My Very Personal, Explicit Spring 2023 Creative Writing Sabbatical - Rob's Dysregulation Remedy

A Samson brother introduced me to (in early 2022) the concept of brain dysregulation whilst regularly attending (well over one year) a very well-attended virtual Samson meeting with him alongside.  This brain dysregulation idea centers around the brain becoming asymmetrical (imbalanced).  As such, the side that's out of sync needs some serious attention.  Having little use for this idea then, I paid it little attention, until...

For Rob, my eventual dysregulation occurred on the right side of my grey matter earlier this year.  Hence, I felt a deep-seated need to dream / fantasize / escape reality.  My easy access go-to therein to satiate these needs for such a lopsided brain would normally have been porn / salacious imagery.

Around mid-March, another Samson brother asked to share a dictated (voice memo app) "fantasy story" he'd written which centered around he and his spouse (who at the time was emotionally distant due to his recent difficult confessions) and her responsiveness to his sexual needs.  

This explicit creative writing exercise fleshed out his then desires for her and his marriage in spite of its / their current desecrated state.  As a result of reading this, I became incredibly inspired, and not only via the captivating story itself but the ongoing healing result (right brain flexure).

Hence, I began my own creative writing spree (in lieu of writing posts here).  This explains my absence.

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Three stories were generated as a result.  The first's plot focused on a private, paranormal relationship between my uncle and I when I was between the ages of 12-15; it centered heavily on this 20+ year older man and his positive masculine influence as a result of said relationship.  And though the story involved sexual overtones, it was by no means written to titillate.  Instead, from the perspective of a young teen boy (based on my recollected childhood), it put words / thoughts on the page addressing then private shame related to very typical adolescent / pubescent angst.  This tale was written in five distinct chapters. 

The second story was simple and fast.  It fleshed out a fictional friendship between myself and a young man who I've only known at a distance over the past few years.  

The third story ended up being my opus.  This one had thirteen distinct chapters with a heady epilogue.  I'm still coming off of the high that resulted from this distinct, very personal tale being generated.

In essence, it involved me being befriended by a Christian college student (graduate school) during my senior year in high school.  This older man I barely knew from my teenage years (working at Chick-A-Fil).  No doubt, I had deep admiration for / attraction towards him from a distance.  In order to properly flesh out his character, I grafted a recent Samson friend's persona over this guy, and as a result, the character and subsequently narrative gained tremendous legs.  

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I share this with you to hopefully inspire.  There's so much you can do creatively - that doesn't involve lustful thoughts / porn use - to rectify your dysregulation.  For me, creative writing was the tremendous fix I was looking for.  Try it today!

"Momma's Been Married Five Times."

A few weekends back, I had lunch with a friend from church as an embarrassingly tardy follow-up.  He's one of those (surprisingly cool) middle-aged men who's a contrarian (taking his own upbringing into consideration) relative to his marriage / rearing of his own children.

When he and I dined together initially (pre-pandemic - 2019? - I honestly can't recall exactly), I vaguely remember him chatting a fair amount about his devout Christian mother.  He likely mentioned (the embarrassing truth) her marital track record then, but it must have blown past Rob without registering.  More than likely, I simply had forgotten about this curiosity.  Or perhaps, I felt a pity overflow (for him), and therefore simply refused to allow it to stick.  Considering this latter assumption, I cannot underestimate the fact that today, he presents himself as a really nice guy who simply found himself (as a boy) within the line of fire as a result of his mother's issues.

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I have a deceased uncle whose second wife (& mother to three of my cousins) is now married to husband #6 or maybe #7.  She's - at present - essentially estranged from some (if not all) of her three children due to this chronic romantic recklessness.  

Back in the early '80s, she was repeatedly unfaithful (with her eventual second husband) to my uncle which subsequently resulted in their divorce.  

There's a story that I've heard my father (& another deceased uncle - my dad's younger brother) reminisce about relative to some of her infidelity hijinks during this time.  It has to do with the two of them accompanying their brother (her then husband) on an "adultery stakeout" in small town Mississippi.  The punchline zeroed in on her large breasts stalling her from escaping out of her lover's bathroom window (supposedly topless) in reaction to her husband (my suspecting uncle) banging on the front door.  

I recall the first time (+/-15 years ago) I heard my dad and his younger brother awkwardly retell this heartbreaking tale.  For everyone knew that it was her husband's punitive - after the fact - physical reaction (he assaulted her) that gave her clear legal credence to ultimately file for divorce (& gain custody of my cousins).  From there, their beautiful three boys were gone forever.

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I never really thought about / considered women being compulsive sex consumers until I became involved in Samson Society.

Years ago, a former parishioner at Lakeside Pres was referred to me (as the then facilitator of the Lakeside Pres Samson Society group).  He and I had dined casually once prior, but circumstances being what they were now, our second sit-down was not at all as jovial as the first.  As a result, he agreed to attend his first (& only) Saturday morning meeting.

The first statement out of his mouth was (during share time):  "My wife is a sex addict.  That's why I'm here."

That's the one and only time I've ever heard a guy make that statement within all the hundreds and hundreds of Samson meetings I've attended since August of 2014.  

