The Piano 

 

Disclaimer: All thoughts / ideas / words that appear below are the sole thoughts / writings of the author and were in no way AI generated. Images appearing in this post were created by the author using an AI image generator for the sole purpose of providing illustrations.

Fermata, Legato, Staccato, Slur, Forte, Fortissimo, Pianissimo, Diminished, Whole Note, Quarter Note, ¾ Time…

These were terms I had not heard in over thirty years; in fact, some of them were terms that I had never encountered before. They were all new, yet so familiar. It was a part of me I had never known existed, yet had been there all along. It was a friend waiting in the shadows; it was a connection waiting to be restored. It was a missing puzzle piece; it was a lost part of me. It was like a prodigal returning home. It was my piano.  

I have always thought that my childhood could basically be defined in three stages. Beginning, middle, and end. Because of the nature of my dad’s career(s) while growing up, there was not a lot of continuity or consistency in my childhood at all. 

In some ways, there was consistency, as I had both of my parents as stable figures in my life while growing up. In other ways, the constant moves, changing of schools, leaving friends behind, and learning not to ever get close to people created a huge disconnect in my life. It might not sound like a huge deal to some people, but one of the accomplishments in my adult life that I am the most proud of is that I have been able to obtain stability, to live in one town (nearly 18 years now) for my entire married life. My son has been able to grow up in this town, go to the same church in the same school that he has been in since he was little, and have the same friends all his life.

When I was about seven or eight, my parents wanted me to start playing the piano, so I had a really sweet older lady named Mrs. Barbara who began to teach me piano. I can still faintly remember going out to Mrs. Barbara's house in the country and enduring those weekly lessons. I don't remember much about my practice in those early years, but I do remember that I did not practice that much because my parents were very lackadaisical in making sure that I was consistent in my practice. Those lessons lasted for about a year and a half until we had to move again and I had to leave Mrs. Barbara and my piano behind.

As some of you know, I was diagnosed with a rather severe hearing loss early in my childhood. It stabilized, and the doctors thought that it would remain consistent with the rest of my life. They thought that what I had at that point would be what I continued to have into my adult years. Undetected by my parents, it slowly started to diminish even more after I turned 10 years of age.

When I was nine years old, we moved, and for the next four or five years, life was filled with moves, job inconsistencies on my dad's part, and uncertainty about where we would even live. I always missed the piano, and secretly longed to play it but felt really discouraged and so I never picked it up after leaving Mrs. Barbara behind.

When I was 13, in the summer of 1994, we moved for what would be the last time during my grade and secondary school years. This was a time filled with much angst; in addition to the normal teenage angst, there was the added factor of moving to an entirely new city, nearly 1 ½ hours from where I’d lived for the past 5 years. It was a place where I knew no one, and had no desire to be. I won’t go into much detail about those years in this blog, because that’s not really the point of this post, and it’s still really difficult for me to think about and talk about even 30 years after the fact.

The pianist at our church was an incredibly talented lady named Mrs. Jackie. To this day, I still have not heard anyone that could play with the distinct style and talent that she processed. Sure, I have heard a number of incredibly talented pianists through the years, but Mrs. Jackie’s sound was unique. Just like I can close my eyes and tell you exactly when Floyd Cramer starts playing, I could tell you exactly when “Mama Jackie” (as we called her) would start playing. Her sound was that unique and beautiful. She was incredibly gifted in that she played by ear, but also knew how to sight read music very proficiently. In addition to being a church pianist, she was a banker by day, and a piano teacher by night. When  I was 15, my parents got Mama Jackie to start teaching me on the piano once more. I picked it up very quickly again even though I hadn’t touched the piano in more than 6 years. 

Because I was battling so much inner turmoil as a teenager that I kept hidden until my thirties, I never really took my piano playing seriously (which unfortunately, carried over into lack of desire to practice). When I turned 15, my hearing started rapidly diminishing even though the doctors had, years before, told my parents that it would remain stable. When I was 17, I was facing the inability to hear the notes clearly, so much repressed anger (which led to untreated depression), and yet even more instability in my family. In addition, Mama Jackie was facing some personal challenges in her own family which meant that she had to give up teaching for a spell. All of these things created a perfect storm which meant that I had to give up piano once more. For years after that, every time I saw a piano, I was filled with equal parts remorse, anger, longing, regret, and hopelessness. For me, it wasn’t just a piano. It was a symbol of what I’d lost as a teenager, a symbol of the lost, lonely young man that I felt no one saw or understood. It was a symbol of something I felt I could never achieve. 

During my freshman year of college, my parents moved yet again. This time their move led them out of state. It’s laughably funny, but when you think of kids going off to college, you think of the kids flying the nest and branching out on their own. In my situation, it was quite the opposite. I was already in school and didn’t have it in me to move yet again. I certainly did not want to go to college in Louisiana closer to my folks. So I stayed behind and my family left me. I actually lived with Mama Jackie and her husband for about 6 months until I got my own place and caught my stride. I will forever be grateful to them for that blessing. 

During my senior year of high school, my hearing had nearly completely vanished. That was a scary and frustrating time that I’d rather not remember. When I was a sophomore in college, I had surgery to bring back some of my hearing and the next few years were filled with the challenges of not only completing college, but also simultaneously learning to hear and speak correctly again. During this time, I met my lovely wife, who has been with me ever since (22 years now). In between starting my career after college, moving to Arizona for a stint, then back to Mississippi, getting married, and settling down to raise my son, and going through graduate school not once, but two times, playing the piano was the farthest thing from my mind. Yet, subconsciously, it was the closest thing to my mind the the nearest thing to my heart. Deep down, I always had a longing to play again, but the constant fear of failure kept that from ever becoming a reality. 

A few years ago, I found an older 61 key Yamaha synthesizer from the late 1990’s, and purchased it from an older gentleman simply because it reminded me of the one I played on in my youth. Last year, the music department at the college where I work was liquidating two of their older Roland digital pianos, to replace them with newer models. I bought one for pennies on the dollar and dragged it home in the back of my buddy’s truck, much to the dismay of my wife. I bought it simply because it reminded me of the one Mama Jackie had in her piano studio.

 

I saw Mama Jackie a few times after moving away from Petal and graduating college. I kept up with her regularly on social media and via text. She was an incredible lady that touched so many lives including mine. Sadly, she experienced a good number of health issues over the last few years, even though she was my dad’s age, 71. This past February, she took a turn for the worse and unexpectedly passed away. I went to her memorial service, which required me to return to a place I said I would never go back to for the rest of my life. Hearing story after story of how Mama Jackie had touched so many lives, and hearing so much piano playing (and singing) in her honor touched something and sparked something inside of me; something that had been long dormant. 

For several years now, I have said I was going to pick up where I left off with piano all those years ago. Every year, I’ve made excuses for why I couldn’t. I’m too old. I’m too busy. I will never be good. I don’t have the time. It’s pointless…and so forth. After bringing the Roland home, I sat down and dabbled a little while playing it. The video I included at the top of this post is just an improvisation piece I recorded one Sunday morning this past February, while thinking about Mama Jackie and what she had meant to me in my life. 

