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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

~ Words For You, Just Ask

Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Category Archives: Sexuality

Celibacy

21 Tuesday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sexuality

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Abuse, Al Franken, Bill O'Reilly, Charlie Rose, Harvey Weinstein, Joy, Judge Moore, Love, Peace, Sex

Some of them like to say “it
can’t be done!”  The body produces
something, there’s an instinct—
it’s gonna find a way to come out!

Men are in the spotlight of late—
“abusing women with our abuse,”
Power trips, there’s no excuse!
I wonder if we went a little deep—

We could bridge the gap between
what we know and what we Tweet.
Where is the factory putting out
healthy little boys?  Let’s please Teach!

Some feel the penis is not born right;
snip off foreskin, snipping off protection.
God and nature flawed?  We’re going
to “fix” the gun, taking off its safety?

The hood gone, the helmet exposed,
now let’s wish instead of will the boy
through sex education, neglect the
Bible talking Wife of Youth—

Follow Mom and Dad’s example of
what’s easy, convenient, and if it
comes to the surface—let it go.  Wide
is destruction’s path, many don’t know…

God is waiting for our prayer, but
often in vain as we pull this adjusted
tool out, after years of repression and
alcohol consumed, whip it out inappropriate

in the face of workmates and clients,
we cannot have a female friendship without
instincts to mate—ones we do not stop
nor know it’s possible to stop!

Stop!

I gave up sex three months ago.  Then
failed to follow through, relapsed a couple
times but am back on the horse of zipping
it up in honor of the Wife of My Youth and God.

I pray in the morning.  Say No all day.  Pray
at night, saying thanks, and saving the sex
release for One Person and One Person
only!  In my case, she is far away, a woman

who was a beautiful girl in my past…
My first crush, the wife of my youth!  We
teach our boys to laugh these off, then they
go on to another flower, another girl.

Then another.  Then another.  Then another…

The bad habits add up.  With unprotected
private parts, the boy becomes someday a
man without instruction.  He abuses women;
he pays society back for being abused.

Men Abused from Birth; Any Surprise We Abuse Women?

16 Thursday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Blog, Circumcision, Health, Intactivism, Men's Health, Sex, Sexuality, Womanizing

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Abuse, Circumcision, Harassment, Health, Intact, Intactivism, Intactivist, Joy, Judge Moore, Love, Men, Men's Health, O'Reilly, Peace, Roy Moore, Sexual Abuse, Trump, Weinstein

Tools of Abuse -- Circumcision

-by Bill Watkins 11/16/2017

***

It’s tempting to throw stones at all the men being called out for inappropriate sexual behavior toward women, and even young girls.  I wanted to illuminate why that may not be a wise course of action; in fact, a blind judgment of male-perpetrated sexual harassment fails to look at and solve some of the root problems that lead to bad behavior by men.

1. Circumcision – Our First Abuse

We men are born with a cover on our penis.  God, if you use that concept, our “Creator” (evolution if you want) put a safety hood on our members to protect the most sensitive part of our body, the reproductive unit, the great human populator.  Certain religionists and other ancients thought it was a good idea to SNIP THIS COVER OFF OUR MALE INFANTS.

Shock1

2. Alcoholism and Lack of Talk – The Second Abuse

We are not honest.  We “protect” children from sex talk, avoid the topic—then expect them to get it from school or TV.  What boys often get from school and TV is porn and “sex as competition,” where groping and “scoring” with females is touted over such a wonderful biblical tradition as:

Rejoicing with the Wife of Our Youth.

Solomon through Proverbs 5:18 and Malachi 2:15 emphasize the glory of monogamy, loyalty and commitment to the first girl God gives a boy to love.  The first love is blessed and special.  And yet in our American society we scoff at first crushes, avoid talks with boys that “love is good,” and show them a poor example by divorcing and philandering around from flower to flower.

Little boys confirm the competition aspect of sex bragged about on the playground, think that scoring “chicks” is preferable to loving one woman forever.  Alcoholism plays into this, as it is a disease that plagues our abilities to be honest and communicate love.  (Freud)

3. So off you go, Little Man!!!

“Enjoy your unprotected, hood-stripped, extra-sensitive penis, go out without advice and with our example of divorce and womanizing, alcoholism—AND TREAT WOMEN RIGHT!!!”

