Mourning The Loss of Someone I Never Knew

My grandmother, Betty Utendahl, passed away in July of 2017 and despite “knowing” her for 25 years, I didn’t know her at all.

No one teaches you how you deal with grief, especially when it is for someone you barely knew. I never really had the opportunity to get to “know” my grandmother, not because she wasn’t around, but due to the circumstances placed in front of us. My grandmother suffered a stroke before I was born, leaving her partially paralyzed and unable to speak. We communicated through expressions, embraces and hand squeezes, leaving us connected through touch, but entirely unaware of each other’s hopes, dreams, and aspirations.

For years, I struggled with my feelings and connections to my grandmother. I struggled with having so many questions that would forever be left unanswered. My understanding came from the stories told and retold, and from the people who knew her best. For 25 years of my life, she was very much alive, yet very much dead. She existed in a body that was no longer her own, and was a person whose life story was left dependent on the ones her loved ones decided to tell.

According to my family, prior to her stroke, my grandmother was a lifelong victim of heartbreak. Before she could blink twice she became a divorced single mother, and never fully recovered from being left to her own devices by a man she so helplessly, devotedly, tragically adored and loved. Her big jovial smile was a mask for deep pain and sadness. She played Aretha Franklin’s “Ain’t No Way” on repeat for decades, with a glass of whiskey in her hand and a sense of hopelessness that she was never able to overcome.

For most of my life, I never understood her heartbreak. I couldn’t grasp how she was never able to surmount the pain of being left by my grandfather. For so long, I naively, stubbornly, selfishly found her 50 plus years sorrow to be slightly pathetic. I resented the stories I heard of her drinking and disposition. At times I’ve blamed her for my addictive personality, as I have had my fair share of leaning into vices, hitting rock bottom, and picking myself up again. For so long, I was desperate to find something to blame for why I needed to spend my early 20s eliminating experiences that most people my age could inconsequentially enjoy.

What I failed to recognize until her final days was that my grandmother was a victim of her circumstances, and that I was horrifically ignorant and inconsiderate to fault her for falling into a trap that was set for her from the moment she was born.

I forgot that she was once a 25-year-old woman like myself, full of dreams and desires that were not afforded to her due to the fact that she was both female and black in 1950s America. I forgot that after the divorce, she had zero opportunities to make a life for herself, as an African American woman, completely uneducated and inexperienced in the workforce. She was a victim of arduous circumstance in a time where both her gender and race were an uphill battle to a degree that my privilege has shielded me against.

It was in her final darkest hours that I was reminded that there was a time before my grandmother became a mother and a grandmother… a time that means more than just a series of photos with stories, told time and time again. There was a time when her dreams and aspirations were as big and robust as mine. There was a moment where her love for her partner and her children was so deep it could move mountains. There was a moment, a moment I experienced many times but overlooked, when she looked into my eyes and without words told me that I could live out her dreams. It is in her passing, that I remember her gaze, the gaze I saw for 25 years, and never understood. It is in her passing that I can feel her grip, her grip holding my hands so tight, assuring me that I inherited her strength. It is in her passing that I can feel her embrace, the embrace that reminds me I am loved and will be loved by her forever and always.

Mourning has a funny way of showing its true colors. It’s been a journey that has taught me more about myself than I could have ever imagined. It’s a foreign feeling to feel closer to an individual posthumously than during their lifetime. It has been six months since my Grandmother Betty passed, and with each day, I am reminded that I have a responsibility in life that is so much greater than I could have ever expected. While I may never know the answers to the thousands of questions I wish I could have asked her, I have her gaze, I have her touch and embrace, reminding me to live out her dreams, my dreams, and all the things left unsaid.

Dysphoria

It’s been 10 years since I graduated high school. I can’t help but sit here and think about how different my life would be if I had known that I wasn’t an awkward ugly duckling who was going to turn into a swan. I was a man trapped in a woman’s body.

I always see dysphoria described as this constant, nagging hatred towards one’s body— a struggle people often describe as a lifelong feeling. But for me, I really had no idea I was experiencing dysphoria until my mid-twenties.

Looking back now, I find it so silly. I wish someone had told me, “Hey you aren’t crazy, all these feelings you’re having, this constant questioning— other people feel this way too. You aren’t alone.”

I spent so much time insisting that I didn’t have dysphoria, that I wasn’t transgender, that one day I was going to meet someone and things were just going to line up. I’d feel at home in my body. Sex would seem fun. My family and I would start to smooth things out, and I would be so happy that I waited for things to get better.

That never happened.

In 2014 I began to see this girl, and she was going to spend the night. I hadn’t had many sexual experiences, which I chalked up to me being nervous and slightly awkward. But I remember that night as a crucial turning point in my understanding of myself. Suddenly, I knew that it wasn’t me being awkward, it wasn’t me being nervous, but it was in fact dysphoria causing me to feel this way.

We were making out and she tried to move things a step further. I completely disassociated and got very quiet. At that moment, I was so afraid because whenever she touched me, there was only one thought running through my mind: I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why I didn’t have a penis when I so desperately felt like I should. I knew this was dysphoria, but I still didn’t want to accept it.

I tried to live as a lesbian, but it didn’t feel right. I was always dating or pursuing straight women, but something about me felt different. These relationships would always end in heartbreak for one reason or another.

I tried to live as gender fluid because I knew that my family wouldn’t be accepting of me as trans, and I was afraid of their rejection. I thought that I could have the best of both worlds and that as long as my friends and significant other saw me as masculine, and my family saw me as female, I could appease everybody and still live my life. But it wasn’t enough. I always felt something was missing, and the more that people began to gender me as male, the more right it felt.

It took three more years until I garnered the strength to take hold of my life and accept the inevitable. I moved to California and began working for a prominent TV company. One day while discussing an episode with some of my female producers, everyone went around commenting on how they could relate to the production’s female star and the hardships she was going through as a woman. When it was my turn to speak, a horrifying realization overcame me. I could in no meaningful way relate to this woman’s experience. While I had lived some of the implications of being deemed a woman by society, I was not having the same emotional reaction as my female coworkers. I did not feel the connection, the bond. I simply couldn’t relate.

