Planting The Flag

pink toothbrush

It’s like any other morning that she has stayed over.  We have been doing this for a little over a month and a half.  “Dating,” or “seeing one another” I guess you would call it.  We have not made anything “official,” haven’t had “the talk.”  It’s pretty nice actually.  No labels.  No drama.  No fuss.  We simply spend time together and enjoy each other’s company.  If only it were always this easy.

On any given morning we wake up, roll around under the sheets, push it until the last possible moment, phone alarms blaring, then spring out of bed… her to her car so she can get home and get ready for work, and me to the coffee machine in my place so I can begin my day as well.  I give her a gentle hug and a kiss, she smiles, tells me to have a nice day, and she heads out the door.

If only it were always this easy.

I check e-mails as the coffee is brewing, take some vitamins, down a protein shake.  A little Facebook.  Online news.  Twitter.  The usual morning routine.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  I head to the bathroom, and as I round the corner, I see it, plain as day.

Why does it have to be this hard???

Hanging smugly, almost triumphantly over my sink, is her toothbrush.

It stares at me.  Challenges me.  Stuns me.

She has planted the first flag.  The invasion has begun.  Shit has gotten real… real fast.

I do what any man in my situation would do.  I FUCKING PANIC.  Not because I don’t see myself with her.  Not because I don’t want to be with her.  But because this toothbrush brings us to an entirely new level.  A level to which I had not yet agreed.  The toothbrush itself is inherently symbolic of the very thing that has allowed our time together to be uncomplicated… the toothbrush is in and of itself, a label… a statement of  her intentions.

In my mind, I am confident it won’t be long before I am surrounded by candles and oils and scents I don’t understand, colors I cannot pronounce, and plants I did not know existed.  I will lose all privileges in deciding housing appearance (“decorating”), I will have more “show” towels (you know, the kind that look good, but can’t soak up a single droplet of water?!) than I know what to do with, I will have more throw rugs and more pillows than any human being could ever need.  And when I only have 1/16th of the closet space I once had, I will look around, accept my defeat, and think back to the day, not so long ago, that the toothbrush was firmly planted on the side of my sink.

This toothbrush, that I stare back at now, signals the beginning of the invasion.

“Come on, man.  She accidentally forgot the toothbrush.  Calm down,”  you might say?!  Oh… really.  When, in the history of time, I ask you, has a woman ever done something “accidentally?”  We need to give women more credit than that.  They are creatures of great ability, with impeccable planning skills, and powers of persuasion (sometimes manipulation) that no man can resist.  Even when a woman tells you she doesn’t know why she did something, in the end there is always some kind of purpose behind it.  Even the accidents are on purpose!  And how can we, as men, defend against it?  Well, if we really truly like the woman and have developed feelings for her, the answer is… we cannot.

And that’s the point.  She didn’t leave her toothbrush behind on day one, or week one, or even month one.  That would be a true accident.  She has brushed her teeth every single night she has stayed at my place over the past month and a half , and without fail has taken the toothbrush with her every time she has left.

But now, here it sits.  And why?

Because I caught the most dangerous STD known to man… I caught feelings for her.  I like her.  I like being with her.  I want to keep spending time with her.  And she can sense it.  She knows.  And she also knows I am male… so she knows I have a deep seated, intrinsic, carnal fear of commitment.  So she knows I will shy away from commitment any chance I get.

And with this knowledge, she plants her flag, not only announcing the impending invasion, but even more importantly, announcing our connection.  It is an unspoken gesture.  She has gambled, and she has gambled correctly, that I won’t say a word about the toothbrush.  After all, that would lead to an actual discussion of “what this is,” a Q&A with questions like “what are we doing,” and  “are we girlfriend and boyfriend?”

And yet, in not saying a word about the toothbrush, I silently submit to a connection beyond just hooking up, dating, and/or booty calls.

This is my dilemma.  I either quietly accept the toothbrush and silently admit that this is in fact becoming something more serious between us, or I confront the situation head on, mention the toothbrush, and get into the ever-dreaded conversation about the state of affairs and labels.

