge. I’m hoping they’ll come sit close to me, but instead they take an unoccupied stretch of floor in front of the sofa.

Right after the Bill and Ted guy gets staked, I notice them getting up from where they’ve been sitting. I wonder if that’s why they’re leaving. I don’t think Grace has any aversion to on-screen blood and gore; I’m positive The Fly is one of her favorite movies, and that’s way grosser than this. Or am I thinking of somebody else? She gives me a smile as they head out. See? She’s really sweet.

I decide to head back upstairs to the nucleus of the party. The family room is where all that throbbing music is coming from. There’s a coffee table near the back wall with a boombox and a stack of CDs. The player is wired to a couple huge stereo speakers and yes, it appears both are up against the wall the family room shares with the kitchen.

An improvised dance floor has been set up in the center of the room, with all the furniture moved out toward the walls. There’s a sectional sofa and a few folding chairs, plus a couple small end tables that are mostly covered with red cups. Right now “All That She Wants” by Ace of Base is playing, but I wish it was something like “The Monster Mash” or “Purple People Eater”. They’re perfect for a Halloween party, and people can dance to them no problem. But this is the mixtape era, and no one has ever heard of streaming. You listen to whatever CDs are available or you listen to the radio.

I take in the assembly of partiers to see if I recognize anyone, but most of what I’m seeing are costumes, not faces. The Crow. Someone in a Devil mask. Howard Stern and the ice skater from the kitchen, the latter of whom I just realized is holding a crowbar. A girl in a neck-to-feet skeleton costume but no mask or makeup. A guy in a Giants uniform dances with seven-months-pregnant Little Red Riding Hood. Morticia Addams, bent over and grabbing the floor, grinds against Gomez so scandalously that Carolyn Jones might turn over in her grave. Off to the side, a witch grooves elegantly and dreamily all by herself. I walk around the dance floor to a sliding glass door that leads out to a concrete patio where about a dozen people hang out under soft yellow outdoor lighting.

A guy dressed as Urkel rushes inside just as I step out into a cool, calm night. A few white bedsheet ghosts tied to the overhang sway slowly in the breeze. There’s a cooler loaded with ice and cans of beer on the ground by the door, and a few high-top tables arranged around the patio with various costumed ghouls gathered around.

Someone yells, “Stafford-Reed Wednesday night!” That’s the teacher and the start time of my Intro Business class, so I turn to see three people looking my way from a table at the far edge of the patio. I walk over.

There’s a guy and a girl, and a very tall person in a gruesome-looking mask and a trenchcoat who I assume is a guy. In fifteen years I’ll make friends with the tallest person I’ve ever known, a six-foot-ten female basketball player. That’ll teach me to make assumptions about height and gender. The first two people hold red cups, and the tall guy in the mask – Jamison, I presume – has a can of Bud Light on the table in front of him. There’s an assortment of little candy bars on the table between them.

The other guy is dressed in a 1970s Oakland As uniform complete with curly Rollie Fingers mustache. It’s kind of ironic that I’ve seen so many baseball player costumes at this party. The girl’s costume, meanwhile, seems to be a cop who moonlights as a stripper. A convincing police hat sits on top of her vibrant red hair. Her light-blue short-sleeve uniform shirt clings tightly to her ample tits, the top three or four buttons undone. Instead of Class B uniform pants she wears a tight black skirt, fishnets, and high heels.

I have no idea what Rollie Fingers’ actual name is but I know the cop is Brenda. I introduce myself, since they probably would have shouted my name rather than our teacher’s name if they knew it. Then I show how observant I am and address the two people I know by their names. The tall guy confirms that he is in fact Jamison, though he doesn’t take off the mask when he says it. And Rollie Fingers’ name is Kevin, which I forget almost as soon as he says it.

Rollie Fingers compliments my costume, which I threw together this evening when I got home from work. It’s just a pair of black pants, black dress shoes, and a white long-sleeved shirt. I’m also wearing a formal black vest I borrowed from my dad, because Dracula wears a vest, or so I think. As I will learn in about ten years when I’m really into Doctor Who, it’s called a waistcoat. The rest of the costume is just makeup and plastic fangs.

Further costume-related small talk is made. When Brenda confirms that she is a sexy cop, I immediately reply with “You certainly are”, and it’s somehow not the most awkward come-on I’ve ever attempted. She thanks me for the compliment, but I can’t tell if she’s actually receptive.