So on this day, at the age of 26, with the knowledge that I could support myself and that I had insurance from my job, I made the decision to transition from female to male. This decision saved my life.

I remember waking up the day after my first testosterone shot. Already, I felt different. A feeling of peace washed over me, and the racing thoughts were gone. Within the following weeks, my anxiety began to fade. I was no longer waking up with panic attacks. I was able to sit down and watch movies again. The constant need to see some form of masculinity within myself stopped. I no longer spent every waking second of my life trying to sort through my racing thoughts.

While I’m still very early on in my journey, being only one year and five months on testosterone, I am more and more certain every day that this was what I needed to do. Not everyone needs hormones or surgery to feel complete, but I am so grateful I had the opportunity to take charge of my life in the way that was best for me. I can now see a future for myself. In 2014, I really didn’t see one. I want to encourage anyone feeling lost or alone that it’s never too late to create the life you always wanted. To come out and be yourself— not what society wants you to be.

You can find happiness. You don’t have to be consumed with anxiety or feelings of isolation. You can have a sex life, you can have a successful job, you can have a family, you can find love. It’s okay to experiment with your gender. You don’t have to go on hormones overnight or get a major surgery. Gender and sexuality are a huge part of who we are, and sometimes we have to do a little experimentation in order to figure out what truly fits.

Although life is still challenging and anything but perfect, I never dreamed that I would one day be able to wake up and start my day without being crippled by the anxieties caused by my dysphoria. Now, I can breathe, and that in itself is so much to be grateful for.

Catholic Sexual Suppression

From as young as I can remember, I was taken to Catholic Mass every Sunday morning by my mom and dad. I was sent to private Catholic school from kindergarten until university, and everyone in my immediate and extended family is Catholic. Throughout my childhood, we prayed as a family before meals, and in school I studied the Bible as doctrine. Despite all of this, I was a skeptic, even when I was young. I remember being six years old and asking my teacher why gold ornamented our church when, according to her, millions of people were living in poverty. I pondered aloud to my classmates and within earshot of my teachers why women weren’t allowed to be priests. And it was this question in particular— after my teacher told me I was breaking a moral tenet in even asking it— that prompted me to question all that I was told never to doubt.

My parents never spoke to me about sex. We never watched movies as a family that mentioned it, and they never acknowledged it. As a result, I grew up thinking that sex was wrong, that speaking about sex was wrong, that embedded in just that syllable there was something wrong. Though I was outspoken in some ways, this didn’t seem like a topic that I was even allowed to think about, let alone talk about in school or to my parents. And so I was shamed into dealing with the confusion myself. My resulting ignorance led to years of frustration, confusion, sadness, anger, and resentment, and this experience is not unique to me.

I remember so many nights when I was young; my friends and I would sit on each other’s beds asking the same questions over and over, guessing, hypothesizing, wondering without satiation, without answers, ever. We would keep our voices hushed, always, checking outside the closed door and down the hall to make sure that no parents were lingering— but never asking what it would mean if they were.

“When are we going to learn about puberty? When are we going to learn about how babies are made?” I remember asking those questions, verbatim, to older girls who had finished Catholic grade school and moved on to high school. They all told us the same thing: that they weren’t comfortable talking about it, but that there was a section in sixth grade science and religion classes that would answer our questions.

Finally, sixth grade came, along with its much anticipated section: Family Life—not “Sex Ed,” unless you wanted to be chastised by a teacher after class. A few days before this new unit was set to begin, my peers and I were sent home with slips to be signed by our parents, soliciting consent for the school so that we could learn about sex. I gave the paper to my mom silently. She asked, “Do you have any questions?” to which I said that I didn’t, because how could a 12-year old girl who had never learned what sex was have any questions beyond “What?” “Why?” or “How could you?”

I expected that after this class I would have a firm understanding of what sex was. By this time, I still didn’t know how I had even come to exist. I was told over and over that my parents prayed to God and after that my mom miraculously had my baby brother in her womb. At one point, when I was ten, my friend tried to explain sex to me. I didn’t believe her, figured she was trying to deceive or corrupt me, but I was too nervous to ask anyone else or to ever bring it up. I wasn’t even aware enough of my own biology to know whether or not what she described could be possible.

Needless to say, I was very excited for the class section. But once the program began, I was continuously dissatisfied. In gender-seperated units, we talked about hormones, about the endocrine system, about puberty and the very, very basic parts of human anatomy. We kept waiting until eventually one student just brought it up: “What is sex?” she asked. But my teacher refused to answer. Not only would she not tell us, but she revealed that she didn’t think that this unit should exist in schools at all. In the religion component of the program, our teacher told us to dress modestly and to avoid boys.

The curricula that came later, in 7th and 8th grade and then throughout my high school years, were equally horrifying. I learned that contraception, abortion, premarital sex, and gay sex were wrong; somehow, though, natural family planning is okay, which means that “pulling out,” or strategically having sex and hoping (maybe praying) that you don’t get pregnant, is okay. But using a condom isn’t. I came away with the understanding that sex is wrong, that I shouldn’t think about it or engage in it. I left the program convinced that I would never enjoy sex and that— more importantly— I shouldn’t.

To feel suppressed, stifled, and shamed into not being able to openly talk about sex is both dangerous and deeply damaging. For years of my life, I literally did not know how I had come into this world. I was forcibly exposed to sexualized bodies of women in the media but never offered an explanation for why this was happening or how I was supposed to feel about it. I couldn’t understand my own biology; I couldn’t understand evolution. Sex for me was a highly charged word and concept. I really believed that it was wrong to even think about it. As a result, I developed severely negative perceptions of anyone who I’d come to find out had engaged in it, and held the burden of resentment in my heart for years. I felt betrayed by all the adults that I was supposed to trust, by anyone with children, even.