I, as most men would, choose the quiet route.  Why?  It is a way to let her know that I accept things are moving forward, but allows me the “out” in the future to still be able to say “we never talked about this… we never decided on a  label.”

It’s a guys silent relationship parachute.  At least, that’s what we tell ourselves.  That’s how we can sleep at night and not be in constant fear of the commitment we just entered into.  Is it a delusion?  Yes, most definitely.  Because, let’s be honest, if shit does hit the fan and things go sideways, the “we never put a label on this” defense isn’t going to cut it anyway.  Actions will always trump words.  And inaction (failing to confront the toothbrush head one) ultimately serves as an action (conceding to an agreement that the relationship is more than just casual).

But I digress.  The fact of the matter is, I like her.  She is very high quality, we get along great, and I want to spend more time with her.  But, I cannot articulate that to her as simply as I just wrote it in the previous line.  Absolutely not!  Why?  Because I am a commitment-phobe, like the majority of the male population.

So, as the toothbrush continues to sit defiantly on the edge of my sink, I think to myself, “why does it have to be this hard?”  And in the midst of my panic, I find a glimmer of happiness, and I start grinning.


Because this toothbrush, this flag of defiance, this signal of the ensuing invasion, means she is into me just as much as I am her.


The Next Great American Novel

I’ve written it a hundred times in my head.

Pages upon pages of concepts, ideas, themes, plot and story lines swirl around in my head… minute by minute, hour by hour, day after day after day.  Current events juxtaposed with the pervasive and unifying social themes from time immemorial.  All the makings for an excellent novel…

The next Great American Novel… with me as its author.

And what do I have to show for it?  Nothing.  I have yet to commit a single word of it to paper.

To be sure, all of it is clustered in my mind.  It’s all there.  Completely unorganized, yet immediately accessible at the worst of times… driving in the car, showering, out on a run, during work, in the middle of a dinner conversation.  Everywhere and anywhere that I can think, but cannot act, the novel has been and is being written…  But not on paper.

Oh, it makes so much sense in my head.  It is so powerful.  My commentary on the human condition.  My contribution to a greater understanding of ourselves, of our society.  My calling.  My purpose.  My contribution…

Again, what do I have to show for it?  Nothing.  I have yet to commit a single word of it to paper.

So then, who am I to even begin to presume that I could offer anything of substance, anything worth reading on a blog… let alone a contribution to the American literary collection?!  I mean, come on… I am going to write the next Great Gatsby?  To Kill a Mockingbird?  Or wait, maybe I will just crank out an easy Moby Dick or Grapes of Wrath, and cap it off with the present times version of the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?!

I so desperately want to speak about the profundities of the American experience.  But what could I possibly have to offer that would ever be viewed as a contribution to the collection of American Literature?

One day, I have promised myself… one day I will commit it all to paper, in an organized an intelligible way.  I will make my contribution to society… In a literary masterpiece, the likes of which would place my name in the same standing as Faulkner, Salinger, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald.

will write something, the thing, that will resonate in readers for decades and centuries to come.

In the meantime, I guess I will just go for a run after work, take a shower, and drive to meet some friends for dinner.

Look At Me?!

“So you’re a swimmer?”

She was blonde, she was beautiful, she was popular.  And she was talking to me?!

“Um, yeah… Er…. Uh… I mean yes, yes I am.” I try my very hardest to assert some kind of authority over my words, but I can’t believe “Jenny” is talking to me. I am, for the first time in my life, being noticed, like really noticed. And not for my oily skin, cracking voice, and just plain old awkwardness… But for something I do.

“That’s cool,” she says with the kind of casual elegance you would expect from any one of the 80s movie teenage stars I had ever fantasized about. “We have a good swim team, don’t we?” she continues with a smile, as her hair blows gently in the wind, emanating from some fan I am  presently unable to locate.

“Yes, we do have a really good team,” I state with some semblance of authority in my voice. “We won the sectionals last year.  We have a really good shot of winning again this year.”