Our church pianist is a retired music professor who is very proficient on the piano and the organ. She is a sweet lady who is very kind and she teaches piano in her studio, the Clinton Music Conservatory. A while back, she added me as a friend on social media, and earlier this summer, she announced that she would be starting summer lessons at her home beginning in June. On a whim, I approached her one Sunday in church and expressed my desire to resume my studies, despite the fact that I had not played the piano or opened up a piano book since Bill Clinton was in office! She agreed to teach me, and thus began the continuation of my journey in June of this year.

Today, I’m nearly 45 years old. I’m not a young man any more, and my memory is not as sharp as it used to be. I don’t have any desire to be a concert pianist, a church pianist, or the next Beethoven. In fact, I know I will never be any of those things. But I am playing again. Not for anyone, but myself. And it makes me happy. It’s my therapy. It’s like coming home. Committing 45 minutes to an hour each day of practice is a daunting task, but this time it’s different…I can’t get enough of it.  Learning piano again is like drinking water from a literal fire hydrant. It’s overwhelming. It’s like continuing to learn a foreign language you gave up speaking when you were still in high school. But it’s exhilarating, it’s invigorating, and it’s challenging me to no end. And this time it’s different. I’m an adult, and I want this like I've wanted few other things in life. I'm doing this for no one but myself. The fire hydrant continues to gush, but I’m thirsty and I’m soaking in as much as I can as fast as I can. Dr. Wilder is a good teacher, and very patient. 

For me, it’s not just a piano, and nor are these just musical notes that I'm playing. It’s the 45 year old me traveling back in time, to a place in life where I can reconnect with the teenage version of me; I needed to find him and tell him it will be OK. It’s not just a piano, it’s re-discovering what was lost. With each chord I learn and play, I'm one step closer to him. It’s reconnecting with a part of me that I have been unable to reach for so long. You’re never too old to learn or to travel back and find the younger version of yourself and learn to love him. As long as you have breath, you’re never too old. 

Today, I challenge you, much as I have challenged myself, to go back and find whatever it is that you lost in your life. To reconnect and rediscover the younger you that was lost, and for the older you to be able to tell him “It’s OK, we will continue this journey together.” I know Mama Jackie is smiling at me. Even if I never play for anyone else, that’s OK. I have all I need right in front me; just me and my piano. 

Just remember that I, oh I am always near,
You just have to reach deep into your heart
But for now, you just dry your tears, don't you ever fear
Just sit awhile and play your song in the night

Come, just sit with me awhile, for I will make you smile
As we play our songs together in the night
You just call out to me and there will be no more tears
We'll just sit here together awhile
Come, let's just sit together awhile…

(excerpt from “Songs in the Night” © Stephen Coleman)

I Can Relate To Your (Patriarchal) Familial Imbalance. It Sucks For You, But It's Life As You've Always Known It. Endure.

What if your dad isn't at all like the man you've become (as a middle-aged adult)?  Let me be more specific.  What if he isn't (wasn't ever) capable (intelligence, personality, interests, motivation, etc.) of becoming the man you've become (as son, friend, businessman, leader, volunteer, etc.)?  As such, all-in-all, let's assume he's honest and loyal to a fault, trustworthy and generally kindhearted as it relates to how he carries himself / engages with others.

Firstly, if this scenario represents - even in the slightest regard - your reality, there's a chance your father is going to see you - at times and within certain scenarios - in a paradoxically pejorative light.  At least to some degree.  Especially if you're his only son.  And this has everything to do with how you - at times - make him feel. 

Now why is this?  What fuels it?

1.  Competitive outlook that's baked into many men.  Especially Type A men (which your dad likely is).  

2.  Your very existence (especially if you've telegraphed - to any degree - your being cognizant of this imbalance).

3.  Men crave respect moreso than anything else.  It's why the massive Ford F-150 has and continues to be America's #1 in vehicle sales each year.  Can there be no greater disrespect than having a son who existentially contrasts so sharply with his father in light of his own (possible) insecurities surrounding his capabilities, drive, intelligence, creativity?

All in all, if this kind of bizarre hierarchal imbalance exists between you and your father, and you sense at times that he feels (almost or very much) threatened by you, I cannot emphasize enough the following:

Your FEAR of him, specifically his testy, indecisively (discriminately) temperamental persona is a massive waste of your time / energy.  For that testy, indecisively temperamental persona can't truly hurt you (despite its scariness) though your boyhood self would argue otherwise.  

To that end, it might have especially frightened you when you were a boy / young man, and that's understandable.  Perhaps when you absolutely needed stable love and support.  

But you're not a boy anymore.

You're a grown ass man.  Remember that.

Oh, and one last thing.

Unless your father happens to be mentally ill or intrinsically cruel, he's no doubt very proud of you and your accomplishments as his son, a solid friend, successful businessman, natural leader, steadfast volunteer, etc.   

Divorce Prejudice

Earlier this week, I had lunch with an old friend.  I'd bumped into him the week prior and upon taking his card, promised to follow up.  This man is +/-12 years my senior, white, upper class (for MS), working in a tangential industry to architecture (my first career).  He was instrumental in supporting me therein (while I was working in the private sector) for a number of years.

Around 16-17 years ago, this man surprisingly divorced his wife, and though it didn't hit me as hard as it would have otherwise (if we'd been closer friends), it still hit hard.  For I knew his wife indirectly (I'd perhaps met her twice), and I knew he had two beautiful children.

Why?

I honestly don't know how to say this with any distinct class.

When I get to know men, any men, I see inside, and unless they're absolute fools (which very few are), it's obvious to me that a high percentage of their divorces are clearly longstanding relational forfeits.  And this seems to be especially true when children are involved.  In other words, a divorce, to me, unless it involves adultery, abuse, addiction is very rarely warranted.  You might say this is an unreasonable approach I'm presenting (especially if said spouse is being "unreasonable")!  And that's true.  I really can't be reasoned with here.  Divorce should be avoided at all costs.  The Bible makes that clear, therefore why don't we follow suit?  

We don't follow suit because we're birds of a feather, and getting divorced provides an accepted cop out that many folks willingly choose.

Along with divorce comes a certain tainting or mark that's inevitable.  And, as you know, it's a forever mark that's almost impossible to hide.  I believe most divorcees never realize this 'till it's too late.  Now, whether or not they truly care therein is up to the individual.

As a sidenote, earlier today, whilst at the Y, I overheard two older men chatting about grieving the loss of (one of these men's) a spouse.  After 10+ minutes of heartfelt diatribe, the newbie widower admitted that his now deceased wife was #2.  In response, his friend admitted to being right there with him.  In fact, he cited his first marriage as his "practice marriage".  Puke.

And these were some old dudes who were making light of their historical, relational failures.

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Interestingly enough, during this same lunch, another old friend made his way into the restaurant.  And too, this was a colleague from my architecture days.  The difference though was this man (who's 5-8 years my senior) worked directly with me (again, private sector position).