What has maybe been the hardest part, though, has been understanding my own sexuality. Parts of my body, so intimate, were foreign to me. I was unfamiliar with my own composition, and unfamiliar with any kinds of emotions or feelings attached to it. All of these situations, and the problems and frustrations that accompany them, are avoidable. Sex is not inherently charged with negativity, despite how it has been treated historically.

If you are in this situation too, or something like it, know that you are capable of and responsible for creating, developing, and deciding your own views on sexuality. You are not responsible for upholding anyone else’s perspective. This means that you are allowed to talk about it and to ask about it. It is not your responsibility to censor yourself for the sake of other people’s comfort, especially when it means cutting yourself off from vital information that you deserve. Not your parents, not your school, not your peers, not a millennia-old tradition like the Catholic Church has authority over your curiosity.

Eventually, thanks to conversations with friends and reading that I did on my own, I became familiar with and developed my own opinions on sex. Throughout my first few months at university, I realized that I do not deserve to live with residual fear or discomfort. I don’t deserve to feel like I can’t ask questions, and I certainly don’t deserve to feel like my curiosity is anything other than healthy and right. Neither do you.

Trans Awareness

Last night we had the wonderful opportunity to host an event for Transgender Awareness. It is an honor as well as a privilege to have as many readers and the outreach that we do. It is our duty to shed light on issues and topics that don’t get the attention that they deserve.

Zil Goldstein, The Director of the Transgender Center and Program at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York, was so kind to come and speak. We also heard from Daniela Simba, who shared her personal story as a transgender immigrant woman. Over the next week, we will be putting up video content from the dinner so even those who weren’t physically there, can still have access to the knowledge we gained from these incredible women.

Daniela said it best, the first step as an ally is being ready to listen and learn. Here are some tips from GLAAD on how to be a better ally for the transgender community because many of us don’t know where to start.

You can download and print our ally sheet here:

HOW TO BE AN ALLY:

Don’t make assumptions about a transgender person’s sexual orientation. Gender identity is different than sexual orientation. Sexual orientation is about who we’re attracted to. Gender identity is about our own personal sense of being male, female, or outside that gender binary.

If you don’t know what pronouns to use, listen first. If you’re unsure which pronoun a person uses, listen first to the pronoun other people use when referring to the person.

Respect the terminology a transgender person uses to describe their identity. Respect the term (transgender, transsexual, non-binary, gender fluid, genderqueer, etc.) a person uses to describe themselves.

Understand there is no “right” or “wrong” way to transition, and that it is different for every person. Respect, listen and know that every individual has their own transition story that is unique and particular to their personal experience.

Challenge anti-transgender remarks or jokes in public spaces, including LGBT spaces. If you hear something, say something. Passive allyship does not create change.

Support all-gender public restrooms. Encourage schools, businesses, and agencies to have a single user, unisex and/or all-gender restroom options.

Help make your company or group truly trans-inclusive. If you are part of a company or group that says it’s LGBTQ-inclusive, remember that transgender people face unique challenges and that being LGBTQ-inclusive means truly understanding the needs of the trans community and implementing policies address them.

Listen to transgender people. The best way to be an ally is to listen with an open mind to transgender people speaking for themselves. Talk to transgender people in your community. Check out books, films, YouTube channels, and blogs to find out more about transgender people and the issues people within the community face.

Know your limits as an ally. Don’t be afraid to admit when you don’t know something. It is better to admit you don’t know something than to make assumptions or say something that may be incorrect or hurtful.

Is Grindr A Subculture?

*The featured photos are selections from gaytona.beach, a project highlighting photographer Andrew Harper’s experience on Grindr in Daytona Beach from the age of 19.

In 1979, the British sociologist Dick Hebdige published an extra-thick wad of social science on similarities between subcultures in a book called Subculture: The Meaning of Style. Don’t worry, I read it for you.

If you want to know whether the crowd of people you’re looking at belongs to a subculture, look out for these things: inventive language, distinctive dress, a common favorite music genre, an exclusive media channel, and, most importantly, a bold philosophy that explains their opposition to mainstream culture. In most cases, the subcultures Dick Hebdige studied had at least one other thing in common: heterosexuality.

Mainstream culture has always been a very serious threat to gay men. Masculinity is the norm, heterosexuality is the law. Disobeying either can threaten your livelihood, if not your body. Years ago, you’d get beaten and/or killed. Today, the abuse is more often psychological than physical. And so, for gay men, repressing our identities has always been an act of self-preservation such that the only place gay men can find acceptance, free from the threat of the mainstream, is in an all-gay space.

At least for younger generations, those all-gay spaces are increasingly virtual – they’re supplements to the physical spaces gay subculture has long inhabited (i.e. clubs, bars, bathhouses, community centers).

Enter Grindr, “the world’s largest gay social network app.” Yes, it’s a media channel for gay subculture, but now it’s also a subculture of its own.

This makes perfect sense when you realize that not every gay man uses Grindr and not every Grindr user is a gay man. The ability to self-select into Grindr is part of what makes it a subculture. Those who choose to use it get to know their sexuality in a space that’s intentionally separate and safe from mainstream culture. Curiosity has a place there. Sexual-expressive freedom is Grindr subculture’s philosophy. And those who use the app quickly realize that its users have a language of their own.

On the platform some key terms were carried over from gay subculture – terms like “top,” “bottom,” and “versatile” that describe a gay man’s sexual preferences (the “top” likes to penetrate, the “bottom” likes to receive, and the “versatile” man likes both). But Grindr users often abbreviate them to single letters which are faster and easier to type: T, B, or V.

Among Grindr’s host of custom (sometimes NSFW) emoticons that have their own sub-textual meanings, there are bunk beds – one depicts a man on the top bunk (for the tops) and one depicts a man on the bottom bunk (for the bottoms).