“Why are you saying weve won?” She asks.  And not in a condescending way, but in a truly inquisitive one. “You’re not on the the Varsity Squad, are you?” This time there is a hint of sarcasm.

“Well, yeah, actually I am. I swim the 200 and 500. I beat out one of this year’s Seniors for the spot.” I am half proud and half scared as I make the announcement. I hang on her every word, as she says…

“Wow! And you are only a Sophomore?! That is really impressive.”

And in that moment, ALL of my self worth becomes tied to my athletic performance. How could it not?! One of the hottest and most popular girls in high school, who just happened to have her locker next to mine, actually spoke to me,  actually offered me recognition for my athleticism. She validated me.  The feeling is intense… a lusty adrenaline filled pride.  I want more. I need more. In this moment, with the words of a popular and beautiful teenage woman, I am empowered.

I now know what I have to do. I have to become the best athlete I possibly can.  This is my ticket to inclusion.  This is the validation that I had up until this point been unable to acquire. The equation became so clear, so simple…  Become a great athlete and people (important people… like Jenny of course, one of the hottest girls at school) will take notice of you, talk to you, accept you…

It is often strange, the things we tie our identity to, isn’t it?  It is strange how we choose to define ourselves.  Stranger still are the discrepancies in how we view ourselves versus how others view us.

Years after my encounter with Jenny at the lockers, a very close girlfriend of mine turns to me during a conversation about life, existence, and contributions to friendships/relationships/society and says, “You know you have more to offer than just your athletic ability, right?!”

I would look at my friend completely and utterly puzzled. How could anyone see anything in me other than my ability to perform in athletic endeavors? What other qualities do I have? No seriously, I had no idea what she was talking about. Not until many more years after my close friend pointed out that I might have more to offer this world than my athletic prowess, did I ever truly understand what she was getting after.  And although I feel I haven’t yet fully figured it out, I have a better understanding that I have the capacity to offer more to this world than my accomplishments.

Going back to that fateful day in high school… All I knew was that in the moment Jenny recognized my ability as a swimmer, she brought me into existence.

And, at that point in my life, that’s all I needed to know. Her validation and acknowledgement years ago made me into someone.  Or perhaps better stated, she set me on a path to become someone.  Showed me the way.  The encounter with Jenny created within me an identity.  An identity  I clung to for years and years. Because of Jenny, I was no longer, well, a no one. I was no longer the introverted high schooler with acne.  I was no longer (as) awkward.  Regardless of the “nod” from Jenny, I was still every inch the introvert.  That didn’t change instantly. And yet, in my brief encounter with Jenny, with validation on my side, I could feel the tide was shifting.

The desire to express myself, to open up, to unveil myself to the world was in motion. It didn’t happen all at once. It was gradual.  From introvert to extrovert… it was a journey.  From high school, to college, and beyond.  But it was one I eventually completed, in only the way a true overachiever could do.  I swung from bashful to confident, from “(PLEASE) don’t look at me” to “HEY EVERYBODY… LOOK AT ME!”  Did I swing too far in the direction of confidence, perhaps to a level of over confidence?

You’re damn right I did!

But you know what? It sure as hell beat the non existence I had lived from Kindergarten to Tenth Grade.

Oh Jenny, if you had any idea what a service, and disservice, you did me this day….

The Time-Traveling Sext-Selfie

Little tip from the pros:

Ladies (and dudes bold enough to send the ever-controversial dick pic), when sexting, don’t be lazy.

When sending a naughty pic, please be sure to send a sexy selfie that you took at either that exact moment in time, or send one taken within an acceptable range of time that you have been seeing/dating/sleeping with the recipient.  Let me explain. For those that don’t know, in this day and age, photos are geo tagged and time stamped. So, when the recipient syncs their phone, and the photos upload into iPhoto for example (which can be categorized by date), you best have it all lined up. After all, there’s nothing better than that, “Oooooooh, look at that topless selfie you sent me, taken…. 8 months ago (and we’ve only been seeing each other a month)… In a completely different city (likely Vegas)… Surely intended for some other dude you were banging at the time (most likely that son of a bitch ex-boyfriend you won’t shut up about).”