“So you guys know Will?” I ask after the small talk gives way to silence. It’s not the most interesting or intelligent question I could ask, but it’s the only one that comes to mind in the moment. They tell me they all went to high school with him, and confirm that his house has been the “party house” since sophomore year.

“What’s with the guy on the porch? Is he someone from the neighborhood?”

“Guy on the porch?” Brenda asks as she tears open a Kit Kat wrapper, then looks to the guys. “Do you know?” They don’t. I wonder if she’s dating either of them.

“Yeah, he had on a denim jacket and a black cap. Really skinny guy. He was standing on the porch when I got here. He was yelling for someone to let him in.”

“And he didn’t just, like, walk in?” Jamison asks through his gross-out mask. He lifts it up so he can have a swig of beer from the can, then lowers it. I don’t get a good look at his face.

“He was weird. I think he was on something.”

“That’s creepy,” Brenda says. “Maybe it’s someone Will knows.” She licks chocolate off her lips and it’s nice to look at.

I shake my head. “He said he didn’t. I thought maybe he started shit and got thrown out. But like you said -” Here I nod at Jamison – “the door was wide open. He could have just walked in.”

Rollie Fingers waves someone over, then turns to me. “There’s a couple friends of ours you should meet.” We’re joined by a guy dressed kind of like Jim Carrey in The Mask – yellow Dick Tracy fedora, pale yellow suit jacket, tan pants, and a visaged slathered in green makeup rather than a mask – and the witch I’d seen dancing all alone. A pointy, wide-brimmed hat sits atop her long, black hair. She’s also got on a black dress with purple highlights and sheer, billowy sleeves, plus heeled black boots that go up to her ankles and add three or four inches to her diminutive stature. She’s pretty cute, and while it’s true that I think most girls are cute, that shouldn’t lessen her attractiveness in your mind.

The newcomers’ names are Pat (The Mask) and Tiffany (the witch). I’ve got a class with her, and I ask if it’s Chemistry 101 with Cervantes. She says it’s Spanish 101 with Mcallum, Tuesday and Thursday mornings at ten.

In the span of two minutes I learn Pat is a third-year journalism student at Berkeley, he’s related to Will (maybe a cousin, definitely not his brother), he drove here in a decommissioned army jeep (no idea if he owns it), he shaved his head for the costume, and his girlfriend is in her second trimester.

I actually thought about applying to Berkeley.

Continued in Part 4.

Click here for Part 1

Day 11: Reflection. Stress seems to be everyone’s normal these days. What tools or techniques have you found useful in easing your daily tension?
I sometimes joke that if I could have any superpower, it would be the ability to consume whatever food or drink I want without any ill effects on my health. Stress-eating isn’t a good method of dealing with stress, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t work short-term. Trump said WHAT? An extra-large pizza should offset my anger. Another act of white christian nationalist terrorism? Fuck it, I’ll eat ice cream til the anxiety goes away. Partner just dumped me? I’ll compensate with an assortment of craft beers from my local bottle shop. Granted, I’m prediabetic, so some of my food-related coping mechanisms are now off-limits, or at least strictly limited. I don’t drink much, though when I’ve had a particularly stressful, chaotic, or unpleasant day I do find myself having a glass of something. Over the last year and a half, I’ve become accustomed to meditation, various grounding techniques for anxiety, and other things I might have considered too new-agey or weird a decade ago. I walk and run – I enjoy being outside, but summer was way too hot and thusfar fall isn’t much cooler – and I also have a directory on my phone of positive imagery and media that makes me feel happy, nostalgic, at peace, or otherwise positive.

Day 12: Action. Let’s talk about the stress that sneaks into our lives, media. Today I want you to turn off all news outlets for at least an hour.
This one’s easy. I tend not to consume news from mainstream outlets; I’m very selective. Once in awhile if there’s a news story that I need to know more about I’ll watch something about it, usually on YouTube from a couple trusted channels. To be fair, there is no single outlet I really trust enough. I try to curate my social media feeds to not drop (usually bad) news right into my lap unsolicited, and when it happens I have no problem stepping away from said feeds so as not to feel overwhelmed by the horrors. Usually I get my news directly from late-night comedy shows: Seth Meyers, The Daily Show, Saturday Night Live. But even then, I am skeptical. While the politics of these programs usually align with my own, I know that even they have an agenda.