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I've known of a few older Samson guys who've married much younger (& understandably hornier) women.  Youth = vitality (particularly as it relates to libido).

But that's not what I'm attempting to address here.  This has more to do with women who've allowed sex to become perpetually disproportioned relative to its influence / relevance within a romantic relationship.  And what makes this so weird to wrap one's brain around has to do with how the majority of women approach sex overall.

Sexual activity for a woman is 99% of the time rooted in the notion of security.  Even if it's an illusion or fantasy.  

Women participate in intercourse believing for those few minutes that their lover is their "knight in shining armor".  It's a powerfully securing experience for them that promulgates feminine orgasm.  Anatomically, with men "going into" women with their penises, the act itself demonstrates this consensual act.  Otherwise, it's rape / assault.

As such, sex for women is never cheap because their heart (either literally or fantastically) is involved each and every time it occurs.

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But there are those women - no doubt - who're moreso like (some) men regarding sexual perspective.  Hence, it has become a methodology or technique to control / use / abuse, and as such, they themselves see no need for being "protected" / "heart connected" by / to their lover.  Instead, it's simply a pleasurable experience that satiates their horniness for such a time as that.  And this drives them onward, brandishing their seductiveness to whomever they wish to use within their orbit.

To me, this is an ugly description, but especially so if it happens to be your momma.  Yuck.

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In closing, when I worked at Delta State University in 2013, I had the good fortune of befriending one of my employees - to the degree that I circumstantially (conflict of interest) could.  He was an absolutely beautiful (physically & emotionally) pagan man with such a sweet spirit.  I was so fortunate to know him for those fast-moving twelve months.

What truly drew us together was him choosing to (reluctantly) answer my questions about his upbringing there in the Mississippi Delta.  And part of that commentary inevitably centered on his mother.  

This man had no issue labeling her a "whore".  This was shocking to hear, but nevertheless, he described how pervasive her routine was at bedding men throughout the impoverished region during his growing up years.  

I imagine, taking his physical appearance into consideration, that she likely had been equally as attractive in her own right.

After Rob was fired from that institution in September of 2013, Angie and I did share one last meal with my work friend and his wife.  Afterwards, he and I sat out on his patio, and I awkwardly shared my story (to the best of my ability at the time).  

From there, we quickly lost touch as our family returned to the Jackson Metro.

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The Bible addresses the women I'm attempting to describe here.  One of the most famous is actually within the lineage (bloodline) of Jesus (she was a prostitute).  

I know so little about what promulgates women like this, yet I've seen firsthand the tremendous suffering / shame their own sexual brokenness can cause.  It brings me pause, furthering my respect for men who carry this matriarchal legacy with them - day after day.

Sucking Babies Into Sinks = Slicing Into Rob's Last Nerve

The first time I heard an involved in Christian men's ministry guy admit (to an audience) having impregnated a girlfriend, only then to have her abort his child, became for Rob - numero uno - revolting reveal.

And I believe it has much to do with me being a bastard child myself (who thankfully wasn't aborted).  

But these fornication / mother aborting reveals aren't few and far between (within Christian men's ministry).  Abortion happens.  Often.  And deep-seated regret ensues.  As such, I tend to just get more and more disgusted / outraged with it.  For I consider the practice of abortion to be shockingly barbaric.  

Hence, I've come to realize this is one thing I absolutely DO NOT agree should be shared outside of a professional counseling session (where secrecy is "guaranteed").  I just don't want to be exposed to that level of darkness.

And I realize, for some of you, befriending repentant pedophiles is in and of itself the ultimate revulsion.  I get / respect that.  Nonetheless, from my point of view, murdering children from inside a mother's womb in no way equates. 

All that being said, I can't control what Samson guys (or any guy) choose to reveal about themselves or their stories.  Hence, I at times find myself between a rock and a hard place with a knee jerk reaction that proportionally offends (Rob the asshole).  

Abortion is pervasive yet polarizing.  I just don't know exactly what I'm supposed to do with that portion of a guy's story whilst buckling under the emotional weight of said reveal.

In closing, I feel singled out by this.  And this also disturbs me that much further.  I wonder if there're others out there who feel this topic should only be shared with pastors / counselors / therapists.

Let me be clear:  I'm abhorrent to the notion of divulging abortions to anyone but someone who's specifically trained to receive it, therefore if this is either directly or indirectly tied to your story, please don't share it with Rob.  I'm not your man.  We can dialogue about anything else that you feel so moved to share.  Just not that.

Was I Making A Selfish, Irresponsible Move Or Not?

Your grown ass man brain is best served by a consciousness that practically protects it from emotional harm.  You have a God-given skull to protect it from impact / falls, but emotional harm, your skull cannot guard against.  Instead, it's up to your consciousness to recognize that risk and manage it accordingly (to the best of its ability / within reason).

My experience with feeling dejected by a mentor (immediate supervisor of mine at a college I was employed at throughout 2013) did SUBSTANTIAL emotional damage to my brain.  I had never experienced anything like that before, at least to that degree.  And this experience, mind you, wasn't drawn out / within a season.  Instead, it occurred over a period of 15 minutes.  It's important to note that my sensitivity was significantly amplified due to how needy I was at the time.  Desperate for help, inclusion and love, but instead, I was met with the exact opposite.  It was not unlike taking a sledgehammer to the temple.