And like my lunchable friend, he too eventually divorced his beautiful first wife, leaving his only child, a son, to manage the fallout after the fact.  

If there's one man, for me personally, that's a divorcee (failure) figurehead, it would be this guy.  For I knew him prior to marrying even.  But as the years went by and his (first) wife's mental health weakened; his resentment was so very obvious.  For his mockingly disrespectful words (of her, to anyone within earshot) more often than not, made my ears bleed and my heart hurt.  

Eventually, prior to his quiet divorce, he began a heady emotional affair with a much younger colleague of ours at work.  It was so obviously toxic to everyone on staff, yet no one but me chose to speak up (to the owners).

I can still see the two of these lovebirds staying long after 5 o'clock, gazing into each other eyes from the confides of this man's windowless office.  Puke.

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Overall, I renege when it comes to deeply befriending men who're divorcees.  The only time I've bucked that trend was back in 2013 whilst working at Delta State.  At that time, there were two men who I befriended who were as such.  One had chosen to not remarry and the other had been remarried for some time.

I was desperate for friendship whilst residing in that small town environment.  These two were both platonically attractive in light of their pasts.  

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When my parents' marriage exploded due to chronic infidelity (early '80s), according to my father, my parents sat down and seriously discussed the implications of divorcing:  financial, emotional, etc.  Afterwards, neither chose that route, and from there, they trudged forward in spite of the mistrust / woundedness.  

Was their marriage ever the same?  No.  

But I can say this in full confidence:  Had they divorced, only child me having to deal with that fallout in tandem with my own interpersonal (sexual identity / struggles with lust) suffering would likely have been too much for me to bear.

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I'm pleased to report that I'm becoming more sympathetic and forgiving of divorcees.  I never imagined this would occur.  I do believe my time at Delta State (2013) did me some good in that regard.  For it forced me, out of desperation, to give divorcees a chance.  A chance to be heard and loved in spite of their mark.

Desperation To Be Seen

I often ask Samson brothers who're just beginning the recovery journey, "What is it that you're truly looking for whilst consuming pornographic content?" 

For me, as a teen who found himself deeply entrenched in same sex attraction, it was the notion of being seen that hooked me deeper and deeper in.  Of course, all manner of physical beauty (photographed / filmed beautifully) certainly tapped into my artistic eye (as described in detail within my last post), but the deep-seated void, if you will, was centered on a desperate loneliness / feeling of isolation that was well beyond typical teenage angst.  

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One of my first architect bosses was genuinely interested in being seen in his own right.  I don't know what exactly drove this behavior, but it manifests itself via his constant attempt to visually impress his fellow man (& too, like me, was his ever-present penchant for the beautiful - clothes, shoes, automobiles, homes).  Specifically, my boss always wore the nicest clothes (shoes especially), drove the finest automobile, and lived in the poshest home (within the far upper end of his specific budget).  As such, these items were upgraded quite often.  To the point that every time you looked up, a new (spotlessly clean) vehicle was parked in his reserved space at the office.

I used to pity this behavior, but today, I realize how similar he and I truly were / are.

Being seen is really, really important to some, if not all men.  For those chronic feelings of isolation / loneliness truly suck.

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I began to know Jesus intimately early on as a teen, but mostly this knowing came from Scripture / (excellent) preaching and a boatload of fairly homogenous Mississippi (deacon body within our church) men.  

To segue from there, I also knew a boatload of pagan Mississippi men (extended family, friends' dads, neighborhood fathers, teachers) as a boy, and though there were distinct differences in persona / demographic, I had a tough time relating to any of them.

As such, becoming a man scared the hell out of me, knowing so little collectively from the representatives within my viewpoint. 

As an aside, I believe most men within earshot of me (as a young man) mistook this fear for arrogance / piety which only isolated me further.

There was only one man (besides my sweet, sweet grandfather) who saw me with any real clarity.  And that was my first boss at Chick-A-Fil.  In so many ways, he was a surrogate dad, and what a gift to me he was!  For not only did he see me unabashedly, but he lived his life in such a way that reflected his peace of mind as it pertained to being seen well himself.  Chris was amazing.

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Consuming gay porn, to me, was the safest ("protecting" those around me) means for me to feel seen.  It involved no other (real) men.  Plus, I could "control" the relationship since it felt so very one-sided.  

My desire to never harm anyone, in spite of my desperate need, kept me laser focused on this private approach.  

When the Internet hit the scene though, its (porn content) voracity instantly became unmanageable (a small creek bed instantaneously became the Mississippi River).  

Of course, Satan knew he was setting me up for bondage whilst inevitably taking the leap from analog to digital.  All the while making me that much more vulnerable as the Internet became more and more mainstream.

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I discussed veneering within my last post.  In many ways, identifying that has been my salvation.  I've watched the Holy Spirit hack away (at the veneering) therein, exposing the idol for what it truly is, roots and all.  

All of this is now coming together to deeply impact my understanding of my boyhood self.  To resurrect him, so to speak.  

In line with that is the reminder of all my past sin.  Sin rooted in lust.  It's daunting, for sure, but I will not allow it to trip up my progress.

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In closing...

How is it that God chose me as his child?  Why would he care enough about my core needs (being seen) to bring me into Samson Society back in August of 2014?

The Christian men I've met (many of which I've closely befriended) see me and in turn, I work diligently to see them.

And they just keep coming.  Thanks be to God for this ministry.  It's been and continues to be how I best manage my needs.  

Amazing Reunion

I spoke with my freshman roommate (Mississippi State University) yesterday, (2/17) for the first time since last seeing him in '91 (we didn't part ways amiably).  Having acquired his cell phone # from our aforementioned rental neighbors, I placed a call on Valentine's Day (don't read anything into that one, please), leaving Chad a detailed voicemail.

Later that night, he text messaged the following response:  "Rob, got your message.  It made my day.  Looking forward to catching up...I'll text tomorrow, and we can talk?"

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Chad was / is from South MS.  Very small-town South MS.  He was outgoing and kind but also terribly homesick throughout our freshman year.  He'd leave Starkville early every Friday (if not Thursday evening) and return late Sunday evening religiously in order to maintain as close contact with his family as possible.  As such, I was left alone every weekend, and since I had zero friends, it resulted in some depressing interludes (especially during Spring semester when there were no football games to attend).  

Everyone on our dorm hall liked / respected Chad.  He was affable and confident.  Athletically built and driven.  Plus, he had this beautiful smile that could diffuse anyone / any situation effortlessly (& he was almost always smiling).  

I, on the other hand, being the architecture student / Maroon Band member, in many ways, was the complete opposite of Chad.  First and foremost, I was hard pressed to succeed academically without putting in the work required (I was by no means a gifted student).  Architecture school catapults its students into the curriculum thereby making very little room for error.  And that's on top of a higher-level math + Physics I & II (Year One).  Freehand drawing too was a consistent drain, for drawing well (for Rob) takes lots of time / shouldn't be rushed.  As such, each week, we had another detailed drawing assignment to turn in for critique (in front of the entire class).  