***

Not happening.  And no wonder.

LET’S STOP ABUSING OUR BOYS, STRIPPING THEM OF PENIS PROTECTION, TALK TO THEM ABOUT SEX, BUT FIRST GO BACK TO GODLY, GOOD PRINCIPLES LIKE BEING LOYAL AND TRUE TO THE “WIFE OF OUR YOUTHS.”  The first step to end abuse is to do what we are doing:  out the truth, talk about the problem.

But then:  Throw a stone?

No.  Let us recover together, go back, pick up the pieces, apologize to our wives, re-think drinking flammable liquids that divert us from God’s will—and teach our children, first by example—that love is precious and sacred, that sex is great with the right partner in the right way.  Then speak to them…

“Your mother and I love you, son, and show that first by loving each other.  Second, we want to be available to your every question or concern.  What?  You are in love with Anne in third grade?… Son, that is so wonderful.  Consider telling her in some way.  Write her a card.  Give her a flower.  We are so proud of you.  And thank God for our instincts to love!”

Sexual Mistakes

15 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Recovery, Sex, Sexuality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Alcoholics Anonymous, Joy, Love, Peace

Anna's art1

We are where we are, we cannot
be better than our best in the moment
we act.

Looking back, we wish we did better, have
power only to tell the truth about it
and Apologize.

Many people despise looking back, get
offended at my wanting to do it, but they
are not in A.A.

We have twelve steps, all written with
past tense verbs, showing the spiritual
program used

by the first members of the program.  They
went back and made amends for the past to
make a better

Future.

***

Before there was sex, there was sexual feeling
and attraction.  We stripped the Barbie Doll
down and got aroused.

I looked in a mirror, and marveled at parts
of my body that intrigued me; I thought I was
amazing!

My first favorite person was Dad.  Mom “divorced”
him, a long-term separation of bodies, but Jesus
spoke truth,

Said “Man cannot separate what God has bound
together.”  Divorced people fail lie detector tests
when they

say they are not married.

Marriage is for life.

Who’s the Wife of Your Youth?

I thought mine was my third grade crush,
Anne Devereux, but she has moved on so where
does that leave me?

Life is cool, Jesus changing water to wine, a
metaphor at least for moving mountains with
faith and hope—

a newborn baby making it all new again, anything
possible under the sun!  God bless the child, the daughter
and the son!

There she was in third grade.  So pretty.  So cute.
And I, I had no clue what to do, no one to help me;
I let a huge moment pass;

I died a bit, then kept dying until I sipped my
first wine, stole into parent liquor cabinets to
douse depression.

“Everybody does it!”  We’re so adult here, getting
drunk and escaping.  Now we’re really disobeying some
commandments and law—

God is watching.  Counts every hair on our heads.

You will wish you were dead.  Better to get up, follow
God instead of the devil no matter the short-term pain.

There is a rainbow after the rain!

No joy without the pain, this is life!!

***

I was going to talk about sexual mistakes; impossible
without sex.

I was a virgin until 33—seven years short of a
crazy movie comedy.

It really wasn’t funny to me.

A lot of my mistakes, looking back, come from
fear and pride—fear of rejection, and being
too proud to gush for another person, a wife.

So you run and run, oh and then you masturbate—
because no one with authority told you “no.”

No one talked to you at all about deep, intimate or
sexual stuff—adults, like children, lost and not
knowing what to do!

****

I declare, and in the new light of new revelations
of sexual abuse in America—that Masturbation
could very well be a very bad thing—as the Puritans
would say… Maybe they were right!

Give your will and life to God.

Then honor a Sabbath and your parents.  Kill not,
ah! Then:

Marry, honor and rejoice with the Wife of your
Youth!!  Do not stray or treat her treacherously!!

Consult Solomon and Malachi and see!

***

Well, where did my fear, pride and masturbation go?

It went where it could, was thirsty without a well,
a desire creeping up, temptation un-resisted—it went
online, it found lonely women who liked it too.

Once, I got an eighteen-year old to engage with
me on Facebook, used a friendship to corner her
into a sex act.

