Location: SF Bay Area
Dear Dr. Dick, I am slowly but inexorably marching to my wits end over my current dilemma. I’m a part time TV married to a wonderful girl who I find very satisfying emotionally, mentally and physically. So what’s the problem, you’re asking? The problem is that before we got married I had several sexual encounters with men (yes, with me dressed and made up as a girl). Some of which were quite thrilling, and now I find that I am yearning to get all dressed up and find a male partner who will satisfy the girl side of my psyche sexually. I don’t want to cheat on my wife (with whom I’ve talked about marital fidelity…if I cheated and she found out, her line is that our sex life would be over), but I feel the compulsion to act getting stronger all the time… what should I do?
Sincerely, Distraught in downtown
Before I respond to you, Roxy, I want to make sure my audience knows what we’re talking about.
Folks, Roxie here is identifying himself as a part-time TV. That, of course, has nothing to do with the box in your living room on which you watch The Brady Bunch reruns. TV in this context means transvestite, or better still, crossdresser. Which is literally the practice of crossdressing; wearing the clothing of another sex. Which as we all know, or should know, must not to be confused with a TS, which means transsexual, or better still, transgender. (Here’s a tip: the terms transsexual and transvestite are outmoded because they are heavily pathologized, as medically or psychologically abnormal.) A transgender person is someone who self-identifies as a gender other than the one she/he was assigned at birth. I hope we’re all down with that now.
Now back to you, Roxy. It seems to me that you’re really overreaching here. Desires are wonderful things. We just better know the difference between a desire and reality. I encourage you to think twice about realizing this particular desire of yours if it means upending your relationship. Seems to me your long-suffering wife’s feelings deserves more than the casual consideration you seem to afford them.
Most TVs I know would give their left falsie for a partner as understanding and accommodating as your wife. And look at you, contemplating fucking this up by skipping out on her just so you can get all gussied up so you can find a dude to pound the bejesus out of you to satisfy the girly side of your psyche.
I never advocate the cheating option. But I know how compelling sexual fantasies can be. On the other hand, maybe some kind of additional accommodation could be made with your wife. Maybe she’d be up for a 3-way.
I know this marvelously kinky woman, Abby, who pimps out her beautiful straight boyfriend to totally hot gay men they meet at the best gay nightclubs. She does this just so she can watch the straight BF get pounded. I hasten to add that the beautiful straight BF is a willing participant in this unusual ménage. Curiously enough, he’d never think of doing this on his own. For him, the turn on is not the part where other guys fuck him; although that is pleasurable. It’s the pleasing and being dominated by his kinky girlfriend that turns his crank. So when Abby snaps her finger, you know for certain that Ty will soon be buggered senseless while she’ll get a great show. Now that’s devotion. And while this is not for everyone, it sure as hell works for them.
Will your little woman go for something like this, Roxy? Who knows! One thing for sure, you’ll never know unless you ask. Here’s a tip. To sell this whole ménage thing to the wifie, I encourage you to play up how HOT it will be for her. How much fun she’ll have watching and possibly even directing her pansy-ass husband take it up the bung-hole. How it’s gonna blow her mind, and shake up your traditional sex roles and really spice things up in the boudoir. With a sales pitch like that she might just give it a whirl.
I don’t envy your dilemma, Roxy, but I think something interesting could come of this just as long as you’re upfront about it with your wife. If ya don’t, you’ll soon be a cock in a frock with his marriage on the rocks.
I have been attracted to male children for years. Having been arrested for viewing child porn I realize that I need to pursue a celibate lifestyle. I realize that celibacy is a demanding lifestyle. What advice would you offer me?
You present a particularly touchy issue for our culture, Adam. But before I respond, I’d like to help you with some of your vocabulary. You say you need to pursue a celibate lifestyle. I think you mean to say you need to pursue a sexually abstinent lifestyle. The two concepts — celibacy and sexual abstinence — mean different things. Unfortunately, way too many people use these terms interchangeably. This is not a good thing and only serves to muddy the waters further.