As such, I made an immediate attempt to minimize further damage (professionally, emotionally).  Hence, I was convinced that the best way for me to pull that off was to pack up my bags and leave.  And not just from the institution itself (which was quite easy to do since I'd been fired), but also from the small town we were residing within (in order for me to work there).  All of that occurred over the next +/-30 days.

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For me, the surefire way I became cognizant of just how eviscerated my brain had been was as follows:

I've always loved, loved, loved screening films at the theater (from childhood onward).  Post aforementioned dejection (I was 41 at the time), I could no longer do this without crying throughout the entire length of the film.  And those tears were falling on behalf of how undeserving / unequipped / unable I believed I was to have an enjoyable experience of any kind (but especially one as nostalgically reliable as a cinematic one).

In essence, it felt as if this time-tested memorable love of mine had been poisoned outright via these massively negative feelings.  And I suppose, in a way it was.  It took 5-6 years 'till I actually felt confident enough to screen a film in a theater setting once again.

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A sizeable proportion of your vulnerability to feelings of dejection is wholly linked to the degree of respect you have for that other human being.  Whether that's your employer, friend, spouse, sibling, parent.  Have a massive amount of respect for an individual?  Be aware of how that will expose your heart to their critiques - both positive and negative.

Whilst saying all of this, please don't in anyway discount your own inner critic.  I'm referring to that voice inside your own head that's adjudicating in real time, most every move you make.

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Back in June of  '20, my wife was in a rehab hospital (in Jackson) having had a stroke a few weeks prior.  Too (at this time), the pandemic was in full swing, therefore most everyone had shifted their mentality relative to physical contact with other human beings.  And lo and behold, a prospective (sizeable) business client came into focus (referral) - literally overnight -, and I reacted reflexively therein (in kind).  

The prospective client though was far, far away from the Jackson Metro.  Farther than any client I was then working with.  

Nonetheless, I made the trip, and in the end, they agreed to work with me and the solution I proposed for their business.  In fact, it literally was a picture-perfect (climate / cultural) fit.  And this client has not wavered in their loyalty to Rob since that first juncture.

Taking all of that into consideration, because of how absolutely torn I felt whilst making that first trip in June of 2020, I dread making the annual return trip (which I'll soon be doing).  For I remember clearly how doggedly my thoughts punished me for choosing to "leave my wife's side" (if only for a few days) during her "time of need".  Was I making a selfish, irresponsible move or not?  

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Yesterday evening, my middle daughter and I attended a banquet at the college she'll be attending this fall (as a freshman).  The banquet was held within a ballroom that I was asked to make a short presentation within back in 2011 whilst working as a Staff Architect for the State of Mississippi.  I remember what I chose to wear for that event as well a handful of the distinguished alums' reactions whilst speaking (me attempting to make eye contact with my audience).  I also remember my face heating up in shame as I spoke, and me wondering if anyone noticed my blushing.  

I remember sitting down after my few minutes of having the floor and berating myself internally for what I considered to be a completely worthless effort.  Wishing all the while that I was someone else entirely, both regarding my looks and how I sounded / presented myself.

Yet last night, once again, here I was within that exact same space all these years later.  Celebrating my daughter's achievements alongside hundreds of other parents.  Working to respectfully set in motion via my physical presence, her soon-to-be collegiate career.

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Angie (my wife) and I grew up together (we were friends within the youth group) at First Baptist Church Jackson.  She was one year (class) ahead of me, but nonetheless, we were both outcasts that gravitated towards each other platonically in kind.

When she went to Baylor after graduating from high school (Jackson Academy), two of our youth group classmates (within my class) joined her a year later out in Waco.  One of these young men, soon after his freshman year whilst being a student there, somehow remarkably - reinvented himself entirely.  

This reinvention occurred within the vein of him becoming absolutely zero effeminate acting / sounding.  Whilst making these mods, he also shed his southern drawl entirely.  This resulted in an exceedingly red-blooded, "all boy" / "man's man" kind of guy (which he most definitely was NOT during middle / high school) that coherently existed going forward.

I believe it's important to note that after his time at Baylor, he began working as a sociologist prior to becoming a (quite successful) published author, and then onto being appointed (at a remarkably young age) a University President.  Having heard him speak / preach from the pulpit (within the last decade) at FBC Jackson, it's astounding the level of masculine confidence that now radiates therein.  

It's literally as if Dr. Armitage from the film, Get Out, worked his neurosurgical magic (but on a white man), and I'm serious as a heart attack whilst saying that.

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In light of me choosing to not reinvent myself entirely (immediately following the aforementioned job loss), I can say that heading away from the pain (and those inflicting it) was a very smart move.  Considering those pragmatics, there was also a lot to be gained from not running too terribly far away (we returned to Jackson from the Mississippi Delta).  

