When Harry Met Sally is an iconic movie with a star-studded cast, and is arguably the best flick from the classic era of late 20th century rom-coms. But it is not best known for the romance, or even the comedy.
It is best known for the orgasm scene.
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Please ask about my cats. Elvis and Carson are my loyal little companions, but even more importantly, they are my family. They are my comfort, my unconditional loves and my best friends. Ask about them and enjoy my smile as I tell you all about their perfect little furry faces.
Please don’t ask about Louie. I’ve distanced myself, and I don’t know the everyday details of how he’s doing. You asking about him reminds me of the distance, the detachment and the walls I’ve had to build to protect myself. You don’t know all of this, and I know that no malice exists behind your innocent question.
I know your secret.
At least, I know that it is one of a handful of possibilities that my wife and I have either lived through ourselves, or witnessed dozens (maybe hundreds) of time with others.
What would happen if you told you secret?
I can all but guarantee that your worst fear would never come true. They aren’t going to shame you or reject you or fire you or turn their backs on you.
When it comes to sex, my wife, Sheri, could dump a bucket of ice down my pants, and I’d still be ready to go.
I despise ambiguity and hidden meanings, and there is no room in this message for subtlety. So rather than bury the lead, let’s get right after it.
I experience spontaneous arousal. I can be changing the filter on our furnace while listening to a recording of a gospel choir singing “Amazing Grace,” and if the wind shifts out of the northwest in my basement, I am turned on. I don’t really listen to gospel music (I’m more of a Broadway show tunes kind of guy), and the last time I checked, our basement is almost entirely wind free. But that’s not the point. The point is that I don’t have to be doing something sexy to be ready for sexy time.
I’m afraid of losing what I’ve worked so hard to build. I’m afraid there won’t be enough…enough readers, enough listeners, enough participants, enough interest, enough connection, enough resonation, enough money.
My ability to sleep through the night, and the degree to which I am pleasant to be around during the day, both depend on how I am managing my fears. Just like addiction isn’t a yes or no question, but rather addiction exists on a continuum, my fear is on a spectrum as well. Sometimes my fear is in check, and I feel peaceful and content. Sometimes my fear is temporarily nonexistent, and I am joyful and exuberant. Other times, my fear is woven through my thoughts leading my mind to race with fixation and rumination. Occasionally, my fear is completely out-of-control and I am debilitated and consumed.
I remember when I thought it was enough to not be a racist. But then 2016 happened and Charlottesville and dog whistles and, “…stand back and stand by,” and the cockroaches all emerged from the sewers. That’s when I learned that racism is still quite a bit more of a problem than I naively thought, and it isn’t enough that I, myself, am not a racist. It isn’t enough that all lives matter. I learned to be anti-racist. I learned that while we have made vast, undeniable progress in the past 60 years, we have much further to go than I previously realized. I learned that it is not enough to not be the problem. I needed to be part of the solution.
That introductory paragraph is not meant to stir the political pot in an election year, although, let me be clear: If you are a white supremacist, or if you are concerned about the demographic certainty that white people will soon not be in the majority in the United States, you can fuck right off and unsubscribe from our blog and podcast (I hate ambiguity, don’t you?). Michael Jordan once famously explained that he doesn’t engage in political commentary because both Republicans and Democrats buy sneakers. I have no such business-motivated neutrality. My wife and I don’t get all authentic and vulnerable to help cockroaches.
Perhaps the worst prevailing relationship advice is that women in committed romantic partnerships should feel compelled to have sex with their partners, whether they want to or not. Let me say this in no uncertain terms:
Obligatory sex destroys relationships.
It doesn’t matter if she is giving him sex because she is told it is her duty by the church, their couples counselor, societal messaging, some study in a magazine, endless cinematic rom-coms, some call-in radio psychologist, cultural arranged marriage practices, the family court system, or even her own mom. Consenting to unwanted sex is the absolute enemy of trust building, and it is toxic to the very connection we seek in pursuing sex in the first place.
You might be easily convinced that obligatory sex isn’t fulfilling for the woman who feels obliged. But here’s the counterintuitive part: Obligatory sex is even worse, in the long run, for the person who is asking for it.
I have not been taking my meds
My personalities have never felt better
The programming was not working
So I switched off all the channels
Unlike Neo I took both pills
Turned into my inner child
Now I’m rolling and running down hill
Still profoundly upset with our depravity
I would argue the point that we are not civilized humanity
My best thinking had me drinking, drugging, and With myself Stuck IN
One of the worst days of our marriage, for both Sheri and me, was July 14, 2021. Since we are a couple who experienced my active alcoholism for 25 years, you might be surprised to learn I was four-and-a-half years sober on that traumatic day. Even without alcohol, Sheri and I make occasional trips back into the pit of hell with emotional relationship relapses.
Relationship relapses often spin out of control as both partners revert to deflection, manipulation, overreaction and self-protection – all skills learned during active addiction. But before we pull out the old tools of dysfunction, there has to be a spark. An impetus. A new or refreshed wound around which the spiraling decline can revolve.
On July 14, 2021, I was hurt because Sheri no longer found me attractive.
We lie to ourselves and others about minor things, major things, and all the things in between. There was before, then there was after, and again, everything in between.
The things we wished we had said and the things we ended up saying that weren’t quite right and didn’t land the way we wished they would, and possibly their feelings wouldn’t have been so hurt, or there wouldn’t have been such a misunderstanding if only the words had been right.
But the right words are for the right situations, and when things are messy, and misunderstandings are already the tapestry that has been laid, that encloses and surrounds a relationship, it doesn’t seem to matter how one says anything.