Of course, that library contains a purple eggplant (an emoji that now cross-culturally represents a penis), but there’s also one that’s brown, one that’s white, one shown through a magnifying glass for the less-well-endowed, and one displayed in a polaroid (sent as a substitute for requesting nudes). There’s a peach and there’s a peach with a phone over it for a booty call. There’s a set of handcuffs, a man with a bear paw for the “bears” (those are hairy, bulky, older men), a man in leather chaps wearing aviators, and the lower half of a man wearing a jockstrap.

Grindr users message each other “looking?” or “DTF?” – shorthands that ask whether the person on the other end of the chat is looking for sex right now. Some users even change their profile name to a “looking eyes” (👀) emoji to reach a wider audience.

“Grindr tribes” offer an even deeper dive into a user’s identity and sexual preferences. Bear, Clean-Cut, Daddy, Discreet, Geek, Jock, Leather, Otter, Poz, Rugged, Trans, and Twink describe the physical and psychological categories a gay man identifies with and/or is looking for in a partner. After all, Grindr exists for sexual exploration.

So, Grindr is a subculture that is also its own exclusive media channel. As a subculture, it also has a philosophy and an original language.

To be sure, Grindr’s place and purpose are complicated by its neighbors – Scruff, Growlr, Hornet, etc. I suspect that technological shortcomings are not why the gay community loves to hate Grindr. I think it’s more about our relationship with shame and our relationships with one another. On some level, we love to hate ourselves. What we see in one another reminds us that mainstream culture taught us to hate homosexuality. If you need proof of that, consider the fact that there’s not a homo among us who hasn’t been asked, “Why are gay people obsessed with sex?” or wondered it themselves in a critical tone.

For gay men, the act and topic of sex is not just a rejection of the idea that we ought to hate our sexuality, it’s a rebellion against the idea that we ought to hate ourselves for it. And that’s why there’s hardly a Grindr user I’ve met who hasn’t deleted the app (often seeking out another) and returned to it because gay sex has never been so freely discussed between so many of us as it is there.

Orgasm Equality

“Nope, I never have.”

He was asking me, again, as if I hadn’t already told him I don’t orgasm, as if it was just so appalling that I couldn’t possibly have been telling the truth the first time. In a twisted way, it was amusing that he was so insulted by what people with a vulva experience. I was a 21 year-old and had never had a orgasm. For most people who are socialized as a female, this isn’t surprising.

But of course I hadn’t. Even after living in a school district that covered (slightly) more than abstinence in sex-ed, even after voraciously reading every sex listicle or Yahoo answers thread, even after watching people fuck on TV and Chrome Incognito, I had barely heard anyone talk about what makes a vulva feel good.

Every mainstream magazine targeting women boasts the same derivative kind of article like “29 Ways to Drive Him Wild.” Movies constantly show women having a orgasm from penetration, when in reality, a majority of people with vulvas don’t. I literally once read an article about how to cut a grapefruit for the use of stimulating a penis, yet I’ve never read about how to stimulate a vulva. God forbid we want to pleasure ourselves, or our partners with vulvas.

The closest magazines get is usually along the lines of “Here’s how to accidentally get off during vaginal intercourse…” implying that intercourse is the only sexual act that matters. Laurie Mintz describes in Becoming Cliterate that language exemplifies the ways society centers sex around the male experience. Most people understand the word “sex” to mean vaginal intercourse between vulva and penis. This reliably leads people with penises to orgasm, and simultaneously negates the experience of non-hetero sex, manual, and/or oral sex— which are generally a more reliable route to orgasm for people who have a vulva.

Same goes for the overuse of the word and focus on “vagina.” The reason why Mintz encourages, rather, the use of “vulva” is that it’s more anatomically correct, plus it includes all of the different machinery that, depending on the person, may be more crucial to their sexual satisfaction than the vagina. The fact that the anatomy of female genitalia is not common knowledge, and that society frequently use the wrong word reinforces the idea that these bodies and their subsequent needs are not important.

What further proves this lack of consideration is the normalization of female pain during intercourse.

“A casual survey of forums where people discuss ‘bad sex’ suggests that men tend to use the term to describe a passive partner or a boring experience… But when most women talk about ‘bad sex,’ they tend to mean coercion, or emotional discomfort or, even more commonly, physical pain,” asserts Lili Loofbourow in her incredible article “The Price of Male Pleasure: Female Pain.” Heterosexual women are taught to expect little from sex or else face disappointment. We’re taught that our bodies are for satisfying men, not ourselves. That our partner’s pleasure is more important than our pain. That’s bullshit, and I’m angry about it.

Unfortunately, it is normal for a person socialized as female not to orgasm or enjoy sex. If you’re someone in that situation, know this: you are normal. You are not alone. If it doesn’t always feel that way, I understand. It definitely didn’t to me. Most of the time I felt like I would never enjoy sex, and any attempts to change that felt hopeless. I felt like a freak, worried maybe there was something medically wrong with me. I tried so hard to do everything I could to please my partners that when my lack of orgasm hurt their ego, I felt like I had let them down. I wished I could orgasm to make them feel good.

So that’s how I got to be 21, an expert on all things dick-approved but completely at a loss for what to do with my own vulva. I finally decided I deserved pleasure as much as my partners did, and that I would pursue mine as eagerly as I had theirs. As unfair as it is, I wasn’t going to stumble across sex-positive media centered around the female body and experience, so I had to seek it out.

I started masturbating. I bought a couple of vibrators. On OMGYes.com I found videos of people with vulvas explaining and demonstrating exactly what motions and rhythms worked for them. I read Come as You Are and Becoming Cliterate, which are both books specifically geared towards helping people with vulvas revolt against the toxic sexual norm and craft the fulfilling, reciprocal sex lives that we deserve.

Reading about other people who had struggled like me and had gone on to learn to enjoy sex gave me hope. It also made me feel normal for the first time. I could recognize how society had lead me to this position, which gave me the knowledge to walk away from all of the ideas that didn’t serve me, and walk right into my bedroom and give myself my own goddamn orgasm.