Nothing softens a dick faster than seeing a pic you realize some other dude enjoyed a lifetime ago.  So, again, either send current selfies to the dude you are currently with, or learn how to turn off the geo tagging and time stamping for your photos.

This goes for the fellas too… But honestly, does anyone truly want pictures of our junk?

Where’s Waldo And Other Fun Online Dating Games

Here are some dos and don’ts… Well, mostly don’ts for the photos you use on your online dating profile.

Ladies: Seven simple suggestions for pictures not to post on your online dating profile:

1) Where’s Waldo – If most or all of your photos are of you in a group of girls, it’s really not working for us dudes. It is very difficult for the (often lazy male) to have to go back and forth through the photos to see which one you are by eliminating the other women that aren’t in every single group shot. Yes, we get that you have friends. We are not interested in your friends, unless that’s what you are offering. But I am pretty sure a five-some would just be logistical nightmare.

2) Blurry – Why the blurry photos? What are you trying to hide? Guys are instantly put off when the leading photo, or any photo for that matter, on a dating profile is blurry. This speaks to so many things (and none of them good).

3) Pictures with an animal that’s not a dog – Lions and tigers and bears and llamas and cheetahs and… the list goes on. Okay, so you have access to exotic animals because you went on some trip to a third world country that puts you in a cage with the animal for photo purposes. Really doesn’t do it for me. Oh, and I say pictures other than with a dog because I can’t stand cats. Terrible little devilish animals.

4) Selfies – For the same reasons you ladies don’t like dudes posting selfies. It smacks of, “what do you do with all your free time? There are no photos of you doing anything other than standing in front of a mirror? And you don’t know anyone else that could take a picture of you? Hm.

5) Hiking – This might as well be the official single girl pastime. Rarely do I ever come across a woman on a dating site who doesn’t include at least one picture of herself hiking (which she also consequently lists as one of her passions or hobbies). Really? Hiking? I mean, it’s better than sitting around eating potato chips on the couch, but there are so many other things to be doing with your time. Is hiking really all that fun?! Is it really hiking you’re doing anyway? Or is it waking up at 10am, hungover on a Sunday, and trudging a few miles up an easy trail to a lookout point with your other single hungover girlfriends?

6) Pics with friends as hot, or hotter than you – If you can’t see the inherent dangers in this one, then let me explain. You are trying to attract potential suitors to you. Thus, it is disadvantageous to post photos of you juxtaposed with a woman or women of equal or greater physical attractiveness. If you post photos with the potential of distracting men from focusing their attention on you, then the likelihood is it will happen. Men are simple. Their thoughts will be something along the lines of, “wait… who is THAT? Does she have a profile on here?” (as he points to the woman next to you).

7) Pics of you with a child/children (that are not yours) – If you are a mom, then by all means, post photos with your children. It’s great to lay those cards on the table early so everyone knows the deal. Some men will date a woman with children. Some will not. It’s not a good idea to confuse the situation by withholding that info from the start. If, on the other hand you are not a mother, pics of you with your nieces and nephews are just plain confusing. Potential suitors will pass you by if they think the children are yours, and they don’t want to date a women with children from another relationship. In the end, I can’t help but think that women sometimes forget their audience on dating websites. You are posting pics to attract potential suitors. You are not posting pics for your female friends, your family, or your coworkers to enjoy. The focus should be on posting pics that attract men to you, and withholding pics that have the potential to confuse men. And trust me when I say, men are easily confused.

