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)

Is A Loved One / Friend / Professional Colleague Attempting To Drive A Wedge Between You & A Third Relational Leg (Parent / Common Friend / Professional Colleague or Bossman)? Read On.

Firstly, what is a relational wedge?  

It's an intentional (tangential) relational sabotaging technique used by individuals who feel a grievance has occurred between them and someone they're close to.  In tandem, these individuals often feel intensely justified to drive said wedge, but more often than not, their justification is only rooted in overwhelming negative feelings towards the griever (inflictor of emotional pain).  

But what's unique about wedges is that by definition, there must be at least three closely relationed individuals involved.

1.  The party who experienced the grievance

2.  The griever

[INSERT (POTENTIAL) WEDGE HERE]

3.  The friend / parent / coworker, etc. of both party 1 & 2. 

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What's unusual about some relational wedges is they're actually driven (attempted) forth between child & parent (via the opposing parent).  Why make the effort to do this?  Especially considering the baked-in longevity (stickiness tied to all familial relations) therein.  Nonetheless, let's say the parents are divorced, and now living separately.  And let's assume the divorce didn't occur amiably (as if any truly do).  Divorcee #1 can undoubtedly feel obliged / justified to drive a wedge between the child(ren) and divorcee #2, but just because it feels correct to follow through doesn't mean it's the smartest move long-term.

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A quick (decades old) story:

My first (large-scale, by MS standards) architecture firm job saw me hired on in '96 (by one of the four owners) who just happened to have - somewhat recently - remarried (to one of his employees / my now colleague).  His new honey was almost a decade older than he, and this woman (also a divorcee) had quite the chip on her shoulder (woman scorned...).  And to top that off, she was simply intimidating to boot (physically large / virago - professionally & otherwise).  

This woman is who first introduced me to the "art of driving wedges" within a vocational setting.  As such, as I became more comfortable with my role as an intern, she actively sought to weaken my professional / personal relationship with her husband via wedge driving.  Some of this was subtle but as my tenure increased, it only became more pronounced, especially considering how willing her husband (my boss) was to entertain her drivel.  Nonetheless, I lost more and more respect for both parties as the expected emotional exhaustion mounted.

As I'm sure you realize, I had no clue what I would be stepping into when I took this internship position.  All I knew was I needed employment (to serve as advancement towards eventually sitting for the Architectural Registration Exam).  But, man oh man, did I ever experience so much more.  All thanks to my boss's bed partner.  It was truly soap opera-like.  Yet, I'm so thankful to have walked through this young man experience.  Trial by fire, if you know what I mean.

A quick (much more recent) story (that went down a few years prior to the COVID-19 pandemic):

After coming alongside a newcomer (in-person Samson meeting attendee) that had been ushered / invited in by an old friend, this clinically depressed young man did such the unexpected by effectively driving a wedge between me and two other Samson brothers (+/-18 months into our friendship).  Keep in mind that I was considerably older than these guys.  Hence, their stage of life was so very different than my own.  But too, #1 wasn't from Mississippi, and as such, made it very clear how loathed he was as a "temporary resident".  

As such, I believe I became (to him) sort of a harbinger of all things Mississippi (immediately following my perceived grievance towards him).  As such, I believe, this further motivated him to drive that wedge as deep as he possibly could.

And as a result, just a short year later, that wedge had successfully metastasized into deep seated paranoia regarding Rob.  From there, the other longstanding Samson friendship imploded unexpectedly (yet spectacularly). 

Who would have imagined something like this happening within the auspices of Samson Society? 

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Once wedges are driven / established and the emotional / relational fallout occurs (as a result), you have a choice to make.

A.  Fight for the relationship's (between all THREE parties) "recalibration" ("equalization").  

B.  Politely walk away from the other two parties (as if no such wedge driving had occurred).

If you choose A, you're going to have to successfully bring all everyone together in order for you to insist on a "clearing of the air".  Sometimes this is impossible.  But, if it is, and you're successful in doing so, this can become a heated / passionate discussion that's likely going to deeply impact the standing (future trustworthiness) of #1 (the wedge driver) in light of the relationship's future.  Nevertheless, reconciliation is always a possibility, but especially so within Christian circles.

If you choose B, you're going to need to forgive these folks quickly, completely and quietly whilst moving on.  Why?  There's a good chance you'll bump into these (it's a small world) down the road.  In other words, cut your losses and exit stage left.  

Personally, I've done both and each is hard.  Mostly because you're the victim, therefore not only are you hurting as such but from there, you're saddled with following through with one of these two not at all easy relational choices (which only adds to the pain).

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Lastly, if you dear reader are or have found yourself as a #1 (wedge driver), give yourself some slack.  Relationships are filled with heady emotions.  Plus, talk is cheap.  Those two combined with our baked-in sin nature can make wedge driving (at times) almost impossible to revengefully / deceitfully resist.  Believe me, I speak from experience.