Not illegal, not the worst thing ever, but if I could
go back, I’d rather have kept the friendship, let
something bloom, keep in touch with a beautiful
young woman who had dreams and ambitions like me—
was an artist and a writer like me.

In a moment, I reduced her to a sexual object, and
no longer are we in touch…

***

I quit “sex” two and half months ago, but mostly
that meant I quit abusing myself to get a sexual high
every or every other day.

No more jacking off.

And now I have female friends.  More contacts and
options.  Intimacy without vulgarity.

I still want sex.  Dream of it!!  Need it!!

But it is under the thumb of my prayers and
higher desire to please God and the Wife of my
Youth.

Anne?

I am available to her, unless God gives me some other
convertible water—something to change to non-
alcoholic wine,

A woman to honor, a love to shine.

My Crooked Johnson

14 Tuesday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Circumcision, Health, Men's Health, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sexuality

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Joy, Love, Peace

I was born premature.  They stuck
tubes into my lungs, helped me to breathe.

I ran naked all over my third birthday party
to my mom’s chagrin.  She could not stop me.

Dad gave me his last sip of bourbon and water
when I was five.  I started drinking fire with

“friends” at the age of twelve, was blacking out
by the age of thirteen.

I never talked about sex or love.  I drank
alcohol and played sports.  I loved the girl,

but never told her.

I jacked off thinking about her.  So much
with the right hand that my johnson

went crooked to the left by college.

***

They took the time and effort to snip off
my foreskin, but never told me step by step

what to do with the whole member.

We have celebrity sex abuse scandals gone
wild, “powerful men” wagging their cocks

under lock and key, intimidating witnesses and
victims with threats and displays of temper.

Wrath is God’s, honesty a key to the lock,
but when the stones appear to throw at the sick

my prayer is we don’t throw them, unless you
can claim to be without sin, which I doubt

if you be human.

***

Crooked is the way out of Eden; Adam and Eve,
their forbidden consumption, Cain killing Abel
and lying about it—Samuel asking for a king
to be like other nations—

putting men in charge of other men, reaping
God’s curse.

We put religion before truth and earth, conquered
native people, littered the ground with metal
and ground up stones to make concrete.

We built temples to ourselves, had slaves
build them, then killed our king in 1963,
lied about it like Cain.

***

My crooked Johnson is a perfect response
to Eve, Adam, Cain, Samuel, and the CIA.

Alcoholism from an inability to express love,
Freud once said, crushing grapes—letting them
spoil. Eating them to get a buzz and forget God.

My crooked Johnson is exposed to help the next
generation straighten his.

Don’t touch it.  Marry and rejoice with the Wife
of Your Youth, and never let her go—choose one!

We choose One God. Choose that first gal the LORD
gives you, for she is a blessing.  And to do her wrong

a grave sin.  Ask Malachi!

God help us.  The ten commandments are fine, the
native ones good, too.  Each religion has a code,
each culture a set of rules, so study them!

Ancient wisdom inspires Truth.  Truth sets us
free, and for the sexual abuse to end, we must
come out.

Forgive us God.  Help us find the straight path
under You, away from the crooked asphalt of lies

Eve, Adam, Cain and Samuel supplies!

The snip of baby boys’ SKIN on his PENIS without
consent; the sip of Ethyl Alcohol given on laps
and loose bar-b-ques; the lack of sex and love talks,
the neglect of Reason stemming from turning our
back on Creation.

Its Creator.  Waiting for us to return every moment.

Great spirit, the Tao of Life, God above referring
to all we don’t know that brought us and our
cocks here:

Thank you.

And we are sorry when we put ourselves and our
perversions before Nature, love, essence and truth.

Essence and You!

Love in a Greyhound Bus

06 Monday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Erotic, Explicit, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sex, Sexual, Sexuality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

God, Love, Sex, Truth

I was not looking for love;

She sat down, an older lady by far,
maybe Persian, which would fit,
because the only Farsi words I know
mean “I love you.”

I probably told her this.  She giggled.
Traveling alone from Orange County
to meet family in Las Vegas.

I was heading back to a lonely motel
room, after a Los Angeles date fell through.

We spoke to each other a little, me never
thinking anything big would happen.

I had near hits on the bus; a young blonde
woman telling me some words seemed
silly to her, like “direction,” an obvious
play on male arousal.