Deciding my pleasure was important and worthy of time and effort were the biggest factors leading to my orgasm, and in fact, it many ways more important than the orgasm itself.

In reality some people with vulvas don’t orgasm, and that’s okay, too. They can lead just as exciting and satisfying sex lives as everyone else. However, what good sex does include is knowing you and your partner’s body, which is why the lack of education on vulva satisfaction is so upsetting. When I initially admitted to a partner I had never orgasmed, I thought a lot about how his shock reaction revealed how little he understood the female body. Although, through the months and the books and the vibrators since, I was surprised to find out how little I understood about my own body, as well. Both parties needed to change.

If you’re having sex with someone, your pleasure should be as important as theirs. Oral sex should be reciprocal. Everyone should be taught where the clitoris is. Female masturbation should be as widely accepted by society as male masturbation. Public and private sex education should cover pleasuring people with vulvas! Additionally, emphasis should not be placed on vaginal intercourse as the sole valid form of sex.

More than anything, we need to talk about sex: as a community, as a society, with our parents, with our children. Reassure your friends that they are normal. Ask your partner to tell (or show!) you what makes them feel good. As Loofbourow says, “sex is always a step behind social progress in other areas because of its intimacy.” So, let’s talk about intimate justice and orgasm equality. Let’s give the next generation the education they need to have mutually satisfying encounters, instead of struggling and scrambling for years like many of us have. Let’s tell them what we wish our partners had known. And what we wish we’d known.

On Loneliness

Being lonely is something that I have dealt with for the majority of my life.

I’ve been fortunate to have loving and supportive family members throughout my life who have been there to reel me back in with loving affirmation when the emotional turbulence has become too much to bear. Unfortunately, though, there are sometimes situations where loved ones can only do so much. The instances in which I’ve felt most alone have been in some way related to segmented, peer-based experiences: meaning that while the safety and reassurance of a nurturing parental bubble feels good, in order to live and function in the world as a productive member of society, the bubble must be exited as one ages into adulthood.

Loneliness has manifested itself in several ways as I’ve grown, changed, and experienced different aspects of life. When you’re younger, loneliness, really any feeling, is easier to chalk up to being an evolving human being. In this stage of life, emotions and feelings are believed to be less substantive — whatever you’re going through at the time is said to be a hormonal driven “phase.” But people questioning the legitimacy of someone’s thoughts and feelings, discrediting one’s experience rather than attempting to understand it, can make coping that much more challenging.

This has lead me to believe that loneliness, although a universal feeling, manifests in a variety of different ways depending on the circumstances of our unique identities.

I grew up as an adopted black kid raised by a white family in a predominantly white area of New York. Most of my peers came from sheltered, conservative upbringings. Because of this, I was continuously subjected to stereotypical comments about my race and skin color: assumptions that I knew the name of every rapper, (even though I primarily grew up listening to alternative rock, pop punk, and screamo) and jokes like “Where did Caleb go? We can’t find him!” Even those who called themselves friends would routinely say outlandish things about other ethnic groups and assume it wouldn’t affect me because I wasn’t really black. I was an “oreo” as they dubbed me several times, in what I would now describe as an attempt to distance me from my own blackness.

As I grew up and gained more self-confidence, I began speaking up for myself. Nowadays, I have removed most of these toxic figures from my life and have moved on to focusing on myself and my goals. The process of solidifying one’s identity can be a lifelong journey, it is a journey I am still on, and each person should have the right to experience that journey without denigration.

Beyond my peer experiences of my youth, much of the loneliness that I’ve experienced in the last several years as an adult has been a result of a decision that I made. Even though I believe that this decision — moving across the country to a city where I did not know a soul in pursuit of a dream and personal growth — was one of the best decisions that I have made in my twenty-two years, it has not been without sacrifice. I have made wonderful, hopefully lifelong friends, and been able to experience things that I could previously never have imagined, altering my trajectory in an irreversible and impactful way. The relationships that I’ve formed, as well as the the opportunities and experiences that have come into my life, are things that seemed outside of the realm of possibility in the place where I grew up. My eyes have been opened to previously unexplored aspects of the human experience and my mind has expanded based on those realities.

All that said, even though I’ve had great fun in this new environment, it’s served as only a temporary suppression of the very the very human fears and concerns that, at some point, will infiltrate our consciousness. Regardless of my numerous attempts to lock these fears out, they always seem to have their own key.

Over the holidays I went back home, and although it was only for a couple of weeks, it was the longest period of time I’d been home in months. Seeing family was nourishing for my soul, and I am truly grateful for those weeks. After my trip home had concluded, I sat on the first of several flights to return to where I am as I write this, an apartment in Southern California. I tried my best to hold it together, and I did, at first. I eventually could not contain myself, however, and the tears erupted from my eyes as another passenger in my row slept peacefully in the window seat. It was at this point that I realized my attempt to suppress the sadness I felt was ultimately pointless. I cried because even though I was trying to tough it out, the reality of leaving my family meant returning to the ever-looming solitude of the recent past. It was an early flight, so the cabin lights were turned off, concealing me in darkness as I wept.

This was a couple of months ago, and I have since been in a brighter place, but throughout my life loneliness is something that I have never been able to completely shake. Being relegated to expressing sorrow in silence is something that has long plagued me as a black male who often felt that society had specific predetermined expectations for who I should be, and how my experience relates to others. An expectation to be hyper-masculine at all times, and to reject ever displaying anything that could be interpreted as weakness.

As a teenager, I can remember countless instances where my sexuality was called into question by peers because I spoke, and specifically dressed, in a certain style. Not only is this harmful because it shames those who might choose to explore self-expression in a personal way, but in turn, it also tries to compartmentalize something as complex as human sexuality into unrelated yet equated quantifiers, whose only basis is in stereotypes and ignorance. Thankfully, in recent times a clear transition has begun to take place. Openly expressing emotion has slowly become more accepted, even encouraged. But this was not always the case.