That Hot, Sexy Runner: Reversing The Clock By 20 Years...

Spring has sprung in Mississippi.  

During my drive home yesterday, 3/17 (I was within two miles of the house), I came upon a runner.  And not any runner, mind you.  This early to mid-30s man was at his physical peak.  And shirtless to boot!

The blind (topography) intersection he was running through was decidedly dangerous for both motorists & pedestrians, considering the lack of sidewalks much less curb and gutters.  Nonetheless, he was front and center of those of us behind the wheel as he sashayed his muscular, tanned frame, weaving in & out of the end-of-the-business-day traffic confidently.

I was close enough to deduce that his physique was not unlike any number of Special Forces soldiers (in spite of the 800-mile distance to Fort Bragg from Flowood, MS).  Perhaps, as such, he'd very much lost his way.

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A close Coonass (I love this man) friend of mine made the recent comment that he was in a much better place today than a month ago.  His thoughtful prose is always appreciated.

I have been chewing on that outlook for days now.  For I find it so very insightful as to how we should consider our recovery journey:  on a timeline.

If I were to turn back the clock twenty years, I'd be 32, married for 8 years with one child (toddler).  I'd be floundering (very, very bored with the work) at my first career-building architecture job and deeply, deeply entrenched (numerous hours a day) in gay porn's poison (both at work and at home via the www).  My physical health at this time was a non-priority in my life, and my walk with God also was on autopilot.  My sweet wife, Angie, was home with Babyone and only beginning to find side hustles (executable from home) to supplement her husband's meager income.  And just so you know, I had just relinquished my part-time gig as janitor at the architecture firm that I was employed at full-time.  The shame I felt for having to take on this humiliating (10-month) after hours gig was still - at this time - weighing heavy on my 32-year-old self.

To sum it up, I was in an extremely vulnerable / isolated place during this time of my life.  There was so much negative going on inside my head.  Negative that was terribly sensitive to even the most minute incendiary catalyst.

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Now then.  Let's drop my 32-year-old sorry ass self into the happenstance situation I encountered during my drive home yesterday, (3/17).

First and foremost, I would have instantaneously seen the situation for what it was to me at the time.  An opportunity to exploit.  High-definition mental snapshots of the shirtless stud would have ensued (as I steadied my glare), and from there, I would have had my lust fodder for the following week plus.  

Simultaneously, tremendous shame regarding my desire for this man would latch onto me as if it had been all along ready and waiting within my passenger seat.  These feelings would belittle and diminish me, no matter how well the hours of the day prior had unfurled.  As a result, a tremendous awareness of my feeling intensely isolated would become my front and center state of mind.    

Having identified an opportunity, I would then utilize my memorized photos / experience therein to cope (via heady sexual fantasy).  That opportunity likely would be after my sweet wife was asleep later on that evening.  The fantasies I would concoct would harken back to the very same ones from my adolescence (stitched together neatly through time).  All of those involved me being platonically pursued by masculine, athletically built men under the guise of sexual attraction / lust.

And this, my friends, is voyeurism.  And voyeurism is sin.

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The most noteworthy aspect of my 20-year-younger self - in regard to this spontaneous encounter - would be how specifically captivated he'd be.  It would be as if he were nothing but a void or black hole.  A void / black hole constantly seeking to be filled up via the attention / desire of other, only viewed from a distance, men.  

This was my life back then.  I managed it the best I knew how, but frankly, it was my chronic isolation that left me stuck therein.  

Yet, throughout, I had no idea how not to be isolated nor what it might look like were I not.  For this was and always had been my normal.  Especially from the standpoint of being whipsawed in and out of my routine relative to who / whom I might encounter circumstantially.

Certain men were in complete control of Rob.  And I knew of no other way to exist.  It truly sucked.

Thanks be to God that I'm in a much better place today than I was twenty years ago.

A Powerful Stream Of Piss

One way to ensure high pressure urination is to hold it in for a while.  Another way is to acquiesce one's genitals into their "best" (most pleasurable) behavior (coitus).  & I don't say that in jest.  Everyone (ideally) hopes to show their lover a good time when the time comes (sorry).  And by that very hopeful goal / definition, the resulting acidic release will no doubt be impressive.   

But can we not also hedge this truth up against the idealism put on display whilst attempting to kindle a new friendship?  And in line with that, the release after the fact, once we finally allow ourselves to exhale / let out our gut?

Friendships are built over time, but firstly, they must be initiated by someone.  From there, an intimate encounter must occur where both parties participate in equal measure.  Perhaps this is a "eat / meet up", golf outing, hunting, fishing, etc.  Whatever is of interest to both parties.  Whether it's individuals or entire clans.