Chad gave me a lot of space to buckle down, but often I'd use any "I'm too busy" excuse to simply avoid having to interact with him socially (going out to eat, having any semblance of fun).  And it wasn't like he was a hellraiser by any means (he couldn't afford to be for he was an engineering major).  As a result, eventually, he simply stopped making any effort to include me.

Chad knew I had a quick wit.  Plus, he was very curious to know me from the standpoint of being a city slicker.  And he saw too that I desperately needed friends (like every student) yet wouldn't admit to it (& therefore try / make time for it).  

Therefore, there was this tension or barrier between us.  A barrier that I silently, pridefully reinforced throughout our time together.  Yet, despite this immature tension, he never hesitated to take a stab at pushing through.  Never, 'till the very end of that year, did he completely give up on a potential breakthrough.   

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There were a couple of guys on our dorm hall that had unsurprisingly singled me out as a target for ridicule.  And, whilst looking back, I made it easy for them.  My choice of music (as well as the volume I played it) was so very gay.  

I realize now that Chad's sincere respect towards me worked as a shield from far more severe ridicule than I received.  Specifically, he never acknowledged my uncomfortableness with my body / voice or choose to exploit that in any way (there was never even a hint of mockery).  Instead, he simply chose to be polite / respectful / gentlemanly even.  

I think too that he knew deep down that if I seemed agitated (which was commonplace), it was due to my frustration with myself / the workload more than anyone / anything else. 

He was a very emotionally mature young man.  In fact, he was by far the most emotionally mature male, who happened to be my age, that I'd ever encountered at that stage of my life (late teens).

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Yesterday, Chad and I could have chatted for hours.  We did text message after dinner repeatedly, swapping stories to jointly reminiscence.  There were a lot of lol moments. 

Chad's life, beyond our freshman year, mirrors my own in so many ways. He married right after graduating college, has three kidlets (one of which was a happy surprise), and he resides too within his hometown near his beloved family.  

In closing, I can tell you that he's not given up on breaking through.  I could sense that yesterday throughout our talk.  Chad understandably knows me well.  And he's absolutely ready for me to corroborate his intuition.  That being said, it's brought back a lot of fear as I wonder what might become of this renewed friendship spark if I'm completely transparent as to who I was then / what I've become today.

2025 is going to be an interesting year as it pertains to this unexpected reconnection.  I owe this guy a lot.  Please pray for God's timing as we continue forward for such a time as this as middle-aged men.  

  

Privately Lusting After Muscled And Hairy

My Covenant Eyes Ally had me laughing a few weeks back.  He's an attorney with a sharp wit.  Around that time, I had found myself being rebellious, therefore throwing caution to the wind, I'd been delving into smut (mostly via my pocket computer) in spite of CE's consistent monitoring (thankfully, this was not typical behavior for me).  

As such, on a few subsequent Mondays, a text message would appear subtlety / respectfully asking about my recent poor choices.  Not long after that, my Ally made a follow up that even today puts a smile on my face.  

He said, "You and I like the same thing except for the muscles and body hair." 

Lol. 

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When I was in upper elementary school, I went to an all-boys' summer camp (sponsored by FBC Jackson), and it was there (rural south AL venue) that I was shockingly exposed to my inevitable & archetypical (physical / emotional) future.  What I mean therein is I experienced a distinct encounter pertaining to what my future was pointing me (maturation) towards as a grown ass man.  At the same time, there was young me dealing with an ongoing subconscious disconnect / emotional chasm.  A chasm rooted primarily in shame / uncertainty.  For I understood clinically (in my head) what I was destined to grow into, but I absolutely, positively could not relate / understand / comprehend on any level what that meant for me specifically.  For I simply could not see myself as anything other than an unprepared, uninitiated boy.  It was as if I was stuck or frozen when it came to all things related to Rob's potential, celebrated journey into manhood. Therefore, when the time came for me to face the truth of what was on the horizon for me as a male, it understandably threw me for a loop / short-circuited my thinking.  As such, I quickly began idolizing therein that which I could not fathom albeit was desperate to fully understand / respect.  

I'm now ready to admit that there was sexual abuse involved in my lower elementary days.  It went on throughout one summer (Saturdays specifically), and though it didn't involve physical touch nor any malicious coercive intent (that I sensed at the time nor recall), its situational age inappropriateness (between me and the adult male party involved) was subtlety apparent to me even then.  I recall feeling powerless to speak up for myself during these instances of abuse disguised as "male peer bonding".  As a result, I began to equate MAN with a future I couldn't / refused to relate to.     

To circle back to my summer camp story, the exposure occurred whilst brushing my teeth before bed on the first night we were there.  Our bunkhouse chaperone (young adult male college student) nonchalantly stepped out of the shower naked and wet right in front of me.  His muscled (very adult-like), hairy, tanned body was in its athletically built prime.  And his junk looked absolutely enormous despite the mass of damp pubic hair crowning / partially obscuring it.  

Whilst looking back, I'm absolutely sure it was his junk that was the most shocking.  For it truly looked like a horse / donkey dick and balls (to my 5th grade eyeballs).  

I spent most of that week privately fixated on this reveal as we went about doing your expected Christian summer camp travails (such as singing "Kumbuya, My Lord" around the evening campfires).  But what truly kicked this fixation into high gear was when our Chippendales-like chaperone ushered a select few of my 5th grade colleagues to bunk with him within his adjacent private room (throughout the remainder of the week).

Oh, how I secretly longed for him to have chosen me.  As you can imagine, my imagination went into overdrive as a result.  

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Yesterday, whilst at the Y, there was a high school newbie strength training alongside.  He was not properly dressed for the gym, and that may have conveniently been due to his lean build (he was wearing slacks).  I silently admired his chutzpah for braving the space (at his age / with his build) for I knew exactly why he was there.  To actively work towards becoming more muscular / strong / "man-looking".  And like so many newbies, it was obvious that he'd no clue as to what he was doing.

Full disclosure:  My time at that stage of my life was spent lusting after muscled and hairy men.  And even moreso if they were golden tan whilst sporting a handsome mug. I did this with so little thought that it was almost as if I spent sizable portions of my adolescence within a sort of homoeroticized lust trance.   

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When the Internet came on the scene (within the first few years of my marriage), I'd found my private, digital honey-hole.  The salacious imagery, particularly the stunningly executed images of beautifully tan, hairy, muscle men only served to suffocate me with lust fodder.  

Eventually, considering the I.T. inevitable, the maturation of the Internet (dial-up to DSL to T1, etc.) ushered in a much broader spectrum of captivating smut.  I watched as photos became videos became HD videos.  

But eventually (in large part due to my decade-long participation within Samson Society), the intense salaciousness wore off and this type of imagery simply became a repository for cheap thrills (it all began to look the same).  

In line with that, my libido dramatically diminished simply due to my middle-aging.  

Internet porn blandness + middle-age reduction in sex drive = Reason to celebrate!