Celibacy has a very specific meaning. Let me whip out my trusty, handy dandy Funk & Wagnalls dictionary. Celibacy: the state of being unmarried. Some people infer, especially those of a strict religious bent, that celibacy also connotes sexual abstinence. Ya see, religious people are of the mind that there is no legitimate sexual expression outside the confines of heterosexual marriage. Legitimate or not, unmarried people have always been and always will be sexual, so making that unfortunate connection between celibacy and abstinence ill advised.
The only thing we ought to be able to say for sure when someone identifies him/herself as celibate is that he/she is not married. To assume a celibate person, even one who has taken a vow of celibacy, is sexually abstinent is quite a dangerous stretch indeed. Need I point out the very unfortunate sex abuse scandals that continues to plague the Roman Catholic Church?
In the same way, if someone identifies him/herself as sexually abstinent, the only thing we ought to be able to say for sure is that he/she is not engaging in any type of sexual expression. It would be false to assume that a sexually abstinent person is not married, because there are a lot of married people who are indeed sexually abstinent.
In your case, Adam, I believe you are telling me that you are both not married (celibate), and because of your particular sexual predilection — young boys — you must also be sexually abstinent. If I’ve got this right…and it is very important that I not misinterpret your words…then I think there are options you may not have considered.
I firmly believe that we learn all our sexual expression. I hasten to add that sexual orientation and sexual expression are not one in the same thing, just like celibacy and abstinence are one and the same thing.
Everything we eroticize, in your case boys, is learned behavior. You learned to eroticize boys at some point in your life; you can now learn to eroticize a more appropriate group of people. This isn’t a particularly easy thing to accomplish, but it’s not impossible either. Again, I am not saying that you can reprogram your orientation, but I am saying that you can learn to redirect your erotic attentions elsewhere.
Anytime any one of us discovers that the object of our desires is someone inappropriate, we need to adjust our eroticism immediately. This is the better part of being a sexually responsible person. In our culture, pedophilia is just one such inappropriate eroticism, but there are many other taboos. A father for his daughter, a mother for her son, a boss for a subordinate, a man for his neighbor’s wife, a teacher for her student, a counselor for his/her client, a congressman for his page…are you getting the picture? I hope so. And the list goes on and on.
I believe learning to readjust your eroticism to a more appropriate outlet is a much better option than trying to live a sexually abstinent lifestyle. The reason I believe this is that having a more appropriate outlet will at least help you channel your pent up sexuality. If you have no outlet, or limit yourself to masturbation, you will most likely intensify your longings and further fixate on the inappropriate object of your current desires.
Like anyone trying to wean him/herself off a bad habit, the task ahead of you Adam, will be challenging. But it will also be enriching and life-affirming. I hasten to add that you ought not try to do this on your own. Work with a sex-positive therapist.
You’re a relatively young man with many years ahead of you. These years can be filled with happy, healthy and appropriate sexual expression. Make it happen.
ATLANTA — Older adults in assisted-living facilities experience limits to their rights to sexual freedom because of a lack of policies regarding the issue and the actions of staff and administrators at these facilities, according to research conducted by the Gerontology Institute at Georgia State University.
Though assisted-living facilities emphasize independence and autonomy, this study found staff and administrators behave in ways that create an environment of surveillance. The findings, published in the Journals of Gerontology: Social Sciences, indicate conflict between autonomy and the protection of residents in regard to sexual freedom in assisted-living facilities.
Nearly one million Americans live in assisted-living facilities, a number expected to increase as adults continue to live longer. Regulations at these facilities may vary, but they share a mission of providing a homelike environment that emphasizes consumer choice, autonomy, privacy and control. Despite this philosophy, the autonomy of residents may be significantly restricted, including their sexuality and intimacy choices.
Sexual activity does not necessarily decrease as people age. The frequency of sexual activity in older adults is lower than in younger adults, but the majority maintain interest in sexual and intimate behavior. Engaging in sexual relationships, which is associated with psychological and physical wellbeing, requires autonomous decision-making.
While assisted-living facilities have many rules, they typically lack systematic policies about how to manage sexual behavior among residents, which falls under residents’ rights, said Elisabeth Burgess, an author of the study and director of the Gerontology Institute.
“Residents of assisted-living facilities have the right to certain things when they’re in institutional care, but there’s not an explicit right to sexuality,” Burgess said. “There’s oversight and responsibility for the health and wellbeing of people who live there, but that does not mean denying people the right to make choices. If you have a policy, you can say to the family when someone moves in, here are our policies and this is how issues are dealt with. In the absence of a policy, it becomes a case-by-case situation, and you don’t have consistency in terms of what you do.”