That lady just bundled up, and we giggled
at each other across the aisle.

But the Farsi lady was next to me on
the window seat.  Both of us unattached,
but if you went by age, you would think
“Oh, she’s too old to think like that…”

But there we were talking, halfway into
the five-hour trip.  It was dark, only car
lights and shadows whizzing by in the loneliness
of our lives.

Travel-high, we shared stories, and talked
and talked.  She had a nice smile, dark hair—
short, a free lady from a part of the world
women struggled to express.

She said I was “nice.”  This with a big smile,
and frankly said it in a way that said
“I really like you…”

Eyebrows might rise, as a tingle forms in
pants at connecting hearts, a mind together
forming for an interlude of gentle unknowns
and touch—

I said, “If you call me nice again, I might have
to kiss you.”

And she said, “I wouldn’t mind that.”

She smiled, and I leaned in to kiss her.

A first kiss, yielding to open-mouthed second,
for a second both of us one in focus
on the wonders of sex.  The precursor to
creative romps electric, tongue on tongue,
sticky and clinging, messy—it’s not a skill,
it’s surrender to life and love that matters!

Hands grabbed at breasts, all was available,
the key in the door.

I asked her some questions, hoping she
thought what I thought, and the rub and
kiss continued to open a new place for her.

We seemed at a breaking point, me aware of
a slightly disabled teenage girl across the aisle to my right,
this exotic older lover, with some scruples
but not many.

She wanted me, so placed a sweater over
her crotch, unzipped her jeans.

God bless her for it, I was fine to help,
so entered her area with my right hand,
smoothing over her curling black hair, finding
a wet reception in the hot pleasure zone
of fire—life inside, I gave it to her, with

a finger used at times to tell a stranger
to get back in his lane on the freeway.

Our mouths and tongues locked as I
pumped her pleasure crevasse.  God I love
a good bus ride!!

She grunted light sounds into my lungs,
as I tired.  She came and zipped up slowly.

She promised she’d call me, as she rode off
into the night later with family members.

I waved at her good bye, and she pretended
I was no big deal.

She never called, but sometimes I hear her
gasping in my dreams, the pleasure
that makes a painful night interesting,
the memory its own cavern of wonder,
more and more important a place with
every day lived toward greying hair, old
age and stunted libidos.

Whew!

Never judge a book by its cover, go with
the flow, and find a friendly memory as a
companion for life—the next best thing
to a physical place to rest your heart by
the fire at night.

Love in a Greyhound bus.  You never know
where it’s going to go right!

Becoming Sexual

13 Wednesday Sep 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sex, Sexual, Sexuality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace, Sex

To know who you are takes years,
layers of who you are not shed like
clothes to get to truth’s bottom,

Even the socks come off—we start
with the physical, then the emotional,
then some get to the Spiritual, olé!

First there were those naked Barbie
dolls for me, even Ken got shagged,
what a thrill or rush in the shorts,

We had to hide their naked bodies
under the dining room table between
meals when no one looked.

The minute we were found out, a
sibling and I, we were reprimanded
for being human and never told

what the hell was going on with our
body, and our curiosities!  I used to
put sugar on my Frosted Flakes and

Fruit Loops, but that’s not important
right now, the next sexual escapade was
me checking myself out in the mirror,

wearing only underwear, I wasn’t fully
aware of erection, just a growing sense
of “what an awesome sensation,” so

I recall scheduling these mirror dates
every so often.  Jump to years later, after
chasing X-rated flicks on ON-TV with

friends or alone, uncomfortable boners
without remedy… it finally came.  “What
the heck was that,” I asked myself,

totally alone in these new experiments,
thinking for a moment that I may have
been the first person ever to, yes,