Day 13: Reflection. There was a time we received a newspaper in the morning, and that was it. How do you feel after a purposeful break from the news?
I feel great. The current twenty-four-hour news cycle most of us are caught up in is toxic, and that’s by design. A populace that is constantly afraid, under attack, or otherwise experiencing trauma is more likely to spend money. I miss the days when news was limited to a daily newspaper, and a couple half-hour or hour-long news television programs a couple times a day. I do not need the constant influx of fearmongering, or for that matter the barrage of what every celebrity or pseudo-celebrity is doing. I am not trying to have a parasocial relationship with any actor, musician, athlete, or influencer/YouTuber; while I have no doubt that these people’s lives are richer and more rewarding than my own (sarcasm possible), I’m happy to limit my interaction with them to consuming their media to the extent that it interests me. But I do not need to know nor do I have even the slightest interest in knowing about their relationships, their health challenges, or their politics. Oh wait, no. I want to know their politics as quickly as possible because I am absolutely not consuming their content if their sociopolitical views don’t align with my own. Right-wing assholes don’t get clicks from me.

Day 14: Reflection. Let’s think about perceptions for a moment. Do you think people see you the same way you see yourself?
In moments of clarity I am aware that I view myself more negatively than others do. This is partially because they don’t know my whole life, and what I share openly probably suggests to them that I am a good person who is valid and worthy of respect. And to be fair, I AM a good person who is valid and worthy of respect. I am my worst critic, I give myself very little credit – far less than I deserve – and when others give me the proper credit I sometimes assume it’s a mistake.

Day 15: Self Love. Take 15 minutes today that makes you smile. Sing, dance, play…maybe even with yourself. You deserve you time!
I would have taken fifteen minutes to do a little writing, since that is something I do enjoy. But as I write this it’s Tuesday and tonight is my weekly writing meetup, so I ended up writing for an hour! And when I got home, yes, I played with myself. I’ve been really horny lately – like, excessively horny even for me – and I’ve had so little solitude this month. It was much needed, and hopefully it’ll last me a few days since it’ll be days before I have any solitude again.

Day 16: Reflection. Do you have a feel good song, movie, book, or something else that you turn to? What about your choice lifts you up?
I’ve actually got a playlist of songs that make me feel happy! I’ve had it for years, since the days before Spotify and other streaming services, because depression sucks and I need all the help I can get. A random song from the playlist is “Say Hey I Love You” by Michael Franti and Spearhead. When I’m feeling down, another good method of uplifting myself is watching an episode of a show that I’ve seen before, one that is familiar and brings me comfort. Some days it’s likely to be Community, Bob’s Burgers, or something lighthearted. Other days it might be a random episode of The Wire. I realize that’s counterintuitive; The Wire is a complex drama that takes an unflinching look at life in the typical American city. It’s not something that should provide anyone comfort. And yet I’ve watched the series from start to finish so many times that I’m familiar with every plot twist, story development, and interpersonal relationship; and much of the time I can recite the dialogue before the characters do. That’s pretty much the definition of a comfort show.

Day 17: Action. Lifting ourselves up is crucial to self love. So too is giving ourselves permission to just be in the present. Today just accept your feelings.
Will do!

Day 18: Reflection. How did accepting your emotions go yesterday? Was it comfortable, difficult, or somewhere in the middle?
Between my anxiety about the future, my depression about the past, and my insistence on always doing something productive to prove that I deserve to draw breath and to have something to show for my existence, being present hasn’t always been easy for me. But among the work I’ve done on myself since the separation from my wife is a renewed interest in mindfulness. I’ve read about it extensively – I don’t think I truly knew what the word meant prior to 2024 – and even attended online classes not only to learn how to be more mindful, but to understand why it’s so important in the first place. Yesterday I made a conscious effort to acknowledge where I am in my life, and what emotions go along with that. I validated my feelings, accepted them as I was instructed to in the prompt, and stayed focus on the present moment without ruminating on the past or dwelling on the future. It’s remarkable how much more enjoyable life is if you can compartmentalize in this way.

Day 19: Action. Today, I want you to take a selfie. That’s it. Take a photo of exactly where and who you are in this moment. No judgement, just acceptance.
In this moment, I am a fifty-year-old man who is doing the best he can to live a fulfilling life and be the sort of parent his daughter needs. I’m pretty good-looking, too.