Gentlemen: Your goals are very simple. Do not post any pictures that make you look like: 1) a “douche bag,” (EVERY woman’s favorite term) 2) a “mama’s boy” (and dare I say “grandma’s boy”…. Yeah, you know who you are posting pics of you and Grams), 3) a “baby daddy” (if you AREN’T actually the father of the child), or 4) a “sugar daddy” (you in front of your BMW, or with bottles of Dom, wads of cash, or in front of some private jet that likely isn’t yours but you scored a once in a lifetime trip because of some rich family friend comes off as, for lack of a better term, tacky. No, you are not a baller. Sorry bro). The point is, if you think a shirtless picture of you next to grandma in her sweater, in front of a private jet, just getting out of a limo, and popping a bottle of Dom is what is necessary to attract a woman…. You clearly don’t back yourself. News flash…. In this day and age where women are self sufficient, career minded equals to men… They care less about your dollars and much more about whether you are going to treat them well. Crazy, I know, right?! A woman wants to be treated like a lady? She wants to be respected, and be with a man she sees as, well, a MAN?! Holy hell, this shit is groundbreaking, I know. One last thing. Under no circumstances, as a self respecting male, do you take a Selfie. Shirtless or otherwise, absolutely no selfies. Are there any other etiquette suggestions for the ladies and/or gentlemen that I may have overlooked?

Emojis In Technology Courtship

Trains, planes, automobiles, and an entire host of other inanimate objects, animals, and winky faces. Despite having real trouble figuring out where I might use some of the more obscure emojis, I use the living fuck out of certain select group, when speaking to a certain select audience (read this as, girls I want to bed/girls I am currently bedding /girls I want to bed again). The three below are my go-tos. Why? Because these little yellow facial expression enable and empower me to say whatever the fuck I want, no matter how suggestive, dirty, blunt, or just downright offensive it is… and to get away with it. It’s like a little yellow button that says “oh yeah, I said that… but I didn’t say that… but I really did say that messed up, dirty, filthy thing… But it’s okay because I winked.” I branch out from time to time, but with just these three favorite winky faces I can say, or not say, whatever I want… And make it acceptable.  Here is how I use them.

e405 1)       for anything said that is lightly/playfully suggestive in manner.



2)       I can’t believe you/I just said that!




download (1)3)      yes, I said that downright filthy thing/I’m horny/that nude photo you just sexted me is amazing (they never really are amazing, it’s a bathroom mirror after all, but the key to getting more is to set a tone that encourages more… The whole, you attract more bees with honey thing)

One piece of advice. Always let the female take the lead. Do not wink until winked upon. In fact, do not wink for as long as you possibly can. Only start winking when you are completely sure an emoji is the thing necessary to push things on to the next level. Let’s be honest… You are a full grown man and you are using little yellow cartoon faced symbols to convey your words, your thoughts, your intentions. No matter what stage in your texting back and forth that you employ an emoji, it will always give off and air of juvenile/childlike demeanor. If you haven’t yet established with your female texting partner just how much of a grown man you truly are before employing an emoji, then be ready to be viewed as juvenile or childish, possibly creepy. If, on the other hand, you have achieved your man card in her eyes, the emoji instead becomes a playful gesture. Know the timing, know the difference. Don’t lead with the emoji. Play the emoji card at the right time.

Insecure Women Are Liabilities

There is no nice way to say it. Insecure women (and I am sure men too, although I’ve never been with a man) are liabilities.  And when I say they are liabilities, I am saying this within images (1)the context of a relationship.  An insecure woman is not an issue if she is not connected to you.  In this case, she is just the girl at the bar trying to grab the attention of every guy she can, by any means possible.  But what happens when that random attention seeker in the bar is actually your girlfriend who is on a night out with the girls… without you?  Liability alert.

When I am single, I am very single.  I’m all about me.  And not in a dickish way, just in a “I don’t need to worry about anyone but me” way.  Yet, when I am in a relationship, I am very different.  I am exceptionally loyal and committed to the woman I am with.  You can imagine how difficult this proves when my significant other decides to show her bat shit crazy cards about 3-6 months in to the relationship (and yes, in my experience 3-6 months in is generally where a girl who is actually crazy, will start showing crazy).  And to someone like me, who doesn’t shy away from the commitments they have made very easily, you can see why when things go sideways 6 months into the relationship that I am now very committed to, I end up willingly enduring a lot of shit before ending things (because again, I try to make good on promises and commitments).  I was once likened to the captain of the Titanic.  If you remember in the movie (yes, the one where Kate Winslet got her kit off and banged that Leo fellow in the back of a steamy car… anyway, like I was saying about me and the Captain) when shit was going down and the boat was sinking, the Captain calmly walked back into the bridge, grabbed the steering wheel, and waited for the icy cold waters to rush in.  That’s me.  And that is why I feel I have a certain insight into insecurity, and the crazy it brings.  Because I have seen it to the bitter end, numerous times.

