Week 4.

I haven't been updating on the weekly schedule I expected to because a funny thing happened in week 2-- all the changes went away.

I no longer have strange, strong dreams.

I still am not easily aroused.

I am no more aggressive than I was a month ago.

While I severely desire to end this fast already, I'm determined to stick it out through the 20th-- at this point, it has become less an experiment than an exercise in will power.

What we may learn, here, is that while the body may hormonally jerk about from temporary conditions, it will find a way back to its balance.

Week one: complete.

Perhaps it's that I've been biking nearly 20 miles most days of the week or the fact that I haven't orgasmed for the same amount of time, but I've been having the most vivid, memorable dreams: and not all of them are sexual.

Mind you, most ARE in some way involving the opposite sex or the female form, with only a few blatantly pornographic (indeed, one dream was neither-- I was a wolf, hunting someone-- yet I still woke up unusually aroused), but the only consistency is that they are there, every night and morning, at the very tip of my thoughts when I wake up and often lingering after.

Thus, my first week of the sex-fast has been one filled with fantasy.

The interesting thing about this little experiment is that while, yes, I get very stiffly aroused and, yes, I give second and third looks to every and any woman with a wisp of flesh showing (thank god for Lakeshore jogging paths), I also found that, after the first few days, I'm not easily aroused. The first day? Drop of a hat-- second, third, a stray thought could get me going.

But then around the fifth I found that I'm not as constantly hard as one would assume, considering a pop culture that SCREAMS that men are horny beasts-- especially without any manual relief.

The truth, it seems, lies in the middle-- I think I've moved a bit passed the physical and into the psychological. I'm not hard at the drop of a hat but my mind is still pretty preoccupied.

Are these clues to the supposed "sexual energy" some gurus of abstinence are so adamant about? I'm a believer in energy, in the non-spiritual sense: I believe we pass on subtle behavioral cues that influence group behaviors, whether you realize it or not. So, perhaps, there is a sexual energy but it is only the build-up of hormonal tensions then expressed in interpersonal interactions.

In the mean time, I find myself more focused on the physical, again: daily, I find myself distracted by the desire to do push-ups, pull ups or get a ride in.

Mind you, that may be tied to hormones crying out for relief: the "Look good, drop fat, get chicks" model.

Indeed, I've actually thought more about dating, more than I have in some months. I idly peruse OKCupid. I listlessly click pretty faces. I passively hunt, late into the night. Still, for now, it's only looking.

I'm curious to see if this is going to make me more aggressive in my interactions with women I don't know: aggression being something that only manifests itself in me when I've been drinking.

The only thing I'm sure about, in this little experiment, is that it is very, very hard to complete-- no pun intended.

This is going to be one long, hard month.

No pun intended.

The Sex Fast. Week 1

It occurred to me the other day that I had stopped enjoying sex.

Not to say sex wasn't enjoyable-- it was, as far as it goes. What I noticed was that, enjoyable as it was, I was less and less there as it was happening.

There I'd be, in bed with some wonderful girl or another, and my mind would be elsewhere-- the passion, the fire, would be elsewhere. For a while, the only thing that really worked for booze: properly drunk, I would bowl a girl over like a far-sighted caveman, drooling and slobbering until I got my last "grunt."

Not my best performances, I'm sure.

Truth was, and is, I had been in a sexual funk-- no interest in hunting Big Game and, if a deer happen to stray into the line of my phallic metaphor, no real interest in pulling the trigger either.

Worse yet, I didn't even want it alone. Every orgasm was a limp cough, a fleeting spark without a fire. The worst time to be disappointed in yourself is when your masturbating.

So I got an idea. And by "got," I mean stole.

Some guy had posted in a forum about how he had gone without an orgasm for an entire month-- no sex (he was married, so it wasn't hard-- har har), no masturbation, no nothing.

Eureka.

Since yesterday, August 19th, I have gone without touching myself and will do so for 30 days.

And you, lucky readers, will be along for the ride.

Like smoking, I hear the first week is the hardest (har har): so, a week from now, I'll report again on how my thing fares.

As for right now, I don't feel any different. No blue balls, no leering at high schoolers, no morning wood. But, my friends, we shall see.

If I don't report back by the end of the 30 days, assume I've gone on a killing spree.

(by the way, how is this about masculinity or feminism? Seriously, a 30 day fast from sex? What better way to find out what a man truly is... when he's not trying to get laid.)

Rage.

I was 15 years old and she was my first real girlfriend-- real in the sense that we spent a lot of time together, we cared for each other and, most importantly, we had sex (and the kinds and variety pretty much spoiled me for life).

She'd a rough time, as long as I'd known her. She'd been raped. Her father was long gone. Her past boyfriends tended to be gangbangers with uncomfortable nick-names (Face-high was the one I recall).

When we'd first met, she'd been called over my house by two friends who were tentatively planning to get her high and "run a train" on her. I had no plans on joining-- I was a virgin at the time and that wasn't how I saw myself stepping off the starting block. She came in, she smoked, she saw what was up and, instead, decided to take a nap in my room.