Day 20: Self Love. Today, we celebrate ourselves! What is your favorite body part? Maybe look at the selfie from yesterday for inspiration.
Face? I’m going to go ahead and say my face. To be fair, that’s the focus of the aforementioned selfie, but even if it weren’t, I think that would still be my answer. I don’t think I’m particularly unusual in the looks department; I suspect I look more or less like a lot of other people. If I passed a dozen people on the street, I’m guessing four would find me moderately attractive to very attractive, four would notice me and then immediately forget what I look like, and four would probably not even notice me at all. It’s the first group of four I’m most interested in.

Thanks again to K-ghislaine for inspiring me to actually post something on this blog, and also for motivating me to love myself a bit more than I otherwise might. Stay tuned for Part 3!

Link to Part 1

She’s not moaning anymore; the sounds she makes are loud and primal, unconcerned with discovery, and almost inhuman. I’ve never heard sounds like these come out of a girl before.

I raise my voice so I can be heard over the sound of Cypress Hill rapping about how they could just kill a man. “Thanks! I like your look too. But I’m not sure what you’re -”

“Did you see Pulp Fiction?” Oh, obviously. She’s Uma Thurman.

“I’m surprised you didn’t go for the post-overdose look.” I’m only half-joking; I would have recognized her costume right away if the white blouse was ripped open to reveal a syringe sticking out of her chest and the black bob wig was matted with puke and God-knows-what. Stacy turns to the quartet standing by the counter and calls for someone named Crystal.

One of the guys in suits – not actually a guy, it turns out – excuses herself from the others and walks over. She’s wearing a black jacket and pants, and a white shirt with a skinny black tie. She’s even got fake sideburns. If not for the stud in the side of her nose and the hourglass figure, she’d be the spitting image of John Travolta.

“We saw it opening night,” Stacy tells me. Then, to clarify: “My friend and I.”

The friend says it’s definitely in her top five of the year. I ask for her name and she confirms that it’s Crystal. Before I can reciprocate with my own, Stacy tells me again that they’re friends, I guess just in case I didn’t hear her the first time. It is pretty loud.

I decide not to tell them that I saw it opening day, first showing. I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to one-up them. Instead I say, “I love the theme.” I almost say “couples costume” instead of “theme”, but obviously that would be weird so I’m glad I caught myself in time.

As the thumping bass gives way to something more mellow, Amanda – I think I decided her name is Amanda – brings up Tuesday’s quiz. As she speaks I notice she’s got little stitches radiating out from her full, pleasing lips that she’s drawn on with eyebrow pencil or something. Oh, she’s a scarecrow, right? Either that or Cowgirl Raggedy Ann.

In walks Grace to refresh her red cup. Besides the Tuesday and Thursday morning class, I’ve got Monday evening Chem with her, and Intro Business Wednesday nights at seven. I have no idea what or who she’s dressed as, but she’s wearing a short blonde wig, a blue pantsuit, and a pearl necklace.

Grace makes informal greetings as she squeezes between us and pours herself some vodka out of a big Stoli bottle. To me she says, in a very exaggerated accent, “Hey Dracula! Vant to bite my neck?” I would like that very much. Grace leans in close, so I take a pair of plastic vampire fangs out of my pocket, put them in my mouth, then pretend to bite her. She’s a few inches shorter than me so I have to lean way over, but she reacts like the delicate maiden in an old horror movie who’s been entranced and feasted upon by an ancient bloodsucker. Then she tells everyone else that it’s okay because she knows me from way back. It’s true; we went to high school together, and junior high before that.

She puts her arm around my back in a way that feels good and comes pretty close to turning me on. She kind of rests her head on my shoulder, too. Grace is a sweetheart, and she’s always been. But right now I’m not ruling out the possibility that this intimacy is more than just friendly.

Someone asks who she’s dressed as, and she tells us she’s supposed to be the First Lady. This would never have occurred to me, and not just because Grace is Filipina. She nods toward the group standing at the counter and tells us that her boyfriend Edwin is the president. Hearing his name, the suit-wearer standing by the counter who’s not named Crystal turns around. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t bite Grace’s neck when she offered it. Edwin is a tall, burly guy clad in dark blue. He has a saxophone around his neck, and very light brown hair that appears to be a wig.