I'll also leave you with this.  There's a lot that can be gained by re-living the past via future experiences.  Taking those settings / circumstances even, into account within that recognized present (where you're at today versus back then).  It presents a new perspective that can work opportunistically to re-frame the past.  That being said, we must permit that re-framing to happen.  And that can be awfully hard to do when we're still wrestling with unsettled feelings from the past.  

Was I making a selfish, irresponsible move or not? 

Being (Intentionally) Groomed

 

Throughout my boyhood ('till I left for college), I had my haircut at this establishment.  It all started when my dad brought me to his barber when I was very small (in this location), and it was that man whom I only recall cutting my hair throughout the late '70s / '80s (about every 6 weeks).

My dad's barber, Slyvester, was tall and handsome with permed, shoulder-length blonde locks (he resembled a blonde-version of Eddie Rabbitt).  He was always drinking herbal teas whilst popping vitamins (I had no idea what either of these were at the time).  Unfailingly, he had the top three buttons undone of his shirts (putting his thick, sandy blonde chest hair on full display).  He definitely looked like a rockstar (in my eyes) in spite of the fact that he leaned much more '70s than '80s.  (I was too young to know otherwise.)  To me, he was simply Slyvester, our barber, and I felt completely comfortable in his presence since he and this shop were so familiar.

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Like many barbers, Slyvester was chatty, and because there were 5-6 barbers who shared this open-air shop, he always kept his voice low to the point of it being a murmur.  

When Slyvester would bring up inappropriate topics (explicit homosexual sex scenes in studio films, finding & subsequently screening discarded gay porn VHS tapes, etc.), I'd absolutely no sense he was FIGURATIVELY grooming me.  Or, perhaps, in order to simply perpetuate arousal (his own).  He was so smooth and confident in how he relayed these weird tidbits of personal info to me (as if I was his confidante / best friend) that I had no idea there was really anything awry ('till much later).  Plus, it was all so very new and exciting!  I remember always coming away intrigued.

Hence, I can speak from personal experience.  This really happened to Rob.  Looking back, as a boy, I was a perfect target for being exploited in this regard due to my naivety / innocence / sense of security.

What eventually tipped me off (during my late teens) as to his abject creepiness had to do with (of all things) my pervasively thick neck hair.  Slyvester began commenting on it (repeatedly) as he'd use his electric trimmers to skillfully remove the yarny mass.  Taking into account how many necks he'd trimmed as a barber, it began to strike me odd that mine was as uniquely hairy as he implied.  (Spotlighting Slyvester's neck hair fetish?)

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Once I moved to Starkville in 1990 (college), I eventually found a local barber (female hair stylist to be exact) and began getting my hair cut there.  As such, my time with Slyvester diminished until eventually it ceased altogether.  As far as I know, my father continued to patronize Slyvester's barber chair for a few years longer until one day I recall him referring to "his new barber" (at this same shop).

What's really scary to me is how vulnerable (impressionable) I was to Slyvester's somewhat frequent yet inappropriate tales / commentary (most of which were biased towards homsex).  

The fact is children aren't equipped to properly adjudicate - for themselves - perpetrators / abusers.  Especially when their parents entrust them to said perps.  Please know that for me, it makes me angry to ruminate on this.  

As such, it's the primary reason Angie and I took extra precautions whilst leaving our children in church nurseries (while we attended Sunday School / worship), and never, ever allowed them to participate in sleepovers (under any circumstances).  From there, we forbade our children from "owning" smartphones 'till they were sixteen years old, and absolutely drew the line relative to their participation in social media of any ilk.  

In closing, with the ubiquity of sexually explicit material online, I urge parents to be that much more vigilant.  There are so many opportunities for children to be exploited, and it can happen right under parents' noses, at their schools, churches, daycares, barber shop.  

Regarding my situation with this barber, it would have made all the difference if my father had asked me firsthand what Sylvester and I dialogued about regularly, and from there, had the curiosity (& interrogation skills) to drill down further relative to drawing out the harrowing details.  Me being the verbose, curious boy I was, I've no doubt I would have appreciated the opportunity to confidently regurgitate what was being whispered routinely into my lowered ears.

Christmas Eve in My Hometown

 

There's so much to remember
No wonder I remember
Christmas Eve in my home town

'Cause there were carols in the square
Laughter everywhere
Couples kissing under the mistletoe

I can't help reminiscing
Knowing I'll be missing
Christmas Eve in my home town

Nothing can erase the mem'ries I embrace
Those familiar footprints upon the snow

There's so much to remember
No wonder I remember
Christmas Eve in my home town

I'd like to be there
Trimming the tree there
And there's a chance that I might

I can hear singing
Steeple bells ringing
Noel and Silent Night

Wise men journeyed far, guided by a star
But though I'm not a wise man, this I know

Through dreams and just pretending
I'm there and I'll be spen-ding
Christmas Eve in my home town

 

As I sit in the semi darkness my living room, surrounded by the warm glow of the lights emitting from the Christmas tree, my world is all at peace. Truly, it is my most favorite night of the entire year. It is Christmas Eve, that magically enchanting time when the world lies in stillness on the eve of our dear Savior's birth. With my kid safely tucked in bed dreaming sweet dreams of what Christmas day will bring, I once again savor the moment that I possess to steal a few hours of quiet solitude. With the fire going in the fireplace and my faithful little dog curled up in my lap, my soul is at peace, at least for this moment. Although many claim Christmas Day as their favorite time of the year, for me, Christmas Eve has always been that special moment that I look forward to all year, and savor when it finally arrives. As a child, I never really paid much attention to Christmas Eve. But as an adult, I eagerly look forward to the time when the nightfall approaches on that special evening each year. With the television playing in the background, I briefly close my eyes and store this precious moment safely within the depths of my memories, held there to look back on for years to come.

