A few months ago, a friend mailed me a few books on writing. Over the weekend, I began Education of a Wandering Man by Louis L'Amour. Already from reading the first few pages, I know I'm going to enjoy this book.

Other than a vague knowledge he wrote Westerns, I know nothing of L'Amour. (Westerns aren't my thing.) The Introduction mentions he never wrote about sex: L'Amour considered it a "leisure activity" secondary to life and death and the necessities of everyday survival that he liked to write about.

That got me a-thinkin'. In the earlier days of this here blog, definite spikes to this site occurred whenever I made it the topic. Sex sells...

Writing about sex was scintillating -- This is a 'personal journal'; Read My Very! Personal! Confessions! Conversely, reading sexploits on other blogs brought with it a bit of voyeurism, porn and reality (and without the costs!).

And I wrote about sex because, hey, it's my blog and I can.

But after the initial oooh!, my interest withered (har har). I might disagree with L'Amour, but writing about sex by itself becomes nothing more than a laundry list. Without an anchor or a framework, it runs together or fades unmemorably. To the extent I write anything here to improve my writing skills, I have attempted to recognize that. (yeah, so?)

So, a sex update is in order!

In the past month or so, my body has shut down. No, not Erectile Dysfunction, just an underwhelming lack of desire.

Even so, I've had a personals ad posted looking for dates. And, since moving back to Dayton in January, I've met a couple of folks with it. I've met Dr. Freud and 911 Boy.

Dr. Freud is a newly-minted PhD in Psychotherapy. He is here between somewhere-elses to complete a clinical that he needs before he can obtain his license to practice. He's quiet and intense, and he talks like this: "I was having a pretty good day until someone challenged my observations in Group and that really hurt my feelings."

A couple of weeks ago, I met him at a downtown bar for drinks. I had an ulterior motive: Corner him for free sex advice!


Although the parking lot outside the place was nearly empty, I shuddered as I heard a voice cragging too close to a microphone.

Karoake Night. (Red Circle with Diagonal Slash through it.)

And there he was on stage, Dr. F wheedling something by Sting: You'll remember me, when the west wind blows, upon the field of barley... What a crap song; bring back The Police! God, did I need a drink.

After the dozen drunks half-heartedly clapped, Dr. F returned to the table and slouched over a cranberry juice. I told him about my 'problem'.

"Isn't that weird?" I asked.
"Is it? Maybe you need to take time for yourself. Not have sex for awhile."
"Yeah, that's what's happening alright," I laughed.

(I just saved myself $200!)

I mentioned it to 911 Boy, too. 911 Boy is hardly a boy but the name somehow works. He lived in Manhattan for most of his life, until...that day. Then he moved to the Southwest where he had a nervous breakdown. 911 Boy has been diagnosed with several syndromes and disorders and he talks like this: "It's a good thing I've spent the last two years studying my chakras or I'd be pissed at the doctor for totally forgetting to mention that Effexor fucks with your metabolism and blows your body up like a friggin doughnut."

911 Boy took a shine. For awhile we were instant messaging. He would type things like this:

I had a dream about you, am I supposed to tell you that?
Really?
You weren't wearing any clothes and I... (Let your imagination roam.)
I'm not available. I told you that.
That's what happens when you have compulsive behavior!

...and he sent me a link to here.

Yeah? So I checked it out. I read the "signs" and asked myself the twenty questions. They didn't fit -- or fit like in a way that I think it could fit anyone with a pulse. I typed that I didn't think it applied to me.

Denial is more than a river in Egypt!

When I was a kid, maybe even in elementary school, I remember seeing this movie, where a team of Scientists studied three or four monkey babies placed with non-living 'surrogate' monkey moms -- one made out of wood, one made out of metal, one with fur, and a real monkey mom. None of the monkey babies flourished as well as with the real thing and, if I remember right, the ones with the metal and wood moms turned out pretty bad.

My sister and her family have flown in from Lala-land this weekend and are in my old hometown. I don't get to see her very often, so I drove up to spend some time.

It is my sister's 20th High School Class Reunion. My sister, always glamorous and her year's 'Most Individualistic', helped organize the reunion events, which began in the middle of last week. People have flown in from all over the country and out of a total class of about 120, over 100 people have shown up. My sister has been filling us in with all the news. "It was so good to see so-and-so. I didn't recognize him at all -- until he smiled. He was so shy in high school, and now he's really blossomed."