“We were gonna be O.J. and the White Bronco, but the only horse costumes we could find were for two people.” I don’t know if that’s supposed to be a joke, but he gets a few scattered laughs anyway.

After Edwin turns back to his conversation, Grace gives us his whole story: He’s twenty-six, he lives in the Mission District and plays at clubs in the City, and his dad was a professional musician. I assume she’s going to tell him that the sax was handed down to him, but no, it’s borrowed.

“He doesn’t own his sax?” I ask incredulously.

“Of course not. He plays the guitar.” Then she puts her head back on my shoulder.

I consider asking if she’d rather go snuggle up to her boyfriend. But clearly he doesn’t have an issue with her snuggling up to me instead. Instead, I ask the group at the drinks table if anyone else from class is here.
Hammer Pants – or Josh, as it turns out – asks if I know Jamison. “Is that his last name?” I ask with genuine curiosity. Josh shakes his head.

“Tall guy. He’s got Intro Business with us.” That’s Thursday nights at seven. I scan a memory of the last class hoping to spot a tall guy, but none appear. Josh goes on: “If you saw him you’d probably know who he is.”

“He’s wearing a mask,” Amanda says.

“Yeah, that’s right. He’ll spot you before you spot him.”

Then Stacy asks, “What? Are we not interesting enough for you?” I think she’s kidding, but I don’t know her well enough to tell for sure. I’d like to know her better, though. I wonder if she has a boyfriend.

The Grim Reaper tells us – you know, I’m just going to call him Tim. Tim says there’s a room downstairs where Will is playing horror movies on a big-screen TV. This gets my attention.

“What’s playing?” I wouldn’t mind hanging out in a fancy home cinema watching scary movies.

“Some zombie movie.”

“Night of the Living Dead?”

“Yeah. That’s the one where they’re at the mall, right?”

I shake my head. “That’s Dawn of the Dead.” I think I’ll go check it out.

Continued in Part 3.

I’ve got long locks of black hair in my fist as I thrust my way to Elysium. She’s half climbed onto the sink, one leg all the way up on the counter.

I park my car on a dark street in a part of town I’m not familiar with. It’s only about a mile from school, but I’m a freshman and five months ago I’d never been this far west. My dad gave me directions before I left the house. He unfolded a map and traced the route from home to the party with his finger. In twenty years, when I somehow carry a telephone in my pocket and can access something called GPS by talking to it, his method will seem quaint.

Somebody is yelling as I walk up the block. The voice is high-pitched but I’m pretty sure it’s a guy. He doesn’t sound belligerent, but he’s agitated about something. As the sound grows louder I can see he’s wearing a blue denim jacket and matching jeans standing underneath a porch light. He’s calling out to someone who’s not there. And would you look at that? It’s Will’s porch he’s standing on, so I guess I’m going to have to walk past him to get in.

“Hey!” The sound is quick and sharp, and when he repeats it it’s longer, more drawn out. After a beat he repeats himself yet again: “Hey! Can I come in or what?”

He’s on drugs, right? I’m admittedly a bit of a pussy and I don’t do drugs, so I don’t know what kind of trip he’s on. Sure, I get high sometimes – who doesn’t? – but I’ve never gotten high and acted like that. Anyway, the door is wide open, dude. Just go in.

I stand beside the porch for a second before I put my foot on the first step. When he doesn’t turn around and pounce on me, I walk the rest of the way up to the porch. As I approach the doorway he finally turns to look my way. His skin is pale like he hasn’t seen the sunshine in forever, and peeping out from a narrow face is a pair of beady, sunken eyes that desperately need some Visine. A few greasy strands of black hair peep out over his forehead from underneath a black wool cap. He’s definitely on a bender; at least, I think that’s the right word. And he reeks! Holy shit does this guy stink. It’s like he sleeps in the dirt or something. The guy looks right into my eyes in a way that creeps me out and asks me to get Will.

I can’t get away from him fast enough so I tell him sure and I walk inside. The entryway is dark, and so is the hallway ahead. It makes the house feel deserted in a way that would be foreboding if I didn’t know I was walking into a Halloween party. I brush past a couple hanging rubber spiders or bats as I walk further into the house. I can hear music playing loud and it reassures me that I’m not about to be whacked over the head by Leatherface with a sledge hammer and stuck on a meat hook.