Insecurity comes in all forms, and for all reasons.  I am not a psychologist, so I feel very inept when helping a woman deal with her abandonment, daddy, popularity, appearance, attention, mean girlfriend issues.  But, I do try. Hard.  And in trying, I have learned over and over that telling/showing/proving to a woman that you “are not that guy” is an absolute impossibility.  You will never overcome the power of her insecurity.  It has nothing to do with you, and therefore you have no power over it.

Jealousy, computer/email/phone/text snooping, clinginess, paranoia, insistence on a detailed report of every single second of a guy’s night out (including who was there, did you talk to any girls, did the other guys talk to any girls, did anyone at the bar talk to any girls), dependence issues, and the ever popular “why are you checking her out?!” statement are all part and parcel to the consistent state of the insecure.  And they are all a drain on the relationship, and consequently on you.

When you strip it all down, in its simplest form, the insecurities a woman brings to the relationship are a liability to the potential success of the relationship you are trying so hard to maintain.  And when you are in a relationship and you feel all of your effort goes into maintaining things, and there is little energy for anything else, where is the hope for growth and progress?  Or better yet, where is the joy, the excitement, the fun?

Now, this isn’t a one way street.  Ladies, I am sure you have stories about Captain Clingy, his constant need to be held, his anger toward that guy who approached you at the bar, and his strong worries about your interest in Tom Brady (“Why do you have to wear his Jersey?!”).  Insecurity a problem for both sexes.  So, assuming you missed the early warning signs, and ended up in a relationship with a significant other who managed to play it cool for a while, but then started showing signs of insecurity, how do you handle it, if any other way than cutting them loose?

How Did I Get Here?

“Is that all you got, you retard?!”

The man-child whose full body weight is against my chest is yelling like the ape that he is.

I am on my back. I am on the ground. I am 9, maybe 10 years old. I am getting the living shit kicked out of me. The bully is the most massive of fifth graders (12 years old, going on 20). I’m pretty sure he was sporting a mustache at the time of this beating. At any rate, blood is pouring from my nose, my eye is already starting to swell, and through it all I am serenely calm, almost lifeless underneath the raining blows from this early maturing monster of an elementary school man boy.

Fight back… Say something… These concepts come to mind in this moment. And yet, they float right into and out of focus like little fluffy clouds. Passing by as fleeting options. As if I ever thought they were options to begin with. Let me explain.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t fight back. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. It was instead the strange acceptance in my mind, that perhaps I deserved it. Maybe this is what my life was meant to be. Maybe this was my role. Maybe my job was to be the one who took the beating in life.  It wasn’t the first time, it would not be the last. This was, by definition, the life of a young introvert.

I was teased relentlessly as a child. Elementary school was, by far and away, the very worst years of my life.  I am the oldest sibling in my family, so I didn’t have any role models to forge a path for me, to help me learn the ropes.  Instead, I ventured forth in the cutthroat world of grade school using only my wits, and my terrible sense of style to guide me.  And guide me into pummeling after pummeling it did.

The first year of middle school was a good one. I slowly gained some confidence, and the teasing ceased. It would seem that between grade school and middle school I had gone from standing out (for my looks and introversion) to completely invisible. And I loved every minute of it. To not be noticed was for anything was exactly what I had hoped for.  That is, until I started to like girls. Then I wanted to be noticed… but wasn’t.  Funny thing is, the instant I started to notice girls just happened to coincide with puberty, which just happened to gift me the most acne riddled face any young boy could hope for.  I felt the shame of my appearance. It was unspoken. No one mentioned the zits all over my face. But I knew they saw them. How could they not?