Break my penis.  Puberty for me was delayed
way past normal dates, I was old according
to most calendars to not know stuff,

experience stuff, but there I was having
heard about “wet dreams” and semen in
school, but who thought all that would

actually happen to me!  Especially, without
warning or my body or dad or someone
telling me!!  A strange sensation that first

time in bed, I thought I might burn off
my johnson, wind up dead—was I trying
to make fire from wood?  Basically… yes,

in a way, heat created liquid, and all did
their job, now looking back—but at the
time I thought I had a sprain, so went back

to it a few days later, let it out, then added
this event in some way to my schedule for
thirty years until recently, when I gave up

sex completely, so that I could be a responsible
human being, in control and able to
commit to one person for life, the dreams

and thoughts of love still arise, the body
still wants and craves, I just pray it out
and walk away, make a bunch of poems,

try to sell a screenplay.  There was a weird
time in my life going to 12-step meetings,
sexuality on a hold—I was a failure at sex and

intimacy with girls, a virgin until thirty-three.
It was cool and difficult when the valves
broke open, as humanity felt good, but

those meetings became a way to go for
chicks, I had lost an ability for platonic
female friendship!  Cool and uncomfortable

all at once, I learned the language of love
and got a few gals to bed, but as I said, I
am withdrawing my career so I can commit

to one, be responsible and not be that middle-
aged dude breaking up families and creeping
around, making folks say, “How sad, that guy

is a desperado, doesn’t he know he’s too
old for that kind of thing?”  And I say, “Ah,
man, are you saying I should totally put my

naked Barbie doll away?  Just kidding,” and there
you go, an amazing thing is sex and its drive,
I wonder how it affected and came to you,

for me it was a wild ride.  I do wish I had
had a conversation with a loved one, that
sex and love be celebrated not under the gun.

When I smiled at Anne, and she smiled back
I had family members at home laughing in
front of and behind my back—and that, people,

is the very serious note of this joke: Never
get in the way of someone’s love, be they eight,
four, fourteen or forty-seven years old, read

the bible—Proverbs and Malachi touting
the Wives of our Youth, that line could have
been for you.  We grow up often in ignorance,

going from flower to flower, forgetting to be
a follower of the Tao or God or tradition.  Some
have that, and are lucky for it, some must fly

around, figure it out for themselves, do
experiments like I did, survive.  There’s a better
way, I say even while grateful I didn’t die,

Have today, my favorite one, on the way
to peace of mind—putting a Power greater
than myself in charge of Sex!

Yes, it’s powerful, and fun and cool,
sometimes uncomfortable.  Make a prayer
and decide with God what you want with it

before it eats you alive like drugs and
alcohol, the diet of every vice, addiction
edging spirit out, selfishness killing our

children trying to explain to them not
love and sex.  But how your mom and I
transgressed God and vows, split up,

called it a divorce against reason.  Man
can’t separate what the LORD has bound,
so grab your private parts, pray, let go

forever and give them to Truth!!

2nd Adolescence of a 33-yr Old Virgin Alcoholic

30 Wednesday Aug 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Recovery, Sex, Sexuality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Alcohol, Alcoholics Anonymous, Alcoholism, Betty Ford Center, Joy, Love, Peace, Recovery, Steve Carell

Whew!

It’s hard to make a comeback, especially
when there is nothing behind you—only now.

Drinking fire on Dad’s lap at five, I let
my first crush pass me by…

There were no feelings, nor a safe place
to explore or express them…

Until I got to Betty Ford at 22, and a black
social worker named Lee intervened on
my dishonesty.

In time for me to abandon the sickness of
telling lies, in time to join Al-Anon, overdose
twice, join AA, and finally have sex on my
third sobriety birthday.

I was thirty-three in human years.

Thirty-three!!!  Seven short of a Steve Carell
comedy on the subject, and of a sad topic in
my Abnormal Psych class at UCSB.

I’ve been on a long second childhood and
adolescence post-Lee and Al-Anon, since
telling the truth and trying to “move on…”

It’s hard to be a child with a beard.

It’s hard learning to say “I love you” and
other truths for the first time in a man’s
body when they expect you to “Go to
Work.”

My mind without alcohol beating down on it
was “working.”  That work I did…

Work was Force multiplied by Distance, said
my Physics teacher, known to live a life of
Celibacy—how could he?

Easy.  Hard.  Difficult, but with a God or Higher
Plan about you, anything you want to do can be done,
even moving the canyon from there to there.

I have given up sex to honor my first crush, the
Wife of my Youth.  No one told me to do this,
but the idea came like a prayer to wrestle my
mind from confusion.

Honor.  Honor your parents, yes, keep the
Sabbath day holy, believe in God, don’t kill,
lie or steal, but also:

DO NOT COVET and DO NOT COMMIT ADULTERY.