That’s when a huge dark shape darts out of a doorway to stand right in front of me. It’s a hulk of a man brandishing what might be a sledge hammer. Nice jump scare, but it’s just Will. He’s dressed as Fred Flintstone, and the sledge hammer is a plastic caveman club. He greets me warmly and tells me he’s glad I made it.

As Will leads me through the house, the music grows louder and I have to raise my voice when I tell him about the guy on the porch. He’s dismissive of the apparently uninvited guest: “Fuck that guy. He’s not even wearing a costume. This is a costume party.” I’m about to make the suggestion that his costume is that of a drugged-out wastrel loser when Will continues. “Besides, I don’t even know him.”

“He knows you,” I tell him as we turn a corner. Will shrugs and says something I can’t hear. The speakers must be really close. He shuffles me into a way-too-brightly-lit kitchen and once my eyes adjust I see familiar faces standing around a table. These kids are in my eight o’clock class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’ll take me a few minutes to remember everyone’s names.

The table is set up as a makeshift bar. There’s liquor, two-liter bottles of soda, and a tower of red cups. There’s a bowl with cut-up limes, and a glass jar of maraschino cherries. A cooler on the floor nearby has cans of beer. Across from the table, a long counter has been stocked with bowls of chips and pretzels, plus a couple bags of Halloween candy, a package of garishly decorated orange pumpkin cookies straight from Safeway’s bakery department, and a jar of Planter’s peanuts. I squeeze past a guy dressed as Howard Stern plus a lady ice skater and a couple guys in suits to grab some mini candy bars from one of the bags. I put them in my pocket for later, then pour myself a drink.

Will starts making introductions, though I can’t quite hear any of the names. As he tells the crowd at the table who I am, a guy in a pair of sunglasses, a yellow shirt, and Hammer pants says they already know me. Or at least, I think he does; he’s way too soft-spoken for how loud it is. He’s definitely in my morning class, but I have no idea as to his name so I just nod and survey the rest of the group. There’s a redheaded monk in a brown bathrobe – no! The Grim Reaper. He’s got a plastic scythe, and I can see what appears to be a rubber mask sticking out of the pocket of his robe. No idea about this guy’s name either. Tim? Tom? I think it’s one of those.

Next to Tim or Tom the Grim Reaper is a girl in an unbuttoned orange-and-brown flannel shirt that’s tied in a knot at the bottom. She’s also wearing faded low-cut jeans and a floppy straw hat. Her cheeks are rouged and she’s got little drawn-on freckles and some orange makeup on her nose. I think I’ll call her Amanda. I don’t even know if she’s in my morning class with the others, but she’s cute so I’m going to keep an eye out for her on Tuesday just in case.

I know Stacy, though. Stacy sat next to me on the first day of class before deciding on a permanent spot three rows down. She’s got soft-looking strawberry-blonde hair that she usually lets hang free, but tonight it’s all hidden under a black bob wig. She’s also wearing a white blouse, black pants, and black flats. Not sure what she’s supposed to be, but even speaking at a raised volume, I’m sure I’m not just imagining the flirty lilt in her voice as she tells me she likes my costume.

Continued in Part 2.

Last year, writer and content creator K-ghislaine published a series of daily prompts related to sex-positivity throughout the month of October. I posted my responses to these prompts over the course of three blog posts throughout the month.

This year, K-ghislaine published daily prompts related to self-love throughout September. I was unable to participate last month, so I’m going to publish my responses this month instead. The first batch of responses follows.

Day 1: Check in Time. What 3 words would you use to describe yourself?
The first three words that come to mind are generous, patient, and diligent. Though I have not always been able to see and acknowledge my positive qualities, I’ve done a lot of work on myself over the past year and a half to change that. I am generous. I am patient. I am diligent. Obviously I have flaws like anyone else, but focusing on my positive side seems a lot more healthy than dwelling on aspects of myself I wish were different. Incidentally, if you ask me this question in a week you might get three completely different words. Intelligent. Conscientious. Imaginative. Sexy. Hard-working. Neurodivergent. Easygoing. I contain multitudes.

Day 2: Reflection. Were the words chosen yesterday complimentary, harsh, or balanced? Are there any you would change today?
As I mentioned yesterday, I chose three complimentary words. I suppose had I given it a lot of thought I would have returned an answer that was more balanced, but after years of difficulty seeing the good in myself – years in which I absolutely would have described myself with three harsh words – I see little reason not to do so now. I allow myself to focus on the positive within me because I suspect that if I don’t, nobody else will. As for whether I would change any of the words today, probably not. I feel much the same as I did when I answered yesterday’s prompt.

