Spontaneity is rare, and impossible to replicate.
At the age of 12, I begged my parents to send me to sleepaway camp. They complied, and I ended up at a place with a Native American-y name about three hours away from our home in Connecticut for a two-week stretch. Aside from being so miserable that I considered alleging sexual abuse by a counselor to convince my parents to collect me, a few things stood out.
To be clear, I am all for random, safe sex and all forms of sexual experimentation. But for whatever biological, psychological, environmental, or spiritual reasons, I believe that a lot of us experience a desire transformation at a certain stage.
For a long time, my foremost goal was to be a mom.
To overcome my reservations about walking the line between dating and prostitution, I told myself that any such concerns were the result of societal conditioning.
As someone who’s been dating a divorcé for some time now, I can assure you that there benefits to landing a man who’s signed a few more legal documents than the next guy.
“That looks like a porn star,” I say, as it occurs to me how strange it is that our medical diagrams don’t depict variations in human anatomy.
Truth be told, I kind of like porn. I’m not into anything overly kinky or sadomasochistic, but the gentler stuff can be interesting, if not always illuminating.
I’m no prude, and I figured I had nothing to lose.
“We both have pasts,” he said. “The difference is that you broadcast yours.”