“You look fine! No one will notice. It’s not that bad. I only noticed because you pointed it out.”

My mother might as well have been a parrot with those lines. I have heard it thousands of times in my life. From my mother. From others. And not then, not now, not ever will I trust someone who tries to comfort me when I don’t like my appearance (be it for the occasional mid thirties exercising guy workout/stress breakout, or a cracked lip from too much sun exposure, or a bad sunburn from too much time outdoors). I know they are only trying to help. They are only trying to pacify me. Rationally, I know that. But, because I also know that I could stand in front of them with a huge booger hanging from my nose and they would say I’ve never looked better or more put together, that I will never trust what they say. It’s the vicious vanity cycle. If I have to ask if my face looks bad, you know what? It does! It’s the same thing when a girl asks if her butt looks big. Of course it does! If it didn’t, she wouldn’t ask. But, men are smart enough to lie the same as the women I ask to comment on my breakouts. And nothing good ever comes of it, does it?


I am alone.

I am in my room. I am throwing a tantrum. And I am so very terrified of my incarceration.  I am three, maybe four years old and this of all things is my earliest and most vivid memory of childhood.

My parents are doing the best they can. I am the oldest child. I am locked in my room on the advice of the family pediatrician. In his infinite wisdom, he has counseled my parents to reverse the door lock on my room (so it locked from the outside) and to put me in that room on “time out” whenever I act out.

I acted out a lot as a child.  Thus, I found myself alone a lot. After a while, even at the very early age of three or four, I associated any expression of emotion (other than happiness) with a dreaded “time out.” So, even from that early age, I did what I do best, and overachieved and overcompensated in the form of suppressing and bottling up any and all emotions that could be seen as negative. I went even further to make sure I bottled up the ones that could be mistaken for weakness or sadness or even simple discontent.

It was safer not to be emotional.

This series of events… This connection between emotional outbursts and isolation paved the way for me to become the ultra-rational being I am today.  To this day I can rationalize it all. I can rationalize all the feelings away. I can rationalize all disappointment, heartache, sadness, and despair away. I can place them in boxes, compartmentalize, store in dark corners of my mind. Some say to feel is to live.  If that’s the case, I may well have died in that room when I was three.

Alright, enough with the dramatics.

The point is, my parents did what they thought was best. They really did. And they did an amazing job raising me.  After all, the theory of locking me in the room for bad behavior came on the heels of a CT scan to make sure I didn’t have “brain damage,” which would have been causing my extreme tantrum riddled behavioral issues. Imagine being three years old and being outside an office building. All you remember is grass and trees and the serenity of the setting, in the midst of your mother trying to explain to you that you were about to go through a test to have your head examined to figure out the root cause for why you were so abnormal.  Turned out the CT scan showed “normal.”  There were no excuses for the way I was, so my behavior had to be “corrected.” And corrected it was.

Truth Serum

For a man, his orgasm is the sexual “moment of truth.” Upon completion, a man is instantly filled with unrivaled satisfaction… Or unrivaled regret. And not until orgasm can he truly know what he will feel. And to he honest, not until completion does he actually care. Up until that point, he is blinded by lust, and thus his judgement is severely compromised.

I mean seriously guys, have you ever been with a woman (maybe on a first date, maybe a one night stand, or maybe even in a relationship on the edge of moving forward or needing to be cut off), done the dirty, climaxed like a champ, and then thought to yourself either… “Fuck, that was amazing!” OR “Fuck, I have made a terrible mistake” (for any number of reasons)?

You probably saw the pros and cons going into the situation.  But were you able to really see past the end of your dick?  Likely not.  Did you even care before that point?  Again, likely not.  Why?

Because semen is your truth serum.  Not until you’ve released it do you realize what you’ve done… good or bad.  There is nothing quite like an orgasm to instantly clear those lusty cobwebs in your head.

I really wonder what sorts of decisions (in general, in all areas of life) men would be making if they weren’t so sex driven?  Is there a female equivalent? Are women blinded by something as equally powerful as the primal male desire/need to “spread his seed?”