And this encounter takes a lot of energy.  For most everyone wants to put their best foot forward.  At least initially.  Too, there's simply the focus required to perform versus the after-the-fact involuntary exercise of relieving oneself (letting one's hair down).

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Now, I realize not everyone agrees with this "Jekyll / Hyde" approach to relational charm 100%.  Some would rather mix & match here in order to "present more authentically".  But for me, I typically do gravitate towards charm versus gravitas as a first priority.  And I believe that has something to do with my southern upbringing. 

For a beautifully set table says a lot, don't you think? 

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Last summer, I began to notice some very out-of-the-ordinary activity at one of our neighbors' homes.  And mostly this was due to my years-long knowledge that this abode was a rental, and a very ugly (architecturally) rental at that, situated on a less-than-ideal lot.  Surprisingly, whomever was now living there had taken an interest in its upkeep!  I could hear lawn equipment in full swing combined with the impossible to miss minor upgrades such as outdoor string lights draped above the back porch, etc.   

As a result, I made a point to drop by and introduce myself.  I was delighted to find the family to be engaging and kind, and they seemed deeply grateful for the handshake / welcome from my oldest daughter and me.  Eventually, a formal invite to dinner (at our abode across the street) was delivered, but it didn't actually occur (due to their rigorous family schedule) 'till right at the tail end of last year.   

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What made this all the more significant was the history of homeowners / tenants who'd resided within that ugly eyesore of a home.  A history that mostly consisted of difficulties / disappointments that we were keen to forget.  Hence, a fresh start was upon us, and we were elated.

Eventually, mid-December came.  I remember coming home from work early to assist everyone for our guests' (Dad / mom / son / teenage daughter) Friday night arrival.

A quick sidenote:  What I hadn't accounted for was the time lapsed (+/-6 months) since making first (brief) contact with this white, middle-class fam.  Hence, they'd now truly settled into their rental with its history / shortcomings having soaked in thoroughly.  

As such, they were obviously affected overall due to the limitations / permutations of their temporary home (they were / are actively planning / constructing a rural homestead far and away from our suburban enclave).

After their departure (they hung out with us for about 90 minutes), I hoped forlornly that they'd take up our offer to visit our church, especially considering the Xmas season being upon us.  

They didn't.

What we did learn was how vital it was for the majority of the clan to escape their rental home via weekend deer hunting treks to south MS (it's important to know that both children wore camouflage attire to our dinner party).  

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The hardest part about this failed attempt to gain newfound friends was knowing that it wasn't us.  It was their circumstances that kept them from connecting therein.  For that "cursed" house simply had run its accelerated course as it pertained to both their immediate and long-term outlook.  And it did so via being a constant reminder of their transient status combined with its less-than-ideal living conditions for themselves + their pets.  

Hence, we felt unfairly (though only tangentially) sort of responsible - by proxy - of their discomfort in spite of our attempts to be neighborly.  

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Samson Society is well represented by this family's temporary plight.  It's a (hopefully) pivot point to a better place.   

But what's interesting therein is, in terms of the initial Samson Society intro (of yourself), it's the urination that's most vital versus any semblance of presentation performance (formalities).  And some of us are better at this than others.  

I love this...

In closing, remember where you once were, my Samson brother, when you first stepped foot into a meeting.  As such, encourage newbies to pee, all the more, 'till they've fully relieved themselves.  And this may take months, if not years, of being listened to.  For their troubles didn't happen overnight, and it will take time for their permanent / new home to be planned / constructed.   

As such, love them where they're at, patiently waiting for them to realize / recognize that you were once right there too.   

Are You Willing To Accept Responsibility For What You've Done? (It Should Be A Priority Whilst In Recovery. Pretending / Downplaying The Truth Of What You've Done Leads To A Dead End / False Narrative.)

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Do You Fear God?

When I began to realize how deliberately indulging lust was (at the precipice of middle school), this is when I began to truly fear God.  Up until then, I had no real reason to fear him, though I did believe he existed and that our world had been / continued to be ordered via his will.  

My bio father was an enforcer of rules within our home, though most of those were unspoken expectations that simply centered around me being obedient to my parents' commands (sans any sardonic commentary).  As I aged, he understandably pulled back therein (in proportion to my teenage emotional retreat), becoming more and more distant as any sort of active guidepost / leader within my life (he was consistently present / reliably routine). 

Therefore eventually, my then new fear of God also morphed into need.  That being direction for not only managing my depravity but for my life overall.  For my penchant for lust was only ramping up / becoming more pervasive as a go-to private entertainment escape.

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We've had the good fortune to spend some quality time with new friends over the holidays.  One of the distinct differences that I've clued into therein is the lack of God fear within these lovely human beings.  And as a Christian, this is hard for me to relate to.  For I begin wondering, am I more depraved than most, or is this simply tied to me attempting to be God (judge) with or without any true accuracy (or some combination therein)?