When I was growing up, I had a great childhood but there was not a lot of stability in my life when it came to putting down roots and staying in one place for an extended period. Due to the nature of my dad's job, we frequently moved around quite often and never seemed to stay in one location more than a few years.

When I was a kid, my parents owned a few LP records (left over relics from their teenage years in the 1970s) that I found myself fascinated with. One set of records that they owned was a six volume Christmas collection produced by Reader's Digest records in the 1970s. I have always loved Christmas music, and to this day, I still find myself playing Christmas music in in my office at work all day long beginning on the first of November. As a kid, I dearly loved that record set because it contained all the Christmas staples such as Elvis Presley's "Blue Christmas" and being Crosby's "White Christmas." Now, you must realize that this was in the time before Sirius XM, Amazon Music or Spotify. No, if I wanted to listen to Christmas music, this set of records presented my only opportunity to do so throughout the Christmas season. Sure, there might have been a radio station or two that played Christmas songs, but if I wanted Christmas music on demand, this was it.

As a kid, I remembered one song that caught my attention and I found myself listening to it over and over through the years. The song was Kate Smith's "Christmas Eve in My Hometown." I remember being fascinated by Ms. Smith's hauntingly beautiful contralto voice. I grew up in a day and age where there was no Wikipedia or even the Internet as we now know it. If you wanted to find out something, your only option pretty much was to go to the local library and look it up in the World Book Encyclopedia. As a result, I grew up never knowing who this woman with the magical voice was. I just knew that every Christmas I looked forward to hearing her sing of a place that I longed for in my heart but knew would never exist for me.

This October marked the 15th year of my wife and I living in what I now consider to be our "hometown" of sorts. Neither my wife or I had a stable childhood, and we seem to both have developed a sort of "PTSD" when it comes to moving as an adult. Perhaps that is why we have never left our town after 15 years (our entire married life)? We have been in our same house for 12 of our 15 years of marriage even though many of our friends have bought and sold, and are now in their second or third house. We have had the same dog for 14 years. I have had the same old Ford truck for 12 years. Are you seeing a pattern here? Stability. Hanging on. Putting down roots. Finding a hometown.

But a strange thing happened a few years ago. I began to realize that people and places change, and nothing stays the same. To think that everything would stay the same forever goes against the very law of nature. When I was growing up, my late grandparents lived down in Crystal Springs, Mississippi. My grandmother's house, built in 1890, was the one constant in my life. I spent every holiday there as well as much time each summer. In fact, my aunt still lives in the house to this day, so it remains in the family. When I was growing up, some of my happiest memories were centered around that house and that town. Even though I never physically lived in Crystal Springs, Mississippi, it was such a constant in my life that it became sort of a pseudo-hometown of sorts for me. In fact, my wife and I were even married in that town in my late grandmother's home church. After my grandmother passed away in 2010 and my late grandfather moved in with his sister at her house in Terry, Mississippi (where he lived until his passing in 2015), I never went back to my late grandmother's house much, if at all. It was just not the same and it was too difficult for me. Many years passed and I did not go back down to Crystal Springs Mississippi at all. The one or two times I did go back down there to visit, nothing seemed as I remembered it. People had died, and places were gone.

Life is a strange thing. After my mother finally retired a few years back, she and my dad found a house that they wanted to buy down in Crystal Springs and decided to move back to my mother's hometown. Ironically, it is right around the corner from my late grandmother's house. Life had come full circle and I now had more of a reason to visit the town that had meant so much to me growing up.

Like life, memory is also a strange thing. When you go back and attempt to revisit places and scenes from your past, you find that they simply do not exist anymore. Indeed, the only place that they exist anymore is within the dim, cobwebby recesses of your imagination. Although we are making new memories down in Crystal Springs, Mississippi, it will never be the same as it was in the 1980’s and 1990’s.

As I sit back in my chair, I turn my attention back to “A Christmas Carol” playing on the television. Sadie adjusts herself as she nudges closer and sighs before drifting off to a doggie dream. My wife is sitting close by, drinking hot cocoa. And my son is fast asleep in his bed, dreaming happy thoughts of what tomorrow will bring.

The Christmas Eve of now looks different the Christmas Eve of my past. And in the future, I’m sure that it will look different than it does now. But no matter, what, Christmas Eve will always be my favorite night of the year. It’s that magical time where the past, present, and future all collide together. It’s the eve of my savior’s birth, and a time where I am blessed and happy to be alive.