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Today, I'm really pleased with my physical self.  For I'm muscled and hairy in my own right as a 52-year-old man.  I especially like how I feel whilst casually dressed.  Specifically, I don't feel as if I'm hiding my body via my wardrobe.

Consistent strength training / running combined with healthy eating habits, over the past +/-18 years, has paid off in droves.  And, of course, genetics have benefited me too.  I'm very thankful to God for these developments.

When you loathe yourself, whether it's rooted in some form of childhood abuse or not, you know that such a negative outlook makes you decidedly vulnerable.  Vulnerable to rejection, criticism, failure.  Things that are inevitable life experiences.    

In order to survive, I had to commit.  Both to Samson Society (once I stumbled into it in 2014) as well as a healthy, very active lifestyle that was the antithesis of normal for a Mississippi man.  It's been a long-term commit.  In order to protect / honor myself.  For I remember the hurt and the abuse like it was yesterday.  Those scars will never be erased. 

 

Will God Resurrect BoyRob? (Especially Considering That Blazen Rebuke By My Own Hands.)

I often have vivid dreams.  Recently, one of those featured my toy poodle, a childhood dog that my parents purchased for me when I was in 6th grade.

I wish I could say I was a loving, caring dog owner, but I was not.  This animal served more like a physical stand-in for the part of me that simply wanted to be loved (too much?).  And as such, due to my disgust with myself, I absolutely didn't fulfill that wish.  

Nonetheless, the dog lived a 15+ year life, existing well into my young adulthood (thanks to my 'rents caring for him while I was away at college).  

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When I lost my campus architect job at DSU (September of '13), I beat my boyRob self to a pulp, blaming him for not having the chutzpah needed to simply sit quietly and behave.  Instead, he was deliberate about attempting to come up for proverbial air, often late into the evening or after hours behind the closed door of my front office.  Ultimately, this resulted in the institution having grounds to fire me.  Hence, in my mind, 1+1 = 2.  Therefore, if I could remove that second "1", there'd be no more risk involved, leaving me (1+0 = 1) completely in control.

So that's what I did.  At the expense of my whole self.

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I immediately knew this boyRob had either fled or was dead when I walked into a movie theater during the summer of '14.  It had been just +/-8 months since my termination.  The film was an animated family feature that was screening (with the family) at a discount (summer family film fest).  

I sobbed throughout the 90-minutes.  And not because of the content / uplifting nature of the film.  No.  I sobbed because it became immediately apparent to me that a part of me was completely missing from that experience.  That part that usually sprang to life whilst entering into a movie theater (he relishes the experience).  Therefore, there was no enjoyment therein.  Instead, it felt as if I was simply wasting my time sitting in a large room with strangers.

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Many moons have passed since that summer afternoon.  

And I'm convinced God will restore this "1".  Perhaps soon I'll see more vestiges of my toy poodle. 

That First Foray Into The Notion Of The Supernatural

This post is going to address the specific entertainment culture of the '70s by allowing my memories (& amateur commentary) regarding television to narrate therein.   

If you were to turn back the clock to 1980, I would be 7 - 8 years old.  At that time, there were three broadcast TV networks.  CATV was just beginning to gain traction, but it wouldn't be 'till 4-6 years later that it became the de facto means to receive TV programming within the home (& thereby immediately expanding the number of / clarity therein of available channels).  Hence, over-the-air ABC, NBC & CBS (along with PBS) served up the American people with the only TV programming available, all of which was clearly time-slotted via age-propriety (& interestingly enough, there was typically no programming broadcast at all from midnight to 5 AM).  

Revenue garnered to these three networks was dependent on viewership.  How?  The higher the viewership, the more the networks could charge for advertising time (TV commercials).  Blue chip companies, in particular, relied on TV advertising's powerful influence on the American consumer to drive revenue. 

Keep in mind that EVERYONE watched TV during this era.  Especially primetime TV broadcasting.  Why?  The broadcast content was very entertaining (mostly via novelty), and it was "free".  Whether it was comedy, drama (soaps), sports or news, broadcast TV was the GO-TO solution.

As such, networks knew a lot of $$$ could be made not only from (qualified) high viewership numbers, but too, the demographic the TV programming was aimed towards (preferably white people with disposable incomes).  Combined, these two guaranteed advertising "real estate" that was priced at a premium.    

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The 1970s ushered in the era of supernatural horror, and this coalescence with pop culture paralleled our taste for music (heavy metal) as well as the slow embrace of / interest in all things pagan. 

As such, the '70s landed such film spectacles as The Exorcist and The Amityville Horror.  Even The Omen experienced deep seated cultural traction (that's still intact) as Americans tepidly (but reverently) filled the cinema seats en masse (from one end of the country to the other).  Young Americans, in particular, dominated ticket sales.  For these films (regarding their subject matter) were considered spectacle events and therefore were MUST SEE.  

The producers / directors / screenwriters of these supernatural horror classics were very rare finds.  To be adept at capturing the tone needed to terrify audiences took precise skill.  Otherwise, missing the mark by simply one degree may very well relegate a huge studio investment as derivative camp.  Therefore, despite the seismic cultural / monetary impact, sequels / franchise continuity were almost always massive failures.  Studios therefore eventually turned to new, more novel material.  And none other than a young, myopic fiction author, Stephen King (he was around 33-years old at the time), caught the attention of many a network executive.  

At this time, King's fanbase was blossoming despite the fact that his books were very lengthy.  This meant his stories played out slowly, allowing suspense, creepiness & dread to build chapter by chapter.  Plus, in order to enjoy his stories, you ACTUALLY HAD TO READ THEM.  Therefore, a certain level of intelligence / education was required of his audience.

Also, his horror stories were centered more on mood / tone and therefore tension versus standard tropes such as brutal murder / Satan's playground - ramped up exponentially for maximum shock value.

Besides, once the three aforementioned films were released, they instantly became milestones within our then cultural zeitgeist, and as you know, milestones are often touted - out of respect - but rarely truly lovingly revisited (thanks to their spent ambitions).

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Enter 'Salem's Lot.  This was King's second novel.  And it was perfectly written in light of TV's reach and ritual respect - at the time - within the American household.

'Salem's Lot did have one direct connection to the three aforementioned '70s horror milestones, and that was its focus on victimizing children.  Whether they were teens or elementary age, child characters were integral to the story.  Hence, whilst screening the 2-part TV movie version therein, viewers of all ages (late November of 1980) were horror-mesmerized by the shattered innocence integrated throughout the gratuitous content.  

In summary, the story of 'Salem's Lot is one of covert exploitation via an unassumingly viral-like exchange, leaving its assaulted victims enslaved to the MO of the initial host / infector (a small-town interloper).  That antagonist isn't revealed but for a very short stint (90-seconds total within the tail end of the TV movie), but alas, this / these brief scenes gave the audience sufficient shock to involuntarily empty their bladders with.

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Now let me remind you, once again, that I was around 7-years old in late November 1980 when 'Salem's Lot was broadcast (Saturday at 8 PM CST).  Because it was two parts, the network used two subsequent weekend time slots to cash in.  