The researchers collected data at six assisted-living facilities in the metropolitan Atlanta area that varied in size, location, price, ownership type and resident demographics. The data collection involved participant observation and semi-structured interviews with administrative and care staff, residents and family members, as well as focus groups with staff.
The study found that staff and administrators affirmed that residents had rights to sexual and intimate behavior, but they provided justifications for exceptions and engaged in strategies that created an environment of surveillance, which discouraged and prevented sexual and intimate behavior.
The administrators and staff gave several overlapping reasons for steering residents away from each other and denying rights to sexual and intimate behavior. Administrators emphasized their responsibility for the residents’ health and safety, which often took precedence over other concerns.
Family members’ wishes played a role. Family members usually choose the home and manage the residents’ financial affairs. In some instances, they transport family members to doctor’s appointments, volunteer at the facility and help pay for the facility, which is not covered by Medicaid. They are often very protective of their parents and grandparents and are uncomfortable with new romantic or intimate partnerships, according to staff. Administrators often deferred to family wishes in order to reduce potential conflict.
Staff and administrators expressed concern about consent and cognitive impairment. More than two-thirds of residents in assisted-living facilities have some level of cognitive impairment, which can range from mild cognitive impairment to Alzheimer’s Disease or other forms of dementia. They felt responsible for protecting residents and guarding against sexual abuse, even if a person wasn’t officially diagnosed.
Co-authors of the study, Georgia State alumni, include Christina Barmon of Central Connecticut State University, Alexis Bender of Ripple Effect Communications in Rockville, Md., and James Moorhead Jr. of the Georgia Department of Human Services’ Division of Aging Services.
The study was supported by a grant from the National Institute on Aging at the National Institutes of Health.
Last Sunday, 07/24, I woke up feeling a bit wonky. Couldn’t quite put my finger on why I was feelin’ out of sorts; I just was. But I had a swell outing planned for the day, so I couldn’t flake. A couple of friends and I were planning on taking the ferry to Bainbridge Island for lunch. The weather was perfect for our little cruise across Puget Sound.
My friends and I met at Pikes Market, a famous landmark here in The Emerald City, and we walked to the ferry from there. I walk about four miles every day so the 15-minute walk should have been a breeze for me. But something was wrong. I felt lethargic and winded.
The 35-minute ferry ride was magical, as always, but upon disembarking and walking to the restaurant I began to really hurt. Not one to spoil the fun I marshaled my resources and made it to lunch.
The walk back to the ferry was excruciating. I was lightheaded, slightly nauseous, and completely winded. My heart was pounding like it wanted out of my chest. My companions became as worried as I was.
Once we docked in Seattle I had to once again disembark then walk to public transportation and to home. I was in a panic. The crush of the crowd around added to my distress. I thought for sure I was gonna faint, or barf, or worse. I was certain that my lungs were gonna give out on me. After many stops to catch my breath and buckets of sweat from the effort I finally made it home.
I’ve been monitoring my blood pressure for several months. (Ya gotta do this when you’re old, like me.) So once at home, I took a reading. My blood pressure was normal, but my pulse was unusually low, a reading of 49 to be precise. A couple of hours later it was 45. This was odd. I had never experienced anything like that before. Mostly my pulse rate hovers in the upper 70s and low 80s.
I felt much better on Monday. But come Tuesday, I was a total wreck. The least bit of exertion left me exhausted and prostrate. I knew it; my lungs were finally giving out. I put in a call to my doctor and got an expedited appointment for the very next day.
Tuesday’s blood pressure readings were slightly elevated, which was great, but my pulse was way down. I took several readings and each was in the mid 30s never over 40. I still didn’t get it. (This is probably why I’m not a brain surgeon.)
Wednesday turned out to be a nightmare. Unbeknownst to me I was about to began a headlong descent into the maw of the medical industry.
My doctor’s appointment was at 10:30am. The doc took one look at me and ordered an electrocardiogram (EKG). “HOLY SHIT!” She exclaimed. (Or something to that effect.) “How is it that you’re still standing?”