I read my Bible regularly.  I pray regularly.  I enjoy both of these things immensely.  Right now, I'm reading through the book of Ezekiel.  In fact, I just finished chapter 23.  If you've never read Ezekiel 23, it's essentially a brutally descriptive / explicitly pornographic allegory of two people groups / physical places and God's utter disgust with their chronic debauchery (lack of fear).  

In tandem with this, I'm undergoing some very intense personal recovery work right here during the holidays.  Recovery work inspired by some of Mr. Andrew Bauman's teachings at the '24 Samson Summit.

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In closing, church is really important to me as well.  Why?  Because of its representation as Christ's bride combined with all the good (that I've experienced) from being involved within a local body of believers.  Much of the book of Acts focuses on the early Christian church.  If you're a Bible-loving Christian, wouldn't you work hard to find / invest within a local church (even if you're single) that serves you / allows you to serve others well?

I'm certainly not anymore depraved than the average Joe, but I am much more prone to ruminate on this part of myself (I have to believe).  

At times, a deep-seated sense of worthlessness has taken root, over the years, as a result of this.  

Were I less inclined to follow This Path, I don't believe fear would ever reside within the same sentence as God, therefore I'm very much at peace with remembering my need for salvation and, in turn, how deliberately rebellious my heart can be as any sort of almanac for my life.  

Lagniappe:

When Seduction / Sexual Conquest Fuel A Man's Masculinity Engine / "Boys Will Be Boys"

Perhaps you've heard the term "serial adulterer".  Or perhaps "womanizer".  Numerous high-profile entertainers (TV, film, music, sports) are labeled as such.  And that makes sense.  They're entertainers.  Suave.  Confident.  And oftentimes, very, very professionally successful (or at least aspiring / appearing to be).  

Have you ever thought of intercourse as calisthenics?  

These men don't but considering the alleged amount of coitus they're participating in...

Very few of these entertainment idols speak of regretting their impropriety / disinterest in monogamy.  And I believe it has a lot to do with how intricately linked their sense of / purposefulness in masculinity is to successfully seducing / bedding women (&/or men).

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So, what fuels these serial seducers?  Are they addicts?  Are their libidos truly that demanding?

When I was in high school, television news magazines (not including the mainstays like "60 Minutes" & "20/20") were becoming more and more ubiquitous.  As such, their topics were, in turn, becoming more liberal-minded (eyebrow-raising) as they competed for viewership.  One such episode featured a group of (white) teenage jocks who were brash enough, as it pertained to their underhanded "fuckpoints system", to be filmed touting their primary role (masculine identity) as young, sexually astute bucks. 

Because it was a TV news magazine, besides the expected headshot interviews, there was footage of the studs doing what studs do best:  looking studly.  Hence, they were weightlifting in the gym / competing on sports teams, driving their trucks around town but mostly they were collectively identifying women that they wished to seduce / bed (all the while updating their stats regarding their supposed lays).  

The "fuckpoints systems" they weren't at all shy about disclosing to the broadcast journalist who was responsible for the piece.  And when they were questioned as to their chauvinistic outlook, they brashly declared that "women longed to be fucked by a man".  And they said this with such conviction that the viewer came close to believing it.

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So, is that true?  

I know MARRIED men who're well into their Medicare years who're steadily connecting with women (initially online) who're absolutely interested in dialoguing about their sexual desires.  All in anticipation of performing sexually - to one degree or another - for these old fuckers.  

Keep in mind though that many of these whores receive some form of payment for access to their wet vaginas.  And though it may not feel transactional initially, it almost always ends up as such.

Ultimately though, the Medicare (sugardaddy) man gets one more score.  Just as if he's still playing the "fuckpoints game" from his younger limelit days past.

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All this that I'm describing is simply modus operandi.  And I would argue, it's the most deeply ingrained and therefore destructive motivator towards compulsive sexual sin.  For it bridges the man's brain to his genitalia and that bridge is distinctly tied to his "masculine purpose".  

And let's not forget that masculinity is THE most influential force on planet Earth (other than perhaps gravity).

This MO isn't one that's discussed within the Samson Society.  Why?  It's too taboo, seemingly stereotypical, etc.  Plus, our Heavenly Father / God's son is presented in the masculine.  Who cares to even imply that certain (hypersexual) degrees of masculinity equate directly to - to some degree or another - God's very creation in man himself?

Therefore...

You will hear the word "sex addict" an awful lot along with "triggers" within this community.  "Trauma" is mentioned often as well.  These words tamp down chronic (ingrained / hardwired) illicit behavior(s) into something figurative / digital that can be easily quantified / isolated.  