I wasn't reared by parents who were all that more mature than your average teenager.  And this was due to their youth (they were in their late teens when they had Rob).  Plus, they'd both been reared in rural MS (my mother grew up impoverished).  Finally, neither had any real understanding of Scripture (my mother could barely read at this point).  And as a result, neither did I.

As such, watching network TV was THE ABSOLUTE Turner afternoon / evening centerpiece - no matter what day / night of the week it was.  I can remember vividly the "TV Guide" magazine always being prominently displayed on top of the stained walnut coffee table in our den.  But I digress...

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I've always been a highly visual male.  It's one of the primary motivators for me pursuing the career of architecture.  As such, certain TV / film programming, especially during my childhood, had a profound impact on my developing brain.

'Salem's Lot's narrative firmly planted the idea of being cursed and therefore recognizing one's inability to escape a certain dark fate, and in turn, sympathizing with the horror of watching those you care / love haplessly perish.  If you've ever read Poe's The Masque of the Red Death, you see the exact same theme except there it plays out within distinct waves.  

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When I look back on my life, I credit the gospel firstly with upending my cursed outlook, and from there, it was my wife.

Now, let me expound on the former.

When I reference the gospel, I'm referring mostly to the gospel lived out.  Demonstrated.  And mostly, of course, in and through adults that were either paid to or genuinely (or some combination of the two) cared for Rob.  If I were forced to list those, it would take pages and pages.  This is my good fortune.  I saw Christ in these supporting characters, and this powerfully drew me in.

My wife though is a whole different story.  For she willingly loved / loves me.  And this truly detonated a path forward for me that dismantled completely any musty misgivings of cursed(ness).  I could never disavow / discount owning her gaze and allegiance and perpetual trust.  This served as a powerful reminder of God's love for me.

For I'm telling you, I knew even as a small child that Satan was real and that he was intent on taking me down.  How did I know this?  Mostly through dreams but also via what always felt like the makeshiftedness of my 3-person family.  A family that put so much of its faith (like so many others of this era) in the ongoing cultural novelty of the status quo.  For I knew that video entertainment wasn't anything more than such, but it was its influence (on my young brain) that was lost on me as to how best to manage.  

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So here we are.  Fall of 2024.  A lot of time has passed since 1980.  

'Salem's Lot will very soon be released as a feature film.  On TV, no doubt.  I've watched the trailer dozens of times and even gone back to YouTube to watch fanatical pieces pertaining to the original 1980 TV production.  

As a result, my 7-year-old self has been stirring deep within the recesses of my grey matter.

And it's been so very emotive and opportunistic in terms of truly sitting with my boyhood self.  

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A few weeks back, I screened a horror film with my middle school daughter (who also is a highly visual person).  And just so you know, the film is a courtroom drama firstly (this child has a noteworthy interest in the practice of law).  Hence, my justification.  

But it is a very disturbing film (as all great horror films are).

So disturbing in fact that she slept with me afterwards (& we only screened the first 50 minutes).  

But, as you know, there's a big difference in age 7 and 14.  Nonetheless, we spent (& have continued to spend) mucho time discussing said film (at least the portion we've watched) in anticipation of finishing it off.  

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Evil exists.  Humanity truly is cursed.  Our comprehension of secure shelter for ourselves is misguided.  This world of woe is overseen by Lucifer.  Those are genuinely frightening truths.  Especially to helpless children.

But...

There's an assemblage of humanity that's been predestined to survive this wretched curse.  But not by our wits or sacrifice or resistance.  By favor.

For though evil is manifest, God is ineffable, and his propinquity is not unlike the very air we breathe.  

In closing, as young King David boasted about in 1 Samuel, our God is living.  

Vampires, in so many ways, depict Satan almost too well.  As the undead who feast on the hapless living for survival, their very existence is cursed.  

There's one misgiving though regarding this analogy.  Children get a pass 'till they're mature enough to be considered accountable to an understanding of the gospel.  Picture a lei of garlic cloves hanging 'round their necks as a sign of their judgement day immaturity.  Perhaps that's why these tales are all that more harrowing.       

My Wife's Limp

Rarely does my sweet wife use her left hand to move her lovely salt & pepper hair out of her face.  Instead, she uses her right hand.  Why?

She can't naturally reach her hair with her left hand due to her left arm's post stroke condition.  Too, she can't feel her hair with her left hand (even if she could reach it easily).  

If you observe her using her left hand to touch her hair (as I did over the weekend), it's awkward.  For her forearm won't bend naturally at her elbow as it should.  Instead, it's stilted or hung up at the joint.  As if her elbow were locked tight at a certain angle.

When she walks, her gait is biased towards her right side.  Therefore, her stride is more of a left leg drag than a true symmetrical rhythm like we're used to seeing.  

Because Angie doesn't have lengthy legs, her limp isn't nearly as noticeable.  Were she built more like my oldest daughter, it would be undeniable.  

Another deficit is her inability to jump or run at any pace.  If you were to ask her to do either, she'd laugh at the request.

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When I befriended Angie in high school, she was the most delicate female soul I'd ever encountered.  In line with that was her class and her intelligence, but her core attribute was this virgin saintliness that was so very inspiring / attractive.  Never had I met anyone so fragile yet so compelling.

Angie loves Jesus firstly.  A close second to Jesus is her love for the church.  

Our church, Lakeside Pres, has never had Sunday evening church services.  Angie bemoans this missed opportunity.  For though she's been to church on Sunday morning, she loves the idea of returning for more six hours later.  

This is just how she is and always has been.

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I am and have never been ashamed to have a wife who's physically disabled.  She and I are closer than we've ever been throughout these 28-years of marriage, and much of that is a result of her willingness to allow me to serve her well post stroke.  

How?

Physical stuff for one, such as housework, yard work.  But then too, we've only had intercourse thrice since May 29, 2020.  And I'm not embarrassed to type that.  Most middle-aged couples (with a disabled spouse or not) have very little / much less interest in sexual activity compared to their childbearing / rearing years.

Being physical / doing physical is a reminder of her deficits, therefore we forgo that to make room for other things that are just as / if not moreso (for us) unifying.

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What's so very sobering is really taking the time to acknowledge Angie's limp.  And I did that this past Saturday, (9/7) whilst at our daughters' college campus.  We spent the majority of the day there, traversing (on foot) from one section to another (& back again) in light of their football team's first home game. 

For when I take the time to observe, I see her, once again, as a teenager.  Fragile.  Vulnerable.  And this makes me very, very emotional. 

If you know me at all, you know that I feel at 150% when I allow myself to.  But even when that's intentionally throttled back, compared to most, I'm hypersensitive to emotional states.  And I've grown to love this about myself.

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In closing, Samson Society meetings have been unique Petri dishes for me to hone these sensitivity gifts.  I've done so simply by listening / observing - just as everyone else does - but with my heart completely open.

For I know the shares will be raw and not relegated to critique as we observe each other in kind.  Step by limp by step.          