I came in, put a blanket over her and let her sleep. She wasn't sleeping, of course-- I found that out later. That was the moment, she later told me, that she fell for me. We became friends. We later became more.

She was a good girlfriend. She defended me like a Rottweiler. She wrote me poetry. We had some really great sex, for a 15 year old. All because... I was a nice guy and most people weren't.

It's important you understand that. Because later, when, in a moment of blind rage, I shoved her to the ground and some dark thing crouching in the back of my mind howled for her, when I looked into her eyes it was the nice guy she'd fallen for reflected back at me.

The argument was stupid and petty and involved my little sister: I didn't want her around, she did, and we argued, I suppose; she insisted, I suppose; and, I suppose, I got very, very upset. I barely remember the whys. Only the effect it had on me.

I never wanted a woman to look at me that way, ever again.

Perhaps, in her eyes, I saw my mother.

I have fragmented memories. None of the act, really-- just the fallout. When my mother "fell down the stairs" and had to have stitches in her face. I stayed with my grandmother, that time. The house with blue walls. Memories of screaming, through those walls. The constant, constant fear.

I remember going to school and there being a class on domestic violence and I went home and I told my stepfather to stop hitting my mother. I was in 3rd grade. Gawky. Small. Big headed. Standing up to a monster.

And it stopped, for a while, that's one thing I will never forget-- for a while, God help me, it actually worked.

Until it didn't.

I'm sure at the time I could never fathom why these horrible things had to happen. And then I got older. And I got into an argument. And the chittering, insectile thing perching at the base of my skull hatched from its egg.

I know what it's like to feel a bone deep, monstrous rage. I know it feeds on itself, builds itself, takes off like a run-away train. I know what it's like to want to beat someone you love. Not hit. Beat.

They say that the most common indicator for future violent behavior is a violent environment. I've spent my entire life very much aware that I am a statistic.

I have an affliction, is all. I do my best to keep it under control. Sometimes, it's hard.

I dated a woman who had just left a physically abusive marriage. One night, during an argument, she began pushing me-- she gripped an argument and chewed on it, pushed the topic, backed me into an emotional corner.... She goaded me, almost taunted, and I knew she did it on purpose because she'd done it before... in her marriage. The psychodrama was playing over for her and all I had to do was play my part.

It became physical. She started kicking at me, willing me to hit her. I didn't. I left.

No similar incidents happened. We broke up soon after. She'd later tell her friends I was emotionally abusive-- I suppose the physical was just too big a lie to pull off. See, she was very used to be a victim. Abuse was part of her identity, at that point.

I had a fight with a female friend, one of my best friends. I said some pretty terrible things and I said some pretty honest things but mostly I said things she didn't want to hear. We were shouted, she was emotional and it became physical.

She came at me, scratched me. Left marks. Pushed me further than I've ever been pushed until I grabbed her by the throat and held her against her car and I thought, then, that I would love to see her lip bleeding and tears in her eyes. And then I let her go. And I walked away.

I had a long distance girlfriend I hopped onto a bus to ride 5 hours to see, to repair a break in our relationship. It was a lovely romantic gesture, I thought. She didn't see it that way. We immediately got into an argument, at my hotel room; her pacing, me sitting very, very still.

We get closer and closer to resolution only to break into fighting again until she leaves, refusing to talk to me face to face-- only phone communication, she says, and I'd had enough, I'm frustrated, I'd gone so far and she could only insist on her position, she just wouldn't back down, that bitch, and there I was, outside, in downtown Minneapolis, screaming into a cell-phone, kicking newspaper holders and slobbering like a beast. I'm lucky I wasn't arrested.

I left a voicemail message that probably sealed the deal on our breakup. And made her friends think I was psychotic.

People think that men who commit domestic violence are all just rotten human beings but I know better. They're people like me.

There is a rage that boils up so strong it can take days to come down.

It comes from this little voice that whispers... disrespect. That whispers, she should know better. It's defensive, this voice. It's always their fault. It doesn't like being pushed, it doesn't like it when someone doesn't listen, it doesn't like when someone makes it feel small. It hates to be pushed. Just do what the fuck I say, it hisses. Submit.

It has it's own logic, this rage. And it is intoxicating. That is sad, sad truth.

Do you want to hear horrible thoughts? I once got into such a rage wanted my stepfather back to beat the living fuck out of my mother. I am not proud of that moment. But it was true.

It's made relationships hard. I avoid conflict. I avoid intimacy. I actually fear getting worked up with a loved one. I know what will happen, I know that rage is waiting with it's terrible logic ready to goad me.

It sometimes feels like the safest route is solitude.

All this and I've yet to lose control.

I know both men and women can be guilty of domestic violence but this is largely a male problem. There are ads out there, saying things like "Real Men Don't Hit Women." Real men.

I don't consider myself better than anyone else because I keep myself in check. I consider myself a sick person whose disease is in remission. An alcoholic who hasn't touch the bottle in 10 years.

The rage is there and it will always be there. Waiting.

And I'm a nice guy.

Fatherhood.