I can't help but think about or compare. Being that I was the town fag, living here was a daily humiliation that I longed to escape. I wasn't completely friend-less, but of the few friendships I ever had, even fewer survived the jump away.

Time Heals All Wounds... or does it? I didn't come back for years, and when I did, a tentative few days here and there, I thought Things aren't as bad as I thought. My memory, purposefully no doubt, but succesfully, had begun to erase. When my mom or oldest friend would drop names, I no longer remembered who they were. Was I bringing 'closure' to my past? Had I Moved On and Lived Positively In The Now?

Two years out from Graduation Launch, I sat with two friends at the Police Concert, Synchronicity Tour. My one friend scowled and said, "Isn't that so-and-so?" There, a few rows over, were some of the popular girls from my class. They had gained weight -- a LOT of weight. Hah! I thought to myself. Visions of vengeful class reunions danced in my head. Maybe one day I WILL attend a class reunion.

Three years ago this same weekend, my sister and I flew in for a funeral and we walked down town. There is an alumni open-house at the town hall. "Let's go," said my sister. Looking around and not seeing anyone in my generation, I agreed. Besides, I bet I look pretty good for my age, I thought to myself.

Almost immediately my sister walked up to a group of women, smiling gracefully, relaxed, "Hello," she said, "You guys look familiar to me. I'm so-and-so."

"We went to school with your brother. Is he here?" It didn't matter they hadn't recognized me and I was standing right there: A numb sensation swept over me, and I felt my chest tighten.

"I'm so and so," the blond person closest to me stuck out her hand, and in that way where you clutch the end of her fingers to shake. I recognized her as a childhood tormentor and she was very obviously scanning me up and down. My hawaiian shirt, my baggy khakis, my patent leather sneakers, so not in keeping with the LL Bean Lands End Preppy Handbook community uniform. Another woman was motioning wildly to someone else behind me, "Psst! Come here! Now!" I turned to see who it was -- another woman I didn't recognize. Surrounded, I was in the middle of a cold sweat. It was all coming back to me.

"I'm going outside." I interrupted my sister, her eyes glazed in the middle of smalltalk. "I'm going outside NOW." and I bolted, almost literally. Behind me, I heard a burst of laughter.

There was no reason for me to react that way.

I'm not one for kids. Brats screaming, yelling, not getting their way. Even at a carefully chosen matinee of Shrek 2 last week -- selected to avoid crowds and especially the little darlings -- children wailed, kicked seats and threw candy through the movie while their parents sat by, oblivious or sedated.

At my parents' house this weekend, my sister and her husband are visiting from the West Coast. As they rush around, grandma and grandpa will babysit my two-year-old nephew. "We're going to a party," my sister and her husband crouch before my nephew and hold his hands, "but we're coming back. We're coming back."

They walk out the door and my nephew starts screaming. "Oh my," says Dad, picking up Nephew, "Oh my now that's not good." Mommy! Out! wails my nephew, snot all over his face.

Nephew is scrambling and squealing, wanting to run after his parents, and my Dad is stressing out. "Here, Dad, why don't you give him to me," and I don't give him a choice. I take Nephew and put him over my shoulder, turn around and walk out the back patio into the back yard. In the lush twilight, he sits on one of my arms, resting over my shoulder and looking behind me. I rub his back with my other hand.

To my amazement, the wailing shuts off almost immediately and, in a few more minutes, even the whimpering subsides.

We walk around the house looking at things. I speak into his ear, and this is what I tell him: I grew up in this house, but I left a long time ago. I don't come back very often and I have mixed feelings when I do. It was a shock to come home this time and find your grandma, my mom, suddenly frail and bedridden. Death happens to everyone, and one of Life's great lessons is learning how to deal with it.

We stop at a tree in the backyard. This tree is an Ohio Buckeye. Look at its large, lush leaves. I can remember your grandpa's dad inspecting the trees and plants. He was a tree surgeon and a pretty neat-o guy.

My nephew breathes softly. He isn't squirming but I can feel him turning this way and that, looking. We sit on the front stoop and I see out of the corner of my eye that Grace sits inside the door staring at us. "Grth," says my Nephew. That's right, that's Grace.

A few hours later, my sister returns ebullient from the party. My brother-in-law trails with his digital camera, "Did you know that tonight was the first time in his life where he hasn't had one of us with him?"

(Using my dad's p.c., the draft function doesn't appear to work. This is a draft to be revised later.)