You can never physically go back to a moment in time. Even if you were blessed to have had a stable, steady hometown while growing up, it will not be the same when you’re 42 as it was when you were 12. But Christmas Eve in my Hometown still exists. It exists in all the happy moments in time, which gather and come rushing forth in unison to greet me on that most special night of the year. Christmas Eve in my hometown is NOW. It is going to the candlelight service at church with my family. It is coming home to eat taco soup as we watch a Christmas movie before putting my son to bed. It is staying up with my wife to watch television in the dark on Christmas Eve.

One day, these joyful moments of the present will also be gone. And I’ll long for them with as much fervor as I do for the years spent at my grandmother’s. But they’ll be safe. They’ll be a part of the memories stored in those dim, cobwebby recesses of my memory. And I’ll sit back and smile once more. Christmas Eve in my Hometown exists. It exists my in my heart. As Ms. Smith sings:

 

“Through dreams and just pretending

I'm there and I'll be spending

Christmas Eve in my home town”

My Sam's Club Lingerie

Throughout my married life (26+ years!), I've shopped at Sam's Club (warehouse club that competes with Costco's) for everything I possibly can, though I've never stooped so far as to actually purchase clothing there ('till recently).  Earlier this year, I actually bought a bag of basic ankle-high (white cotton) socks, and though I purchased a too small "size range", I was surprisingly pleased with not only their price but their wearability.

In the same vein as my socks, I've always been hard on my underwear (skivvies), though it's important to know that I DO change my underwear daily (I've heard of guys who forego this hygienic 24-hour habit).  Please know, dear reader, the thought of repeat-wearing my briefs is not at all appealing to me.

Keeping that in mind, I'd executed an underwear purge a few months back (discarding the too stained / too holey ones) and found myself down to the bare minimum quantity (daily wear!).  As such, I'd sometimes open my undies drawer, post-morning shower, and find the "men's lingerie" section depleted.  Therefore, in order to not have to go through the day covertly posing as a porn model (sans Jockeys), I'd bolt to the laundry room anxiously in an attempt to locate some fresh whitie-tighties.  

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Sam's Club is the bastion of cheap.  If you were looking for the most uncool place within our free enterprise society to admit to being a patron, it would be Sam's Club.  It screams cornpone, folksy to the same degree that Neiman Marcus decrees established ritz.  At Sam's Club, there's definitely no valet parking.  In fact, there aren't even any shopping bags.  It's just sealed concrete floors, asphalt paving (for miles), harsh overhead lighting (suspended by chain link from the exposed bar joists) and supersized signage (glued-on vinyl letters) displaying words like:

FROZEN

REFRIGERATED

RESTROOMS

VISION

PHARMACY

SNACKS

VARIOUS QUOTES FROM SAM WALTON'S WIFE

So, you guessed it.  I decided to purchase some replacement underwear from Sam's Club as a follow-up to my aforementioned sock buying success.  And, I must admit, these briefs are brief.  They're absolutely no frills (there's no tag, only silk-screened text directly on the fabric).  But that's okay.  I'm not shopping at a department store or even an outlet retailer.  No, this is Sam's Club.

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Inevitably, when I was growing up in Bob & Darlene's household, my father would forgo re-dressing himself after exiting the master bedroom after a long day at work (he was a salesman).  To be more specific, he wore a coat and tie to the office most days (even on hot, humid summer days), therefore the very first thing he'd do whilst arriving home was go straight to my parents' bedroom to shed his "uniform".  At the same time, he inevitably had a lot on his mind that he wanted to share with us (mostly my mom), having been away throughout the workday.  Hence, in lieu of re-dressing into his "around the house attire" (depending on the season) prior to exiting the master bedroom (& walking back to the other end of our ranch house), he'd - more often than not - prance back into the kitchen / den in nothing but his skivvies, passionately chatting incessantly about this or that.  

And this was simply due to him not having the wherewithal to take a few additional needed minutes (seconds?) to re-dress himself prior to engaging with my mother and me.

Thankfully, five to ten minutes later, he would return again to the master bedroom and put on some clothes.  In many ways, this bizarre routine was like watching a misplaced stage performer abruptly enter and exit repeatedly - between scenes - sans any actual costume change.  Call it a dress rehearsal sans dress.

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Of course, like father, like son.  

I do the exact same thing many a workday.  Just as I described my father doing when I was a boy.  And what's truly hilarious regarding my situation is our master bedroom is much closer to our home's living space(s) than what my dad dealt with.  

And I have to admit, this pedigreed zaniness has been going on for quite a long while.  Embarrassing my children especially, just as my father did to me.

As such, at some point last week, Angie let me in on an observation that my middle daughter made to her, in private, relative to my perpetual "brief" antics.  Apparently, she divulged to her that "dad's new underwear is practically see-through".  

Practically.  

Practically?

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So, this leads me to believe that Mr. Sam Walton had at least one additional interest besides making boatloads of money selling discounted cereal and toilet bowl cleaner.  

Now, today, I actually see my bi-monthly Sam's Club shopping experience a little differently.  Yes, I'm grateful for the low prices and the myriad of merchandise available to purchase (in bulk), but now too, I'm exceedingly pleased to be in on Sam's little secret.  

Who'd a thunk?  Sexy Sam.  You bad boy you.