Some time ago, a friend of mine asked if I'd father her child.

She's in a relationship, right now, and nauseatingly satisfied with it; unfortunately, the male counterpart in said relationship is unable to perform the task of stuffing her cavity full of crawly, squirmy, active, sperms. So, they tapped me for the stringer.

This friend is my ex-girlfriend. I love her and, once, was in love with her. The decision was simple and no forethought, on my part, was necessary.

But afterthoughts....

I've always wanted to pro-create but never wanted to be a father. Some part of me has always been convinced I'd make a good daddy, if only because I've spent a lifetime avoiding the mistakes of my parents, but most of me has been horrified by the idea of being a father-- with all the attendant disciplines, scoldings and guidance.

How could I be a father, after all, when I've never really had one myself?

My father left my mother when I was too young to know whether to care. He was replaced by a string of idiots who only had single personalities traits: there was beats-mommy, the longest runner, there's frog-eyes the crackhead, possible-pedophile the mechanic, psychological-abusey, guy-who-can't-pronounce-my-mother's-namey....

None could take the place of an actual father. Whether they knew it or I did, there was always a separation: I was not of them and they had nothing to do with me. In the starkest terms, on the coldest nights, when I'd look up at the ceiling and my pre-teen mind verged towards nascent German philosophizing, they were just the guys currently fucking my mother.

My father was a ghost. He disappeared and started an entirely new family, complete with wife and kids and left me, instead, with a series of broken memories and a handful of aphorisms for modern living:

"Son, if you ever meet a girl who can pee standing up... Marry her."

I'm not making that up.

He also left me a shining example of what not to do: Don't have children in highschool, don't smoke crack, don't get cancer and if you do, try to fulfill your dreams before learning you're terminal, not after. Oh. And only pussies go Christian when they know they're going to die.

Sorry. Dark digression, there.

Back to the infinite potential laying between my legs.

After talking to the true parents, the one's who'd raise this child-in-negotiation, I realized I'd be just like my father after all: I'd inseminate a woman (the old fashioned way, if you're curious--- these are very modern people, I'm dealing with. Plus it's cheaper.) and just... walk away.

No responsibility. No attachment. No costs. And I fulfill my biological imperative.

I talked to a woman I know, a woman who had this same situation-- she was impregnated for a friendly couple (the old fashioned way, if you're curious-- I know a lot of very modern people) and carried the child to term, birthed the child and just... walked away.

She talked about how she couldn't be happier. That it was a gift for them and a relief for her-- this woman, single, 37, globe-trotting... and, by her own words and my own insights, thoroughly alone. She said to go for it. Just do it.

Yes. But what if I loved it?

I had an ex-girlfriend (a different one) who asked me, upon the birth of my only nephew, if I loved the boy-- and of course, I did and do.

She couldn't fathom this. How could I love a creature I'd never, up until then, met? Granted, I'm pretty sure this particular ex-girlfriend was a Aspie, but her point stands. How could I love something I'd never even seen?

Even now, when I think of this nephew, I think of him almost as if he were mine. Except that I live hundreds of miles away and have nothing to do with his rearing.

And so it is with inchoate offspring. I feel myself veering towards love for an idea... in which I will have no responsibility, no hand in raising.

I wonder if this is how people sponsoring egg-headed African kids feel, fingering their Polaroids and sending their just pennies a day.

When I last went to visit this friend, this future mother, I saw her with other people's children. I saw another couple, the biological mother and her boyfriend. I saw them discipline. I saw them scold. I saw them set boundaries and take away play-things. I saw them parent, each and every one of them.

I didn't think I could do what they did. And I realized, in these moments, that the truth was-- the very things that make one a parent are the very things that make one a "Man."

Setting boundaries. Discipline. Solidity.

This journal has been a personal exploration of masculinity in a largely feminist (even though it doesn't want to admit it) nation; a nation that sees women as, more or less, equals-- who can go to school, who can hold jobs, who can have careers outside of motherhood. Condoms and birth-control and a woman's choice and fuck-buddies and women's only gyms and OKCupid.

It's also, I realize, a search for what masculinity means-- intellectually.

And, at this moment, I realize that this journal is a document of a tragedy.

It is the search for the meaning of something that I could have been taught, if only I'd had a father.

This friend, this child, will not have this problem-- her or she will have enough parents, sisters, brothers, to be birthed and reared whole.

And I can have a part in that, simply by fulfilling my father's role-- to inseminate, and walk away.

But I can't help but question... whether I'd truly want to.

Perhaps, in walking away, I step further away from the growth towards my ideal... towards being a "capital M" man.

I talked to my mother about this idea, about helping this couple, in terms that made it clear this hadn't happened yet and she told me, if it did happen, she didn't want to know. If she couldn't see the child, hold the child, think of it as her grandchild, she didn't want to know about its existence.

Perhaps that would be the easiest way.

Maybe I'd feel differently if this were a sperm-bank and I'd never have to see these friends, and their offspring, again.

Or maybe I'd be like the African sponsor, loving something I'd never met. Maybe I'd wander through life searching every child's face for hints of my own.