Needless to say, this got my attention right quick. “What?” I inquired. “Although you are not having a heart attack you are this close to the pearly gates. Your pulse is about to flat line, you monkey!” My doctor stuttered. (Ok, maybe she didn’t mention the pearly gates, or call me a monkey, but that was her drift for damn sure.)
Maybe it was the stress or shock of it, but I started to laugh. My doctor asked; “What’s so funny?” I said; “Did you ever see the movie, Death Becomes Her? Remember the scene in the emergency room?”
She gave a faint smile and said; “Yeah, I get it, but this is no laughing matter. Get thee to the Emergency Room ASAP!”
Off I went.
I got to Swedish Hospital (First Hill) Emergency Reception just before noon. The guy behind the desk asked what was wrong with me. I said; “Basically, I’m having a heart attack.” Apparently those are the magic words because the team swung into action. I was admitted immediately, blood was drawn, another EKG, x-rays were taken, and I was hooked up to a heart monitor. Diagnosis: Bradycardia with second-degree heart block.
You need a pacemaker IMMEDIATELY!
We’ll get you a room on the cardiac ward at our Cherry Hill campus, which is just a mile away, as soon as one is available.”
“Oh, OK, I guess,” said I as the severity of the situation finally began to dawn on me. As you can see, I’m not the sharpest pencil in the box.
Back in the emergency room I was laying on a gurney with electrodes and wires sprouting from my chest and back. I lay there for hours listening to the cries, screams, and moans of my fellow emergency patients. Codes blue and grey are being called with regularity and I can just imagine the human misery that surrounds me.
At 5:00pm one of the emergency nurses tells me that a room at the cardiac ward will be available at 7:00pm. “But, 7:00pm is the changing of the shift. So the soonest we could get you there is 7:30pm.”
7:30pm comes and goes. “What’s up?” I ask. “We’re trying to locate transport for you.” Was their retort. “But the Cherry Hill campus is just a mile away. I could walk there from here.” I countered. “But you need a special ambulance, one with a nurse on board, one that can monitor your heart in transit.” “You gotta be kidding!” Said I. “Not at all. You could flat line on the way to Cherry Hill and we’d be liable. Don’t worry, Richard, we will surely have the transport by 10:00pm.”
The transport didn’t actually arrive till 12:30am. That was twelve and a half hours on a gurney in the ER! And the fun is just beginning.
I finally get to the Cherry Hill campus at 1:00am. I am ushered into a room where I am then interrogated for 45 minutes. (Are you now, or have you ever been…) They called it an intake, but a rose by any other name. I haven’t eaten since breakfast at 5:00am the previous day with only water to drink. Now, even the water was being withheld. I guess they anticipated I would have my procedure later that (Thursday) morning.
Not so fast there buckaroo!
Thursday dawns, but nothing happens. I’m confined to my bed (the second worse bed in the world. The first being the ER gurney I left yesterday) and am attached to a heart monitor. I am faint from hunger and more than a little dehydrated. By noon they decide they need to feed me lest the hunger and dehydration kill me before the arrhythmia.
I scarfed down my lunch like a dying man…mostly because I was.
Allow me to pause my narration for a moment and comment on the cardiac nursing staff. They are superb! And even that superlative leaves me wanting. These women are freakin’ rock stars in my book. One in particular, Nurse Jen, totally got me. We both had the same gallows humor. She is my hero.
Eric Williams, MD, FHRS
Late Thursday afternoon Dr. Williams, a cardiac electrophysiologist, saunters into my room. He’s gonna be doing the cutting on me. He is a tall handsome black man with the most unassuming manner. He looks me in the eye and talks to me like I’m a human. I’m super impressed with his bedside manner. He tells me my blood work and enzymes are excellent. My x-rays show that my heart isn’t enlarged. (But wait! Every one tells me I have a huge heart.) And there’s no sign that I had a heart attack. We talk about the pacemaker and the procedure. He tells me it’s about the size of a silver dollar. (When I actually see the blasted thing the next day, just before they shove into my chest, I have to wonder where Dr. Williams gets his silver dollars.) The procedure is very routine; he tells me. “Yeah sure, for you maybe.” It’ll last approximately 45 minutes, during which I will be enjoying twilight anesthesia. “Twilight anesthesia, huh? That sounds delightful.” Better living through chemistry, I always say.