Today I am comfortable expressing that I have a great fear associated with death. Furthermore, as an individual who does not know if there is anything beyond this life, and who has spent a great amount of time doubting that there is, my primary focus has been living my life in a manner where I can express myself as freely as possible, while empowering others to do the same. The older I get the more focused I’ve become on spending time with people I feel truly value me; my family, my closest friends, and those who are committed to making the world a more accepting and loving place for all.

I want to tell anyone reading this that it’s okay to be afraid. It’s okay to think about how much time you have left with people and how best to spend it. It’s okay to feel like you don’t belong. It’s okay to be vulnerable. No matter where you fall along the spectrum of gender and sexuality, it’s okay to be emotional, to cry. It’s okay to fear being alone. Irrespective of your race, gender identity, sexuality, religion, or whatever you self-identify as, you should feel free to be yourself, and not feel as though you are being externally relegated to solitude or alienation based on who you are. I would not wish the loneliness that myself and countless other possess on anyone. For all I know, many of us may never stop feeling it, but I hope whoever reads this, no matter who you are, finds comfort knowing that they are not in pain alone, I stand here as an ally for you and with you.

Much love.

Top Privilege

There has been a long time understanding between “The Gays” (the male gay community, that is) that we are divided into 3 main categories: Top, Bottom, and Vers (there’s also Vers Top or Vers Bottom, but we won’t get into those specifics here).

Throughout history it’s believed that we have coexisted, for the most part, in peace and harmony. However, when you take a closer look into these intricate gay sex lives we lead, you’ll start to see underlying issues that separate us and how sexual positions can affect our lives in very real and impactful ways. Everything from fleeting to poop shaming to HIV contraction rate, we start to see that we Tops have a kind of privilege that our Vers and Bottom sisters do not have.

STI Risk

The risk of contracting HIV and other STIs is significantly lower for Tops, and especially if they are uncircumcised. According to the CDC the insertive partner’s (Top) risk of contraction (uncircumcised) for anal sex is 1 in 906. Meanwhile the receptive partner’s (Bottom) risk for anal sex without ejaculation is 1 in 154 and with ejaculation is 1 in 70. That’s a staggering difference in contraction rate.

An additional Top privilege is the preventive steps available to them post cloital. Tops with penises can do small things like washing potential exposure areas after sex with soap and water, killing any leftover bacteria that may contribute to Syphilis, as well as peeing to reduce risk of contracting Chlamydia or Gonorrhea. It’s not as simple for Bottoms to flush said bacteria if they’re located internally. Not only that, but Tops have the distinct luxury of being able to identify symptoms of certain STIs more quickly than Bottoms, allowing them to seek out treatment right away, while it might take a Bottom a formal diagnosis to know something’s wrong.

Trust

When a Bottom isn’t on PrEP (a HIV preventive drug), a certain amount of responsibility and trust is placed in the Top to not do things like remove the condom mid-sex or notice a potential break in the prophylactic. “Stealthing” is when your partner removes their condom during intercourse without telling you, opting for their personal pleasure over your safety. Unfortunately, this a common practice within the gay community and many times a Bottom may not realize until after the fact.

Social privileges

Next I want to talk about the social benefits a Top is afforded, which might not be as medically provable, but we absolutely do see evidence of it in our community.

While two Tops or two Bottoms can hook up with one another in several non-penetrative ways — and that’s completely valid — the most common perception of sex is believed to be penetrative, and between a Top and a Bottom (you might flip positions midway, but you get what I mean). But unfortunately, there are still many people who see Bottoms’ promiscuity as something more shameful, dirty, or “slutty” than that of Tops. There seems to be different reasons people “Bottom shame” and, truthfully, all of them are dumb as hell.

I’ve come across people who celebrate and cheer on my success on Grindr, and have even noticed that it makes me more desirable. Meanwhile, my Bottom peers with a similar sexual resume get looked down upon for the same practices. There is a false sentiment that bottoms who engage in high levels of sexual activity or with many partners, have “loose holes” which is simply untrue. If you are having anal sex and taking your time, using lube, and making sure everything is done at a proper pace, the asshole will remain tight. It’s only when the anus gets damaged that it loses its elasticity, which is mostly caused by tops who have no idea what they’re doing. One of the most despicable ways I’ve seen this attitude expressed is Tops using Bottoms’ STI contraction rates against them. Another is the old school way of looking at things we’ve unfortunately adopted from #TheStraights, is that the “catcher” is the weaker, more feminine one in the pairing. This thought process comes from internalized homophobia and sexist attitudes towards penetration. Some seem to feel like, “Sure, I’m gay but at least I’m a top.” This belief stems from residual shame after coming out, and the notion that traditionally masculine expressions of sexuality are somehow more valid. Luckily as I’ve gotten older and delved into more sexually liberated groups of gay people, I encounter less and less of this. But every now and then I’m reminded that there are plenty of people of all ages who still feel this way.

Paint shaming

Lastly, I’d like to speak on a topic that I believe isn’t given enough attention within our community, and that’s paint shaming. For those of you who don’t know what painting is, it’s a slang term to describe when a Bottom isn’t all the way cleaned out and a little something is left on the Top’s penis! Now, I personally think Bottoms are made to upheld completely ridiculous standards, not only dietary wise but also supplementary! I’ve seen threads upon threads of tweets and Facebook statuses about what Bottoms can do to make sure they have pristine anuses for their Tops. Some people go to certain extremes as taking 6 fiber pills a day, using multiple Fleet enemas, and not eating for hours prior to a hookup. And while this humble Top is no nutritionist, I can’t imagine that’s healthy!