Recommended Reading / Rob's Cycle of Porn

The Cycle of Pornography | Evidence Unseen

My first encounter with porn (late elementary school) occurred at my uncle's apartment.  I was around 4-5th grade, and it was my cousin (my uncle's son - an only child like me) who exposed me to his father's Penthouse magazines. Even then, it was the male models that I was drawn to the most.  Nonetheless, I was so curious as to what sex / sensuality was.  These soft-lensed, exquisitely photographed pictorials fueled my desire to learn more.  I remember masturbating in the hall bathroom after my cousin and I had "had our fill".  I loved the powerful arousal that occurred via these photos (tied to the clandestine investigation) which in turn made the climaxes that much moreso unbelievable.  

Looking back, I had no idea what was truly going on due to being brought up in such a vacuum-of-sexual-information-household.  Nonetheless, what I did know was I too (as a human being) was "wired for sex", therefore it felt imperative that I take these opportunities to learn / feel as much as possible in this regard.

In a nutshell, this was simply prepubescent curiosity mixed with availability of explicit sexual material.  Did it lay groundwork for being captivated (in bondage) outright down the road?  I don't believe so.  That all grew out of the shame / loneliness I was experiencing as a targeted middle school faggot / loner.

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7th and 8th grade were tremendously difficult for Rob.  I was miserable and as a result, had to lay low at school.  I began fantasizing regularly about being pursued by older men (sexual relationships), and the most shame-filled fantasies of them all involved my youth pastor.  There was no precedent for this.  I'd not been molested outright, though in so many ways, the abject void of masculine affirmation qualified in and of itself.  

Young men must have the masculine affirming they deserve to develop into healthy men.

I had no older (or younger) brothers.  There wasn't a dad (Robert, Sr.) that had any semblance as to what healthy, customized masculine affirming looked like (much less a desire to participate therein).  I loathed team sports and scouting.  All of this added up to me literally being on my own.

In light of this, I stuck to comic books and music, eventually joining the poor excuse of a marching band (clarinet & later drum major) that was available to me at Madison-Ridgeland Academy.  Our entourage was a sad joke, but thanks be to God, there was some semblance of a loser community for me to fall back on.  

As my secondary education marched forward, I couldn't help but observe select other young men become hardened, successful athletes.  As such, I took the step of including them within my sexual fantasies.  This made things more personal and far more lowbrow within my mind (considering their relational closeness to me).  

As such, these homosexual fantasies became my go-to daily elixir for how inept I felt as Rob.  Rinse & repeat.  Rinse & repeat.

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During high school, I had no problem making friendgirls, and many, if not most, were interested in pursuing a romantic relationship.  But, at this point, I was now using salacious print material to homofantasize (in the form of wall calendars, greeting cards, men's exercise mags).  All of this material, I consistently looked to catalog privately as I became more and more captivated by masculine beauty.  By far, it was the most compelling visual find of my young existence (exponentially accelerated in potency relative to my ongoing private self-loathing).

Again, there was such the void of knowledge pertaining to what was out there regarding this seemingly intangible subject.  And I craved for more and more of that knowledge.  This too cannot be discounted.

If I've ever been addicted to anything, it was during this stage of my life, and my addiction was to what I perceived as masculine.

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Strength training was key to me putting a toe in the water of masculine self-affirmation.  It was during my last year of college.  I was living with Bob & Darlene as I was completing my 5th year of architecture school (in Jackson) at Mississippi State University.  I'd asked my parents to purchase me a beginner's (youth) strength training set in high school from Service Merchandise.  It consisted of a cushion bench (w/ a bolted on leg lift attachment), one barbell and one dumbbell.  The plastic weights were sand-filled.  A tri-fold instruction booklet, printed in black-&-white accompanied this '80s novice exercise kit-of-parts.  

Four months of using this rudimentary equipment (thrice weekly) along with sit-ups and pushups - down on the cut pile carpeted floor of my bedroom worked wonders.  It truly was miraculous.

Why?  Because it consisted of personal, private affirming at its finest.  All in tandem with me myself gaining muscle mass steadily.  For once in my young man life, I felt some semblance of pride whilst seeing my reflection in the mirror.  

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At this same time, I began dating my future wife.  Not long after our engagement, I confessed to having a serious "interest" in pornography, but the hardest part was divulging my homofantasy life (to both her and my parents) and how it had sprung out of a deep-seated loathing of my masculine self (this had not been difficult to figure out).

What was super convenient for me was how similarly crippled my future father-in-law (girlfriend's dad) was.  Hence, my fiancé had been reared by a father who was not all that much different - intrinsically - than I was.  This served (along with my commitment to therapy), I believe, as a bridge that moved us confidently towards marriage.  

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Not long after our wedding day, the Internet came on the scene.  

Oh.  My.  Gosh.  What a nightmare that was.

It was like moving a drunk (me) into a liquor store.  And not any liquor store but one where any and all forms of liquor could be conjured up on demand.  For free.  And placed in the palm of your / my hand.

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The adult (explicit) - content now available via the Internet should have been sequestered.  Adult (explicit) - content allowed over here / no adult (explicit) - content allowed over here.  But no one asked Rob.  

Instead, it was one big free-for-all.  Everything and anything you could imagine, readily available, so long as you had an Internet capable device / browser.  And this was how the adult content producers wanted it.  For they knew that the more (& younger) eyes they exposed to their explicit smut, the more deeply entrenched their wares would become within the viewers' psyches. This, of course, would then drive demand for more as the captivation concretized. 

Before long, so many (mostly men) were absolutely epidemically infected by this newfound ease-of-access-to digital smut.  Including me.  For it tapped into (& subsequently reanimated) my childhood coping mechanism.  A mechanism that in so many ways was no longer needed or wanted at this stage of my young adult life.

Therefore, this was its true wretchedness:  the monumentally tremendous unneeded / unwanted / unwarranted stress on me / my young marriage for such a time as this.

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Curiosity also played a sizable role in my steady return to gay porn.  The Internet served me well in this capacity.  For there was an endless supply of new photos / videos.  All I had to do was search for "hairy muscle men" & voila!

Who knew there was so much historical smut out there for consumption!  Colt Studio Group was my instant go-to.  Especially in regard to "vintage" Colt.  Seeing gay porn from the '80s was especially profound.  For this was the decade of my youth.  How unusual it was to reckon with the fact that all of this smut was being created on the west coast throughout my adolescence in Mississippi.  Who'd a thunk?

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I sat down with a therapist at First Baptist Church Jackson in the early '00s, spilling my story and asking for help as it pertained to my being captivated by online gay porn.

I'd known this therapist / pastor since I was a boy.  He poured his encouragement into me, and for a while, I felt immensely strengthened.  But his words weren't enough.  

What made the first distinct difference in my battle was connecting intimately with another man who pursued me for who I was outright.  

Let me repeat that.

What made the first distinct difference in my battle was connecting intimately with another man who pursued me for who I was outright.  

Who was I exactly?

1.  Christian

2.  Husband

3.  Father

4.  Same-sex attracted

5.  Intelligent

6.  Athletic

7.  Articulate

8.  Loyal

And so forth.