"Masculine purpose" is just too unclinical.  Too saturated within the entirety of the idea of the man himself.  His core ideals, his physical presence, his understanding / comprehension of women. His core drive(rs).  Yikes.

Hence, it's too much of an individualistic minefield to even consider approaching.

Therefore, what can be done?

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Years ago, a white bread Mormon Samson guy approached me (w/ tenacity) regarding his desire for me to serve him as his Silas.  This man was in his early 30s, reared in both Utah and California, whereas the latter was where he and his young family (Latino wife & preschool daughter) resided presently.  I believe he specifically chose me due to my specific same-sex attraction story and how antithetical it was to his own MO (but this is just speculation on my part).

His draw to porn was directly tied to his "masculine purpose", but that purpose was masked underneath a rigorously established religious identity.  This "masculine purpose" was (birthed during his teen years) rooted in (of all things for a clean-cut Mormon) his adoration for gangsta rap & culture.  And from there, rich, combustible fuel was found (masculine identity) in the specific form of Latino / black women who acquiesce to the gangsta rap aesthetic / lifestyle (he mostly found these in music videos / online porn). 

This / these women are what this man longed to consume in light of his "masculine purpose".  And I believe he did so in order to repetitively confirm / affirm that purpose.  

It was wildly bizarre attempting to walk with this devout, church-going Mormon.  Eventually, upon the apparentness of us continually going in circles regarding his recovery, I had to decouple.  For I knew I was in way over my head.

For whom was I to stand in the way of the very engine that fueled his sense of masculinity?

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My heart hurts for these men.  

If you're interested in learning more, simply read Saint Augustine's autobio.  And from there, be encouraged.  God rescues all manner of men from compulsive sexual sin.  But especially so, men like these.  Ultimately, a supernatural reordering of priorities is required.  A reordering that leaves intact a man's masculine purpose whilst allowing him to fuel up that purpose outside of the hedonistic physical / sexual norms that our culture so celebrates.

Captivated By Masculinity (+ Baritone Voices)

Tuesday, (11/26) my youngest daughter and I screened "Gladiator II" at our local cinema.  Interestingly enough, "Gladiator I" was released in 2000 when I was 28 years old.  Back then, I was absolutely captivated by masculinity.  To the point that seeing a film that so celebrated it (as "Gladiator I" did) would have only sent me deeper into private despairing.  For masculinity (as I perceived it) had enough gravitational pull to consistently hijack my thoughts, causing me to ruminate / obsess in such a way that could easily be described as cerebral / emotional bondage.  As such, particular as a newlywed, I felt the only means of escape was to avoid entertainment firstly that celebrated it (as "Gladiator I" so successfully / ostentatiously did).

To summarize, the BIG, seemingly unsolvable problem I faced in 2000 was LACK OF TRUST in the masculine, and all of that pointed primarily back to my laughably insecure, longstanding kinship with my father.

Now, hear me here.  I didn't type FEAR.  No.  There was no FEAR of the masculine as if it was going to harm / ridicule me.  Instead, it was a distinct LACK OF TRUST.  Obviously, there's a monumental difference between LACK OF TRUST and FEAR.  The former leaves you ISOLATED (left to fend for oneself singularly) as a man whereas the latter incites a myriad of reactionary negative emotions (dread, torment, fatalism) that are directly tied to the "what if?".  

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Now, let's focus on ISOLATION as a result of my LACK OF TRUST and how these two things perpetuated my same-sex attraction. 

Firstly though, I have never felt as if I should be female.  Being male was who I felt securely established to be and, as a result, 100% at peace with.  It was my perception of masculinity (based on my life's narrative) that I failed to comfortably embrace / lean into.  Considering that statement, let me reiterate that I also didn't feel feminine, nor did I wish to be feminine, though I did have a healthy trust in the feminine. Therefore, I absolutely was settled into my understanding of the masculine, yet my hurdle therein was managing the LACK OF TRUST in the concept itself as well as the relinquishing of / backing away from the perceived SAFETY I'd achieved via my longstanding (coping mechanism) ISOLATION.   

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The second Samson weekend intensive I attended was during the spring of 2016.  Our group of +/-20 Jackson Metro Samson guys traveled to beautiful Highlands, NC, staying in a multi-million-dollar vacation property (nestled inside an exclusive golf course development) owned by one of my fellow perverts' parents.

During our off ramping from a full day of whitewater rafting, every last one of us made a beeline to the men's changing room / bathroom.  For it had been a chilly day to be on the river, therefore wetsuits were required.  Once I made my way inside, our fearless leader (meeting facilitator) announced the presence of a same-sex attracted man (Rob) within their hetero-majority.  I remember everyone silently agreeing with me that what had been decreed was very unnecessary / over the top, and as such, it made me realize just how protected (& loved) I truly was within that Motley Crue (it's important to note that our facilitator was known for insensitive remarks). 