Day 3: Action. Once you’ve completed the last 2 challenges I want you to physically pat yourself on the back. How do you honestly feel right now?
Sore. I’m fifty and my body doesn’t flex quite the way it used to. But for a more straightforward answer, I feel pretty good. Or do I feel lonely because I’m the only one patting myself on the back these days? You know what? No. I am going to focus on the positive. I feel pretty good.

Day 4: Reflection. What was something that you did as a child that always made you smile? Why did you stop doing it?
As a child, and an adolescent, and a young adult, I assumed my good life was always going to be good. The evidence I had before me – financial security, a roof over my head, the love of my parents and then my wife, and all the external trappings of success – gave me no reason to believe otherwise. And why did I stop? I suppose I stopped because reality. These days, life isn’t always good. On the other hand, if you’re looking for whimsical, fun things that children often do, I suppose I haven’t really stopped most of them. I read comics. I watch silly cartoons from my youth. I use my imagination freely. I don’t think I’ll ever stop doing these things.

Day 5: Self-Love. Today I want each and everyone of you to look into the mirror and say “I love you.”
Done!

Day 6: Reflection. How did saying I love you to yourself make you feel? Was this a new experience, or something familiar?
It felt pretty good. Perhaps not as good as it would feel to hear someone else say it, perhaps as we lie in bed together, or between hungry kisses during a ferocious makeout session – hey, I like external validation! – but it felt good nonetheless because it isn’t something I hear often. I used to, though.

Day 7: Action. The power of touching yourself. A light tickle on the arm, a soothing foot rub, or something more intimate.
I used my Hitachi to ease my sciatica. Perhaps tonight I’ll use it for its more widely accepted purpose.

Day 8: Reflection. Today I want you to think about all the ways you enjoy being touched, either by yourself, or by loved ones.
By my loved ones? A hug is good. I have no intimate relationships at the moment – crazy how they all kind of ended around the same time, isn’t it? – and I fear I never will again. When I did, though, cuddling was something I kind of needed and I mourn the absence of it. Kissing, making out, and of course sex are all great. By myself, though? That Hitachi sciatica thing yesterday was very helpful. I’ve suffered from sciatica for decades and I’m always trying to find a way to conquer the pain that doesn’t involve medication. Which is not to say that I am opposed to taking a pain pill; some days I just don’t have it in me to “mind over matter” the discomfort away.

Day 9: Action. Today, I want you to practice asking out loud for a specific type of intimate touch. How does asking make you feel?
Kind of weird, honestly, because of the whole lack of a relationship thing I’ve got going on. It kind of feels like I’m beseeching the universe to touch me or something. In theory if I had someone I could ask, I suppose I’d feel okay voicing a specific request. For example, if I was receiving head, I probably wouldn’t have trouble doing some minor directing. Like, “If my good girl keeps doing what she’s doing right now, she’s going to get her reward.” But generally speaking, I’m happy with whatever is happening. I acknowledge that that is part of my accommodating, people-pleasing nature, and I should have no trouble enthusiastically voicing what I really want. Honestly, though, I’m usually just happy to have been invited to the party, so to speak.

Day 10: Self-Love. Water plays a vital role in our lives, and our own selves. Find time today to swim, take a hot shower, bath, or just sip an extra glass of water.
Between the condo I was asked to leave in November 2024 (where I am as I write this) and the house I moved into immediately afterwards, hot water is severely limited. The shower in the condo’s primary bathroom doesn’t work anymore. I don’t know why; whatever caused it happened after I left and my wife seems content to just use the shower in the hall bathroom. And as for that shower, in spring 2024, a botched faucet installation that I was not involved in turned what was formerly a source of virtually unlimited hot water and consistent pressure into a sad, wet little closet where the water has to run five minutes or more before it warms up, and where hot water lasts five minutes if you’re lucky.  Things are better at home, though even there the hot water isn’t plentiful. I miss the hall bathroom shower prior to that fateful installation. Ironically, over this past summer I grew accustomed to taking cold showers first thing in the mornings because most nights at home were uncomfortably hot. That being said, I drink a lot of water on the average day, so I’ve got that part covered.

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

 

 

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!