This man amounted to being my first Silas.  And he was perfectly suited to Rob back in 2009.  

He allowed me to healthily bask in the love of masculine affirmation.  He did so via words and touch and so much steadfastness (listening ear).

During the core 10-months of that friendship, I consumed not one iota of gay porn.  This was a monumental achievement / breakthrough for me.  I had found my antidote.

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Fast forward to my inclusion into Samson Society in 2014.

My first (official) Silas (1.0) had so many similarities to this aforementioned, pre-Samson Society friend.  And though the pursuit was short-lived, it confirmed my suspicions.

If gay porn's grip was to be permanently loosened, I had to find men who'd affirm my individualistic masculinity.  And preferably, I needed it to occur in-person.  For their physical energy / aura was needed for me to receive the healing I so desired.

I became then a vigilante advocate for myself.  Any opportunity to receive, I gravitated towards.  So often men would believe they were simply being pursued (by Rob) in relation to their need(s), when in reality, it had nothing to do therein.  It was all about me and my needs.  For me to be friendly was easy.  But before long, when the stars aligned, intimate connection would occur.  Perhaps via a gesture or touch.  Maybe a short exchange of verbiage - heated or gentle.  But, in the end, I was exposed to that soft underbelly that so few were / are given the opportunity to see.  And it was that emotional energy that I drank down like dilithium crystals powering a warp core. 

This resulted in an instant leveling up for Rob.  For I was keenly aware of how privileged I was to experience those delicious, etched-in-my-long-term memory relational moments.

As such, my mantra eventually became (within Samson Society) to serve oneself wholeheartedly.  

In closing, make this place about you and your needs being met.  All in tandem with your deep desire to tamp down (& ultimately defeat) the morally bankrupt captivation (sexually explicit material, chemical, etc.) that's established / hardened itself within your mind.  

This is my personal rallying cry.  Because it's worked wonders for me.  

In closing, I will forever be on the prowl.  Hunting my next opportunity to be seen by men who are willing to take the time to know me outright.  Warts & all.

Intimacy With Men Lives On Via Memory & Technology

Sledge's birthday is 2024's Memorial Day.  Leading up to his birthday, each year, I re-listen to his audio journals & re-read his personal analytical work that he so fearlessly sent my way back in 2018.  Sledge was 28 at the time, and I was 45.  We'd met due to his willingness to step into the Samson Society meeting I facilitated at Lakeside Pres.  At the time, lust was a sizable part of his life, and he'd found himself convicted therein whilst hearing a mutual friend of ours share his testimony (prior to referring his audience to Samson Society).

Sledge needing psychotherapy and likely meds for clinical depression, but this wasn't apparent to me initially.  Instead, what jarred my attention (whilst parlaying my analytical thinking), to the massive degree that it did, was just how head-over-heels enamored he was of Rob from the moment we met.

Why did this matter?

Sledge loathed MS.  Everyone in MS.  Except for me and a woman at work that he'd grown fiercely attracted to.  This combined with his brilliance made for quite the enigma.  

So, how did he end up here within the Butt Crack of the USA?  Essentially, his relentless efforts to climb the corporate ladder begrudgingly brought him here.

At this time, Sledge was newly married and actively working to reproduce (he & his sweet wife already had one offspring). Regarding his spouse, I'm fairly certain she knew her husband was mentally ill (she was a healthcare worker) yet was too afraid to put it into words.  For Sledge had a razor-sharp tongue and zero tolerance for criticism from anyone sans using it in kind.  Plus, they'd tried couples therapy to no avail.  Nonetheless, she gave him what he seemed to care amount mostly.  Her desire for sex.  And this he obliged from her with absolutely zero resistance.  For Sledge received seemingly otherworldly amounts of affirmation via cunninlingus / vaginal intercourse.

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It was around this time of year (early summer) when I headed to south AL for 5th / 6th grade church camp.  This was a weeklong affair at a humble venue containing absolutely zero out-of-the-ordinary (from what I was used to in MS) natural beauty whatsoever.  It was a flat, forestry landscape with a relatively small lake.  Therein, each humble building was interconnected via gravel path / road.  

It was only our church, First Baptist Church Jackson, that participated, therefore there were no opportunities to intermingle / befriend with fresh faces.  In total, around 30-40 boys & girls were present for this scorchingly hot summer break week.

The year was 1985.  Van Halen's game-changing album had just come out (in fact, they'd even performed in Jackson at the MS Coliseum).  It defined this era pertaining to what it meant to be a young white male.  

During the late evening of the day we arrived at the church camp, I headed to the communal bathroom, there within the boys' bunkhouse, to brush my teeth.  Mid-way through my brushing, I heard the lone shower (that was being used) turn off.  When the curtain was raked violently across the rod, our collegiate chaperone, Dan, put his wet, naked bod nonchalantly on display.

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Sledge's audio journals were meticulously narrated / recorded.  The degree of vulnerability within is unlike any Samson deliverable I've ever received (& I've received A LOT of deliverables over the past decade).  

When I first listened to them back in 2018 (immediately following their gifting), the density of the recordings was too much for me to process with any real foresight / diligence.  That, along with how positively intimate they were, short-circuited my understanding of just how needy this young man truly was at the time.

It was almost like seeing him too (through that 1985 wall mirror) naked and wet, right there behind me, for such a time as that.  As such, I did what I only knew to do.  Smile awkwardly and continue forward with my teeth cleaning routine.

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Dan's collegiate frame was awe inspiring.  Both his impressive height and muscular build classified him as intimidating.  Not to mention the thick sandy brown chest and stomach hair that added years of maturity to his 22-year-old self.

And then there was his junk.  

Let's just say, I didn't even know where to begin to process what rested there moistly between this stranger's legs, though when I now come across Ezekiel 23, it easily harkens back.  

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Sledge's upbringing hadn't been normal, and he was just beginning to truly wrestle with the ramifications of that truth.  I could not relate to his growing up years for it all seemed so pejorative.  Particularly considering how intelligent / grounded his parents seemingly were.  

And then from there, his college girlfriend (who eventually became his wife) allowed him to become her dorm room fuck buddy.  And this went on "out of spite" (according to Sledge) in light of their parents' desire to see them complete their higher ed prior to marriage.  

What served as icing on the cake though was the fact that Sledge's dad was a pastor.  A devout, average-sized congregational pastor who loved both his wife and three children immensely.

At this time, Sledge was wondering out loud about pivoting and becoming a pastor himself.

And here I was just standing there at the sink minding my own business...

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Throughout my life, I've never ceased relishing the memory of seeing our collegiate chaperone's freshly showered physique, there on private display, in all of its glory.  For though I'm certain there've been plenty of greater than or equally beautiful men for me to admire, my unexpected exposure to him, at such an impressionable age, taught me such the important lesson.

Timing is everything.  Therefore, be alert.  Some of the most (eventually) fruitful & memorable experiences of one's life may very well occur when you're least expecting it.    

Lagniappe