To take that a step further, this was the first time I'd experienced being silently buttressed and therefore affirmed via other men.  Straight men.  Masculine men.  All of which were crammed, as I was, within a too small changing / shower room after a fun-filled day in beautiful Appalachia (think Mirror Universe Deliverance).     

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During that same intensive weekend, I had the good fortune of rooming with Silas 1.0.  The space we bunked within was a sizable "bonus room" (situated above the carport) within this multi-story vacation home.  As such, since it was stationed somewhat by itself, there was a sense of privacy / secrecy that few, if any, of our Samson bunkmates experienced.  Specifically, Silas 1.0 slept on a sleeper sofa while I slept on an air mattress.  Though we only spent time alone together within that space to mostly sleep, it still delivered a deep sense of exclusivity within me.  For Silas 1.0 knew my issues with same-sex attraction.  He also knew (& had heard ad nauseum) of my termination from DSU three years prior (& therefore was privy to my pain).  At the time, the level of interest this man exhibited in spending time with me was almost too much for me to believe.  And though this intense platonic attraction naturally waned over time, this sweet season served me well in regard to me choosing to make a conscious effort to TRUST the masculine as I'd never done prior.  

This Samson friendship was one of the firsts that truly gave me credence to begin to TRUST the masculine.

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As an aside, masculinity for me is most effectively presented by men who are also blessed with a baritone speaking voice.  "Gladiator I" served to rocket Mr. Russell Crowe to instant stardom.  In many ways, as the heir apparent of the then well-established Aussie crown (from the original baritone, Mr. Mel Gibson).  

Crowe's voice is deeply masculine, sounding absolutely delicious whilst recorded.  

"Gladiator II"'s protagonist is played by Irish actor, Mr. Paul Mescal.  Arguably, his voice is as deep as Mr. Mel Gibson's has ever been, making it equally delicious to listen to.  

Why is this important to identify?

Baritone voices are intimidating.  They're more animalistic.  Threatening.  And this is mostly due to how they carry combined with how powerfully distinct they are.  

I have an uncle whose voice is beautifully baritone.  As a relative, he's unpredictable and threatening (he's a drug addict, thief and compulsive liar).  Yet, even today at the age of almost 75, his presence / the thought of his presence is just as intimidating as ever. Of all the men I've personally known throughout my life, he represents a masculinity that's the absolute most threatening.   

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As our "early arrival '24 Samson Summit entourage" was finishing up our "meet & eat" late lunch at some nondescript Fayetteville, NC BBQ joint a few weeks back, I was singled out by one of the most resolutely masculine men I know in Samson Society.  As such, he asked me specifically to ride with him (within his newly purchased X3) out to Camp Dixie.  We chatted throughout our 20-minute journey as the cloudy, rainy setting whizzed by.  He'd been en route from middle TN for well over six hours (earlier that day), having endured no less precipitation throughout.  Hence, the gloriously anticipated drive had left him with a lot to be desired.  

Therefore, again, he asked me to join him for the last, very short leg of his trip.  Me?!?

This man is a few years older than I am, and as such, is 100% at peace with himself.  I know segments of his story, but like myself, he's reached a point where it's the present and future that he's most interested in focusing on. 

Initially, when I first met this man (2017), I feared him.  Not anymore.  Especially after his personal invitation to transport me to Camp Dixie.  What a blessing that was.  It served as the cake beneath the icing. 

I came away feeling absolutely his equal.  And that, my friend, I never, ever saw coming.

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.

What Is A Silas?

Here is what our experience tells us: You can get sober from anything going to meetings, but you can’t stay sober just going to meetings. That’s why, in the end, it isn’t even about the meetings. The meetings are a portal into the brotherhood. Samson really lives BETWEEN the meetings in relationships, conversations, friendships. Christianity, properly understood, is a team sport, not an individual event. We’ve been failing because we’ve been playing the wrong game! If we play 1-on-1 against a superior opponent, we will fail.

The lead person on your team we call a Silas. He is the one you are in regular communication with. There is an element of accountability, but it is not focused on sin management. If I just focus on the behavior, I run the risk of mastering that specific behavior and becoming a self-righteous Pharisee. Instead, I give another person (my Silas) real-time access to my whole life. What I’m feeling, thinking, doing, and thinking of doing.

My Silas is not an expert. He is a guy on the same road walking the same direction. But when it comes to my life, he has an advantage over me – he’s not in it! That gives him a perspective on my life that I don’t have. There are whole parts of my life that I can’t see because I’m inside it. Like trying to read the label from inside the bottle.

Here are some of the things my Silas does:

- He gets to know my story.

- He remembers the things I tend to forget.

- He asks the questions I tend to avoid.

- He notices patterns I don’t see.

- He reminds me who I really am.