Pivotal Moments

My current Silas had lunch with me (under the guise of two old friends catching up) back in April and it was timely.  In spite of me having looped him in prior (many years before last April) to what Samson Society was, where it met, etc., he'd made no movement towards; but that all changed last April.  We ate, he confessed (conceptually) to needing what it offered, and the next thing I knew, he'd drank the Samson Kool-Aid (down to the very last drop!).  Today, he feels like my younger brother.  Growing up - so to speak - before my very eyes within the same community I did.  Moment by moment.  Day after day.  Week after week.  Month after month.  My hope is he'll stick with it for as long as it "takes" (for him).  And based on what I'm witnessing so far, that means we're in for a longstanding ride.

Earlier in the year (than April), I attended a regional Samson Society retreat (over the course of one weekend) on the Alabama coast.  I arrived earlier than most of the +/-15 men, and as a result, I was very close to having an exclusive pick of where I wished to bunk.  Not long thereafter, I was given the opportunity to work hard to befriend the second guy who also chose the room I had (he settled into his bunk +/-30 minutes or so after I did).  Today, Ben and I have chatted most weeks - at least twice - at the same time each day, and this agreed upon daily dialogue started soon thereafter said regional Samson retreat (as a result of me agreeing to be his Silas).  At the very beginning of said agreement, I asked that we loop his sweet (second) wife (she's a pastor) in, and he agreed.  I found her to be fully supportive and thoughtful.  Therefore, after that formality, he and I embarked, and we haven't looked back.  

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Samson Society provides fodder for guys like me who live and breathe pivots / pivotal moments.  Finding opportunities to altruistically extract other men's stories whilst intentionally reciprocating my own has been the most effective means for me to work my recovery.  And this is grounded in the notion of interrupting my tendency to stay isolated within my own head. 

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One of the most unassumingly pivotal moments in my childhood occurred during the summer prior to my sixth-grade year.  My best friend, Johnny, and I were latchkey kids at this time.  Specifically, he and I were immensely enjoying his parentless house (I suppose his mom and stepdad were both working during the day) while we were out of school.  I had just turned 12 while Johnny was 13(?).  Us two, combined with his younger brother, (who was around 8-9) prematurely had the place to ourselves.  

During one of these days whilst playing there at his abode, I jokingly commented to Johnny that he smelled bad.  And more than likely, I'd made this observation while he and I were grossly engaged in some massive Legos build (he and I were Lego fanatics).  Whatever the activity, it had to have put us within close enough proximity for me to get a heady sniff of my friend's boystench.

You'll recall that Johnny was at least one year older than I.  Hence, he was moving headlong into puberty whereas I was on the leading edge.  Plus, Johnny was athletic (track, soccer, golf) which gave him an excuse to be out of doors / physically active often.  Perhaps these things - combined - naturally rendered him odorous on this laidback summer morning.

In response to my candor, Johnny immediately decided to bathe.  I knew this because he went straight to the hall loo and began running a bath.  I remember thinking this a tad extreme at the time, but having no adult supervision whatsoever, the possibilities seemed almost limitless as to how we spent our time.  Coupled with that was Johnny's independence.  I'd known for a while that his household wasn't structured like mine.  Johnny did and subsequently was capable of handling any and all household duties on his own (cooking, cleaning) far more readily than I could even imagine doing at this time in my life.  All because he was expected to (& because he did them quite well).

Not much time had passed before I heard Johnny call out to me.  This I found odd, but he was my best friend, therefore I went to the door and answered him.  He instructed me to open it.  I did and found him standing up naked in the tub.  Foams of soap suds were dripping off of his muscular frame as he inquired curtly about how he smelled now.  

As you might imagine, this made for an awkward moment.  For I wasn't completely sure what was going on to motivate him as such.

In response, I rolled my eyes before quickly shut the door and returning to whatever I was playing before, trying all the while to reset my brain relative to what had just occurred.

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What did occur during that pivotal event that's now comprehendible?  

Whilst looking back, I came to realize that Johnny had something I did not, and that was security in his own boyhood masculinity.  And this had less to do with his physical build (which I clearly was exposed to as described), though that did attribute to it somewhat.  In essence, it was his willingness to nonchalantly expose his naked body to me - as his best friend - in jest.  This clearly demonstrated a vast difference between the two of us.

Keyword being nonchalantly.  

Another descriptor could be confidently.

Johnny confidently went through with this without batting an eye.  And it wasn't to prove himself / show off.  No, he was simply behaving with no regard to him being judged through anyone else's eyes other than someone WHO he believed wholeheartedly WAS IDENTICAL TO HIM (another boy who was a close, safe friend).

But what he didn't realize (or did he?) was that was simply not the case.  For I had none of the peace of mind that he so smoothly displayed relative to my own boyhood masculinity.

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As a boy, I had not one iota of satisfaction relative to my masculinity.  At this time, it wasn't as if I felt feminine or wanted to be feminine.  No.  Instead of this, I was simply nothing except Rob.  