I understand that most Bottoms do this to feel less worried, more prepared, and cleaner, but as Tops we have to stop demanding such perfection from Bottoms. We must be more understanding if something goes wrong, and recognize how much labor and time Bottoms put into their bodies (specifically their buttholes). They may say they do it for themselves, but we Tops reap the fruits of their efforts either way, and we do not appreciate it enough. I have heard stories of Tops kicking Bottoms out after being painted, making a big deal about it, and causing further embarrassment to the Bottom and it’s just not right. Tops should know what they sign up for, and if we can’t handle a little collateral damage we shouldn’t be playing the game to begin with. Listen, shit happens, and if we don’t start accepting that, and stop demanding perfection then I smell a Bottom revolution in the near future. Watch them stop douching all together because we couldn’t appreciate what we had. We need to cherish our Bottoms for all that they put up with and do for us. Let’s recognize our Top privilege and try and do better by them, it’s about time we checked ourselves.

I’m ‘That Slut’

The concept of slut is such a volatile thing. It’s usually said as a pejorative and offensively, yet there is no shortage of its casual usage in modern society. Popular among younger generations (but in no way exclusively millennial), it’s a quick and easy put-down for anyone perceived as sexually promiscuous. Ironically, it often has little to do with sex at all! Slut-shaming comes from the negative attitudes and presumptions people have about female sexuality.

So why does someone’s alleged sexuality make others uncomfortable? And how does brandishing that word affect us personally and emotionally? After all, slutty can mean so many different things. It can refer to a style of dress, a type of personality, even a sense of openness about one’s values. Have you ever seen one of those cliche movie scenes where the girl asks her friend if her outfit is too “slutty?” It’s ridiculous.

Honestly, I think when people use the word it says more about speaker than the subject.

Degrading a girl for being comfortable with herself suggests your own discomfort. I’d argue what you’re uncomfortable with is not women having sex, but rather women having sex for their own pleasure opposed to for the man’s. Slut-shaming was invented and normalized by men who want to make women feel small and powerless. What the S-word is really doing is creating an arbitrary hierarchy that pits woman against woman, girl against girl, so men can stay in control and continue to have their way. But it doesn’t have to be like this.

Is it possible to narrow down the definition of slut? There’s no point, it’s like trying to pick out a single star in a galaxy bursting with magnificent constellations. It’s an umbrella term for all the glorious possibilities that lie within the vast universe of female (and queer) sexuality. All that matters is what the word means to you.

My relationship with the word began when I was eighteen, when I learned that a girl should never be left alone in the patriarchy. She needs her mothers and sisters to equip her with strength and knowledge, to prepare her before she ventures out into a woman-hating world. Fortunately, thanks to social media, I was exposed to several women who helped revolutionize the meaning of the word for me.

Simply posting pictures of yourself online can be such a revolutionary act! Seeing female celebrities and Instagram personas like Eileen Kelly, Sarah Machan, and Elita Harkov relentlessly rejecting the norm by being unapologetically sexual online, showed me it’s okay to embrace human nature. These women encouraged me to honor my convictions, and live first and foremost for myself. I hope my story may inspire something similar within you.

I was a shy, naive teenager who went through puberty later than most of my peers. As sex crept its way into my fifteen-year-old consciousness, suddenly I saw hints of it everywhere. I grew paranoid, convinced that everyone knew something I didn’t, and that they’d use it as leverage to hurt me somehow. I was only just maturing, and I had no idea what it meant to be a young woman or about how the world viewed me. I didn’t know what exactly I was afraid of, but I knew to be afraid. Don’t wear this, don’t say that, don’t draw attention to yourself. Fear and shame are two things girls are taught from the very beginning.

It was especially hard for me to understand this transition from child to sexualized object. Up until this point I had identified as a tomboy, preferring ponytails and contact sports to playing dress up and painting my nails. Not to say I wasn’t interested in having a feminine side, but I didn’t understand why it had to be one or the other: feminine or masculine, tough or delicate, weak or strong.

Around sixteen, I decided to explore my femininity. I wore a skirt one day, and both my mom and aunt immediately asked what boy I was trying to impress. I was embarrassed and taken aback, like I had accidentally signed up for the wrong narrative, one I hadn’t even known existed. During that time I was overwhelmed with uncertainty, terrified of the judgments people made of me.

I recall odd comments, like my mom asking one day if black tights “still meant what they used to” when I picked out a pair at the mall. When the kids at lunch criticized a girl for wearing “stripper heels,” I second-guessed my favorite pair of booties. Could a pair of shoes really make someone a slut? How could they tell? I didn’t understand how such minor details could imply so much about a person, and inspire vehemence toward a virtual stranger. Were my clothes sending a message I wasn’t aware of? Was my behavior bordering on inappropriate? I wasn’t comfortable asking my mom about sensitive issues, afraid she would get the wrong impression. So I kept quiet, not knowing what to believe anymore.

By the time I got to college I was still pretty unfamiliar with sex. Fortunately, my lacrosse teammates emboldened me to embrace my womanhood and my blossoming sexuality. Well, at least at first.

As an impressionable freshman, I eagerly bought into their progressive paradigm: have as much sex as you want with as many people as you want, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise! While I didn’t know if I really bought into the concept of virginity, I was inexperienced and starting to get curious. Soon I realized virginity wasn’t the mental prison I thought it was — there was no mystical aura emanating out of my genitals, no aspect of my disposition that could betray my value as a human being. This understanding empowered me to experience pleasure and desire, to embrace a newfound passion in life. But it turned out not everyone was as supportive as they seemed.

As a result of my open nature, I discovered what this word had to do with me. I had been cast as “the slut” among my peers, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it. My girlfriends were excited to hear about my sexcapades, and at first I thought they were being supportive. But I later found out they were retelling my stories in a negative light, and the longer it went on, the worse it became.

In places like high schools and small communities, even ones considered liberal or accepting, someone is bound to receive this stigma. The so-called “slut” doesn’t usually have a say in it, but still, some choose to embrace the title rather than let it control them. When it happened to me, my trust was betrayed and my faith was a little shaken. But, like any life lesson, in time I was able to see the positive side, recognizing the true friends who stood by me no matter what. Who, at their own pace, also did whatever they wanted with their bodies. I realized that I didn’t have to be the victim — none of us were suffering by having awesome sex lives or by sharing with each other. We were defining our own version of feminism, and we were proud no matter what anyone said about us.