You are not imposing on him. He gets as much out of the relationship as you do. He needs you to call him. Everyone needs a few moments each day to get out of their own head and focus on another person.

"Rob, I'm Concerned About Our Mutual Friend. It's Obvious That He's Setting Himself Up For Failure."

I've received two telephone calls regarding this.  And YES, my old friend's recent statements / position (via hearsay) do sound concerning, but I'm not going to spend any energy researching it for myself.  

Why?

Because I've seen this pattern with him numerous times before (we've known each other for over 15 years).  

And that's the differentiator.  Had there not been a precedent(s), I would immediately speak up.  

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When I was a boy, I distinctly remember my aunt regularly calling our house late into the evening to ask my father to go retrieve her husband (my dad's oldest brother / my uncle) from the local watering hole.  These calls would often come around 11 PM or after, and the next day, I would sometimes ask my mom about it.  Eventually though, I stopped asking due to the fact that they became so routine.

This happened for a number of years until my uncle became unemployed due to health issues.  From there, he'd drink at home during the day.  I distinctly recall stopping by his duplex back in 1993 in order to drop off a paperback copy of The Firm.  For the film by the same name had just been released, and I thought he might enjoy reading it.  When he came to the door, I could smell the alcohol on him.  Within just a few minutes, he passed out there in his small living room, falling to the carpeted floor like a sack of concrete mix.  Afterwards, I made a discreet exit after leaving the paperback on the coffee table.

I never returned to his abode until I was asked to assist in relocating he and his wife out and into an apartment not far from this location (decades into the future).  

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Past personal struggles with chronic sexual sin, particularly regarding pastors, can result in men like Mr. Nate Larkin.  Men who write tomes which serve foundationally as the cornerstones of recovery ministries.  

Sometimes therapists are borne out of this.  Take Mr. Jeff Schulte of Tin Man Ministries (Jeff served as a keynote speaker at the 2019 National Samson Society Retreat).

But these are exceptions.  Mostly, men with this story should simply move into personal recovery exclusively versus attempting to pivot their pastoral "calling" towards a public-facing attempt (either for or nonprofit) to assist others with their sexual sin.  

Why?

IT TAKES A MASSIVE AMOUNT OF HUMILITY, AND I WOULD ARGUE, MOST PASTORS DON'T HAVE A TRULY HUMBLE BONE IN THEIR BODIES.  

 Hence, they simply resort to pulling a Jim Bakker.  And that's so pathetically sad.     

Is Lusting After (Social Media) Imagery Generated Via Artificial Intelligence Sin? Remember These Aren't Real Women. They Have No Parents & Cannot Be Your Neighbors. They Only Exist Via A Screen As A Result Of Soulless Software.

(No Longer In) Bondage To The Thrust

I never would have known my local Samson friend was so spellbound by hot women 'till we had (a repeat) restaurant lunch.  As such, a troupe of high school girls traipsed in, and eventually sat adjacent to us.  These were pristine, rich, white girls wearing the latest designer clothes / hairstyles.  There was 6-8 of them, and they were all bubbly and giggly as they carried their sizable pocket computers like individual bars of gold.  These girls were undoubtedly students at the across-the-highway private academy, and they were there at this restaurant on "lunch break" (having driven their parents' BMWs and Mercedes-Benz across the way).  Likely many of them came from heady stock - CPAs, surgeons & prominent business owners, having been expectedly pampered throughout their short lives.

At the time, this friend was my Silas 3.0, and the tension he was experiencing due to the "availableness" of this troupe was impossible to miss.  I remember feeling powerless and a bit annoyed but altogether grateful as well that I wasn't in his intensive heterosexual shoes.  

All in all, I vividly recall him being visibly distraught as he forced himself to not glance their way.  It seemingly took all his strength in order to NOT capture / captivate / become spellbound by their sexual prowess.  As an aside, him wearing his work uniform likely only added to the intensity of this moment, serving as a reminder of his past, pre-conversion (Christianity) hedonism with many a similar lay.  

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Saturday, (7/1) my wife and I executed our typical weekend workout at the local Y.  Never before had I seen one particular mid to late 20s man in there prior.  His upper body was lean and svelte, but his legs - damn his legs - were stunningly beautiful.  

Stunningly beautiful legs = muscular, hairy, beautifully proportioned.  Bulky thighs / calves, seamless knees / ankles.  Tan flesh.  Either dark or blonde (leg) hair.  And they must be long, thick hairs that drape over the muscled flesh like a silk carpet.

This young man was no doubt athletic.  Perhaps he was a runner or a rock climber or both.  He could have been a varsity / collegiate (baseball) catcher.  Anything requiring that constant crouching down that builds lower body strength and the subsequent mass.  For that's where his strength lay.  Lower body.