I get a sedative Thursday night to help me sleep in my little bed of torture. And nothing by mouth after midnight. (Oh no! Not that again.)
Friday morning my nurses prep me for surgery. First, they have to shave my manly chest, don’t cha know. Nurse Jen takes the lead with a maniacal gleam in her eye. This is more than a little awkward and also maybe a wee bit kinky.
Finally the fateful hour arrives. I get a second IV stent, because apparently one is not enough for these folks. Then I’m wheeled down to the bowels of the building where I disappear into one of the surgery suits.
Does this look like the size of a silver dollar? I don’t think so.
Two hours later I’m back in my room dopey as all get-out, but still kickin’.
I’m home now, i’m happy to report. They liberated me on Saturday, 07/30, afternoon. And I am only slightly worse for the wear. I have a very distinctive slash across my left pectoral. There’s an unsightly bulge just below it. It looks like i’m growing a third breast. And a nasty purple and brown bruise that runs from my shoulder to my sternum and from my collarbone to my nipple. I sound like a real attractive guy, huh?
The Moral Of The Story
My friends, life is short! Ought we not live every day like it’s our last? I think so. I have decided that I will try to be more kind to myself and those around me. Because, ya know what? In a twinkling of an eye, it can and most assuredly be over.
It has never defined me as a person, but my sexuality is a big part of who I am, I’ve always considered myself lucky to be so sexually free, co-workers, one night stands, it was all for fun. No one got hurt and not once did I sense impending danger.
Then that way of thinking was totally obliterated. In saying that, I bounced back so fucking well, people that I’ve confided in ask me if I’m alright and they give me a look of disbelief because I’ve got a drink in one hand, a smoke in the other and a smile on my face. I am doing well. I’m reassessing not only what makes me happy, but what will make 2015 a year of unforgettable sex.
1. Forget porn.
Un-see everything you’ve typed into your pornhub search. You don’t have headphones in, trying to fap as silently as possible, you’re with a living, breathing person, kiss everything, nibble everything, lick everything, in saying that…
Your clit isn’t as sensitive as he may assume? The best kind of hand job involves the mouth? We’re not mind readers, orgasms are so much more achievable when we abandon our embarrassments and outline what gets our rocks off.
3. Foreplay matters yo.
As much as I just want to climb on top of my boyfriend the moment I see him after a week hiatus, it’s not only hotter, but healthier (and a higher chance of orgasming!) to lengthily explore each others bodies before undergoing the main event.
4. Embrace lube!
I’m a little bit embarrassed to admit that I was just shy of my 23rd birthday before I even thought about purchasing a bottle of lube, but all I know now is that hand jobs will never be the same again. Just sayin’.
5. Look each other in the eye.
Whether it’s a casual hook-up or the culmination of a long awaited encounter with someone you deeply care about, sex reaches an incredibly intimate level when we forsake our anxieties over the dumb cum faces we’re pulling and we can actually look at the person we’re sharing pleasure with.
6. Sober sex is best sex.
Sure there is an indescribable level of horniness that alcohol seems to boost, but sober sex is 100% more focused and less sloppy.
7. Conjure a fuck-it list.
Why keep things private? Whether it’s a sacred document you’ve created with a partner or you have solo fantasies that you want to embark on, what’s the worst that could happen? Sex in the back row of the Foxcatcher screening* wasn’t as hot as I thought it would be, oh well, we tried! Tick!
*I am in no way encouraging sex in Events Cinemas or any other dignified establishment; these expeditions are just the spice of life and are not completely unheard of.
8. You’re not an Olympian.
Some positions work better than others, but it’s not always necessary to incorporate as many switches as possible, you’re not in a marathon. See number 2.
9. We’re all perverted little humans.
Can I take a photo while I’ve got you all tied up? Being attentive to each others desires is key to awesome sex, that and consent.
10. Sometimes sex doesn’t happen.
Sometimes he’s not hard enough, she’s not wet enough, sometimes it’s just nicer to hold hands or dry hump ourselves into bliss.
Sex can mean as a little or as much as you want it to, all I’ll say is that being comfortable within yourself should hit a big, mandatory tick before you embark on your ventures.