But it’s not always that simple. Criticism can hurt, especially when it’s coming from those close to you. Without reclaiming the word, occupying the slut stature can ruin a real friendship, can poke holes in a family, can sever the strongest bonds. And sometimes, it can sabotage a person’s identity like it did mine.

Towards the end of college I came to renounce my reputation. I longed for the purity and innocence of childhood, a place where sex had never existed, and so I thought, neither had sin. I came to view sex as a dirty act, could not recall wherein lied its virtue.

Upon entering a serious relationship following a long period of isolation, I yearned to connect with my partner, as well as reconnect with my own sensuality. But in the midst of intimacy, I found myself confessing I didn’t deserve to feel good. I didn’t even want to. Deep down, my body still desired pleasure, but my mind would not have it. I felt so ashamed, I convinced myself I needed to earn the right to enjoy sex again. I viewed my past sexual experiences as wrongful and degrading, even though I hadn’t felt wronged or degraded in the moment. In actuality, it had been exactly what I wanted, yet for that ridiculous reason, I somehow felt guilty. What I was taught, and what I had sworn I would never fall victim to was suddenly my reality.

So you see, slut-shaming is not so much about what a woman is or isn’t doing; it’s misogyny, sexism, jealousy, fear, and insecurity. Those who stay true to themselves are easy targets for haters and cynics; people are often jealous and frustrated so they project onto others. Because men want us as property, they attempt to convince women that they don’t deserve agency. That they should only exist in the ways men want them to. Navigating life as a non-male is difficult enough without creating divisions within the margins. To make our own decisions is to reclaim the power that has been stolen from us. We must advocate for each other as human beings, sluts, virgins, asexuals, and everything in between.

It took a lot of self-love for me to unlearn that societal hatred. I was unaware how strong of a hold it had on my psyche. I had to work to feel worthy of fun once again. Sex is innocent, I realized. It is not dirty, it is not a sin. Safe, consensual, gratifying sex is healthy and natural.

Girls are taught to be quiet, meek, and agreeable at all costs, but self-sacrifice is a mighty high price to pay. Individuals are too diverse to be confined to strict societal standards. Be who you are, sexually and otherwise. Do what you want with your body, mind, and soul. Let the gossipers set the example of what not not be, and free yourself from self-restraint. You don’t have to fall into the victim mindset perpetuated by the patriarchy. You don’t have to live by anyone’s rules but your own. You are the one who knows yourself best.

So if you choose to use the word slut, be conscious of how you use it. Who benefits from it? Are you building someone up, praising their choices? Or are you contributing to a harmful pattern, continuing to treat women as lesser?

I know who I am, and I’m living my truth. I am a slut! Well, sometimes. I’m also a writer, language enthusiast, Netflix aficionado, agent provocateur, sister and daughter, along with many other things. But most importantly, I am honest with myself. I try to be as loving in all parts of life as I am in the bedroom, and I try to pass on what I have learned. Anyone who discourages my truth is missing out on theirs. But hey, that’s their problem.

Likes, Swipes, and Fast Food

Our generation is addicted to instant gratification.

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Fast food companies have a finger on the pulse of culture like no one else.

It’s their job to know what we want to eat, what we should be feeling, and what we’ll want to eat next. In a very real way, porn, fast food, and Instagram are practically the same thing.

… Let’s rewind a bit.

My generation grew up experiencing and learning about sex in completely new ways than generations before. We were the first to have unfettered and free access to porn on a global scale, aptly earning us the accolade, “the Porn Generation.”

Beyond erotic porn, Gen Z and millennials grew up in a world where, with (almost) everything we wanted, we could have it now.

At its core, porn takes the most arousing parts of a given interaction, namely sex, and puts those parts front and center. In that sense, McDonald’s is quite literally food porn — just the good stuff: greasy, salty, and sugary all on one tray, served piping hot and fast. Once you’ve gotten your fix, you move on with your day, though perhaps feeling slightly guilty about what you’ve just consumed, until you crave it again in a few hours.

This craving is your brain literally being rewired by the ingredients of your meal, and begging you for one more hit.My generation’s expectation for instant gratification in potentially unhealthy ways does not end there.

Think about how many young people perceive their lives nowadays as framed through social media. We spend hours curating ourselves around an artificial sense of perfection, and in turn, get rewarded with short-term signals: hearts, likes, comments. Then, we conflate these signals with real value and love.

Feeling down? Post that picture you took last week.

Is it cloudy today? A #TBT to last summer is sure to brighten your mood.

We seem to be stuck in a world of instant gratification from the moment we wake up: a constant hum of push notifications and low-level stress. We might think that we are multi-tasking, but in reality, it’s harder than ever to singularly focus. What this really is, in the words of Chamath Palihapitiya, is fake and brittle popularity. It’s short term, and like a drug, leaving you vacant as you conflate its side effects with #realfeelings. Our ways of seeing have been permanently altered by how we send and receive “love.”

Ask any modern couple that’s been in a long-term relationship, and they will tell you that part of the secret lies in a myriad of little, non-grandiose, unsexy actions. It involves frequent attention and awareness, discipline, effort, and being able truly to care for someone — the ability to sacrifice for them, over and over. Living in a bubble of instant gratification, we have convinced ourselves that hard things are easy.

We now find ourselves in an alternate universe, governed entirely by the quick hit: Tinder on the subway, Instagram in the elevator, a burger for lunch. Whatever we want, good or bad, is just one click away.

Whether we like it or not, we are the Porn Generation. So what is that doing to our ability to appreciate the mundane, day-in-day-out, facets of our lives? If we are constantly thinking of optimizing our primal needs for pleasure, we are more likely to act selfishly and think of ourselves first. How can we reconcile this, knowing that behaving in such ways can hurt us on a regular basis?

I honestly don’t know… I am just as guilty as anyone of falling into all of these traps. Although, they say the first step to fixing a problem is knowing there is one.

We are being robbed, rewired, and permanently changed by technology — are we cool with that?