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Well over a decade ago, I showed up to sing (routine Wednesday night rehearsal) in our church choir at Lakeside Pres, and the melodic tenor (who was a new guy to me and the church in general) sitting adjacent was wearing shorts (as I was).  He was around my age (late 30s at the time), and due to the stunning beauty of his long legs, I literally came close to creaming my shorts as we sang to the Lord - our austere Presbyterian tunes - over the course of that hour.

Let me repeat:  these were some stunningly beautiful legs, and they were close enough for me to (accidently?) rub up against.    

The owner of said legs was married (his wife too sang in the choir), and as a couple, were also new to the area.  Not long after this up close legebration, they decided to move away to greener pastures which resulted in him taking his stunningly beautiful legs (as well as his incredible voice) to the Pacific Northwest.  Not long after that, I stopped singing in the choir, covertly mourning my loss.

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The summer after I graduated high school (1990), I had to take College Algebra before entering into the freshman architecture school curriculum at Mississippi State University.  I took this course, along with English Composition I, at Holmes Community College's then newly opened Ridgeland campus.  

Upon entering the latter's classroom, I found myself sitting across from a handful of high school (Madison-Ridgeland Academy) peers (two girls and one guy), one of which was a varsity athlete (football, baseball, track) who I'd never once spoken to.  It's important to know that at our high school, the boys weren't allowed to wear shorts.  Hence, blue jeans were the norm.

To my delight, there was no such dress code here at community college.

"Trevor" was wearing athletic shorts during that first day of English Comp I and every day afterwards.  Our class met thrice weekly for +/-90 minutes, therefore I had a front and center view of his stunningly beautiful legs each and every day we met.  This entire experience served to both captivate and suffocate me simultaneously.  For it both enlightened and horrified Rob as to what he was primarily attracted to in certain other men.

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Masculine sexual activity is all about thrusting (movement of the erect penis in and out of the wet vagina).  There's no way around this.  That thrusting is done via the lower body.  The entire porn industry is built upon this animalistic movement.  This beautiful movement that powerfully personifies the act of intercourse.  

Interestingly enough, my Silas 2.0 masturbated by humping the couch / bed prior to ejaculating within his briefs.  I'd never met another guy who did this.  He refused to masturbate any other way, having "taught himself" this technique as a boy.  That dry humping, of course, is a thrusting movement that's lower body executed.  According to him, he only needed 60-90 seconds to climax therein via this technique (efficiency was first priority for this Samson guy - in everything).    

To summarize, this lower body thrusting is decidedly heterosexual intercourse anatomical vocabulary.  As such, the lower body of a man may very well equate to this visually.  And that is definitely the case for me.

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To circle back to the young man my wife and I encountered this past weekend at the Y, he not only had those aforementioned stunningly beautiful legs, but he also was very polite.  He and I spoke a couple of times, throughout our time there, as we crossed paths during our respective - 90-minute - strength training workouts.  

But what didn't occur - in the very least - was me becoming "in bondage to the thrust" as a result.  Instead, I simply acknowledged what I witnessed, and went on my way.

How did I accomplish this at this stage in my recovery?

I honestly don't know.  

Yesterday, during our "Brain Changers" virtual Samson Society meeting, the word was FREEDOM, and this narrative of mine (what I've encapsulated here) was front and center.  But, even having a full 24-hours to ruminate on this further, I still can't pinpoint what's specifically occurred to free me from these shackles.

Maybe it's simply that I've met my quota for stunningly beautiful legs.  I can tell you that I've been so very blessed to know enough men with tree trunks - as I've described here - that perhaps I've simply leveled up as a result.  It's as if that guy, "Trevor", from high school (who sat across from me for two summer months at HCC within English Comp I) has been sexual with me via the countless tree trunk brothers in Christ I've intimately (keyword) befriended since 1990.  

For I wanted nothing more than to be pursued by this guy.  That's what my sexual fantasies - involving him - revolved around.  Him befriending me prior to us having a homosexual relationship.  All throughout that summer - post high school.  

Let me be more specific.

All three of my Silases have been men who I've experienced intimacy with - on a level (I would argue) - that equates to a sexual relationship.  

To take that statement a step further...

Even without the exchange of bodily fluids, the mystique of their individual manhood(s) I've had the opportunity to observe / experience - up close and personal.  Besides these formal Silases, there've been countless other men (mostly within the framework of Samson Society) who've provided me with similar experiences.

Each of these experiences has uncovered more and more of what I longed to know and understand about men (including my own individual, reflected manhood) back in 1990.  

It's just taken a really long time to get to this point of me now knowing enough to properly level up.  

Relationships take time and SO MUCH WORK.  They're the exact opposite of sexual fantasy which are cheap and thereby overall worthless.  

I have been so blessed by Samson Society.  I realize it when I have experiences like I did this past weekend at the Y.

Lagniappe