I wasn't arrogant enough to look down on other boys who were no doubt marinating normally in their masculinity, but I did find them secretly intimidating.  Johnny was different in this regard.  For he'd lost his biological father to a tragic boating accident years prior to our latchkey summer.  As a result, he'd been held back in school.  His hard luck resulted in my good fortune as we became fast friends almost at day one of my / our third-grade year.  

I knew at the time of this bathroom incident that I was heading towards adolescence, and I dreaded it.  Besides, Johnny, the closest childhood family friend I'd had was a cousin who lived in the MS Delta.  She and I had been close throughout my elementary school years 'till she became a teen (she was four years older).  From there, everything changed for the worse as she shunned me outright seemingly overnight.  Deep down, I sensed that this too may very well happen between Johnny and I.

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Let me fast forward to an episode in high school involving Johnny that I'm now convinced was also just as pivotal; for it served to validate Rob's masculinity in a way that I simply did not see coming.  This event was borne out of convenience and necessity.  Two motivators that, I believe, play a sizable role in pivotal moments within many men's lives.

Not long after the latchkey summer that I described above, Johnny's family moved away.  Their house was only one suburban block from our home; therefore I was constantly reminded of his absence as we drove by.  I did visit him on one occasion within their new digs (during our sixth-grade year), but otherwise, we'd no contact going forward.  The experience wasn't noteworthy whatsoever for it was clear that Johnny had settled in nicely to his new (now mobile home) paradigm sans Rob.

Once adolescence reared its head for me, I expectantly protested silently.  I can remember shaving my chest hair off of my sternum religiously every week whilst repeatedly failing to come to grips with how worthless I felt all around as a teenage boy.  Looking back now on this period of my life, it was apparent that I'd absolutely missed out on my aforementioned validation.  As a result, I simply attempted to keep to myself and survive in lieu of seek it out of my own accord.

One thing that brought immeasurable joy to me as a teenager was music.  Whether I was listening, singing or dancing to it, I found a means to escape reality whilst emoting fully.  Music could transport me to another place instantaneously, and I loved that.  As a result of listening to so much music, I became a self-taught amateur vocalist.  Eventually, opportunities arrived for me to use this skillset within our church's youth choir.  And this is where yet another isolated juncture with Johnny gained too pivotal significance for such a time as that.

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After coolly trying out for a key role in the youth choir musical (at our megachurch, First Baptist Church Jackson) during the fall of '89, it became apparent that I was the shoe in as one of the leads.  

As part of my costume for this musical, I needed to wear a letter jacket (as did most everyone else).  

Who could I borrow a letter jacket from?

You must know that by this time, Johnny and his family had moved back into their abode that they'd left behind (& subsequently rented out) during our elementary school years.  And though Johnny was now attending a separate school than I was, he and I had spoken briefly, exchanging formalities only, not long after I became aware of his return.

As you might imagine, he'd continued to excel athletically throughout high school, playing a number of varsity sports, but primarily his focus was track and field.  As such, this is what he lettered in.  

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I remember, like it was yesterday, the experience of trying on his letter jacket there out on the driveway of his home.  For I'd ridden my motor scooter down to his house in order to retrieve it.  The weightiness of it was surprising as I pulled it over my shoulders; for it blanketed me perfectly.  

From there, after coaxing his younger brother off of my Honda Elite, I rode home wearing it on that cool autumn evening.  

I must have held on to his jacket for at least a month since I needed it each time we executed dress rehearsals or performed (there were multiple performances at various churches throughout the Jackson Metro).  As a result, it didn't take long for the mystique of Johnny's jacket to wear off somewhat, but what didn't subside was my memory of those initial few fortuitous minutes out on his driveway.  For it was those moments where something special had occurred. 

There was something divine about being given Johnny's letter jacket, but especially so by Johnny himself.  All the while whilst out on the driveway of that same nondescript ranch house in Madison, Mississippi.  Accompanying that transfer was me trying on the garment and recognizing how it too fit Rob well.  Even though I wasn't Johnny nor had Johnny's athletic attributes to any degree (I was the drum major in the marching band and a soloist in the church youth choir, for pete's sake).  

It's also important to note that I was keenly aware of Johnny's trusting me with his jacket being hinged on our childhood friendship and the experiences we both remembered so fondly (yet never had actually acknowledged / spoken about since).  For had those never occurred, there would have been no relational foundation between us to build upon all those years later.  

In essence, Johnny's masculine validation was surefooted / substantial enough for the both of us, and, I believe, he ALWAYS KNEW THAT about himself.  That's the lesson here.  As a result, he felt so moved - opportunistically - to share it with Rob when I took the opportunity / made the move to receive it. 

And oh my goodness, did it ever make an impact on me subconsciously.  Like an armor it became.  An armor that's never left me.  

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Sex between men, for Rob, has always been about validating masculinity within an extremely perverted, sinful way.  Many men who struggle with unwanted same-sex attraction haven't been properly validated.  That's me for sure.  Therefore, this became the root of my inability to see any innate masculine value. 

But as you've read here, there have been pivotal moments where enough of this has occurred indirectly to undergird me in ways that truly were / have been life changing.  Forcing me to look at myself differently.  Encouraging hope and fortitude that simply never would have been there before. 

Lagniappe