Do not pretend to be single, when you have failed
to keep your commitment to the Wife of Your
Youth…

I am married to God and her.  She lives not with me;
therefore sex is not possible for a moral man.

No one told me what to do with sex growing up,
No one told me about it, what it was for and
with who to have it…

My first life was a dishonest pass through love,
never admitting or expressing it.

A “childhood” of alcohol consumption, sports
and superficial relationships.

That “childhood” had to die; a new one started
in the middle of my body’s manhood—which made
many, including me, uncomfortable.

But it had to be done; I had to live the Truth, get to
here, pray to God—find my sexual and loving path,
reason and pray sex away in the current moment,
make an adult decision to Honor all that makes
us proper men and women.

“Be as a child” to enter heaven, and “rejoice
with the Wife of your youth…”

That is the plan, not handed to me by any
person, though spiritual friends have helped.

“Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.”

We can make our lives sublime, Longfellow
reminds, go big or go home.

“Be perfect as God is perfect,” strive to be the
best we can be, and attain John Wooden’s
famous peace of mind, if you merely strive
you surely get it.

Big Bang Sex Theory

26 Saturday Aug 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sex, Sexuality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Big Bang, Joy, Lao Tzu, Love, Peace, Sex, Tao Te Ching, Yang, Yin

This is my sex confession, not yours.

It could never be, each person with
their own views of sex, what it’s for,
what it’s not for, how to do it, how often,
with who or not at all.

Celibacy is another thing, and would take
another poet to know it, I’ve only been on
its road a short time.

I prefer Big Yang to Big Bang, borrowing from
Lao Tzu’s yin and yang:

For there to be everything, there has to be
nothing.  Even Something, like a Universe,
requires Nothing to define it.

Big Bangers say there used to be nothing,
then Something blew up, made Everything.

Believe that, don’t believe that, believe
Adam and Eve and God creating all things
from Eden to the Adirondacks.

It doesn’t much matter, unless you are
one of the crazy ones running around saying
that men and women are the Higher Power.

Judgement, playing God, being #1, 2 and three
we put ourselves as number one, which among
other things leads us to a life of taking all we
want, Freud’s ID.

Mine, mine, mine, let’s conquer that there’s
a rush of going from her to her to her, planting
your flag down to show yourself and others what
a Conqueror you are.

You search sex for self-esteem and find yourself
reeling, wrecking homes, killing children with the
confusion of “Your mom and I are getting a
divorce.”

WTF.  Man can’t separate what God has bound, you
are right to put your head down, there are times
for frozen fake smiles, and times it’s better just
to accept that even Clowns drop and frown.

Turn around.  Talk to a friend.  Perhaps she or
he has spirituality, will help guide you through
the forest of iniquity into the land of fun-filled
virginity, God bless our sex to never hurt the
fabric of the universe.

God grant us fun of a kind that children can
respect and learn from, love that is forever,
Commitment to the wives of our youth, like
Solomon and Malachi advised.

Love is the answer that sex was trying to
supply.  Love, the answer, without it it might
be better to die.

Two Hours Gay

30 Thursday Mar 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Blogs, Homosexuality, Sexuality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

-by Bill Watkins 3/30/2017

Gay Rights Flag

Once, I was “gay” for two hours.

In around 1999, I was checked into a psych ward, not for sexuality but for mass confusion, depression and suicidal tendencies.

Finally one day closer to 2002, it became clear that the only thing wrong with me was alcoholism.  That I needed to stop all and any use of mind-altering chemicals like alcohol, drugs, and self-pity.

But at the time, I was in the psych ward, on the first floor, talking to a social worker.  She was a nice, portly lady, and we had a good talk by the side of my bed.

We had our own rooms at that place, so you know it was expensive.

Didn’t make it fun.  A strange up and down time.  My mom visited me with a book of poetry I have since lost.  Couldn’t be better than the one Grandma had at her house before she died.  Had I been more alert at the time of her death, I would have asked somebody for Grandma’s poetry books.

Someone brought my guitar, too.  Could have been that time or another, come to think—I lived in psych wards off and on for a couple years.

***

The social worker and I were talking, and I got into my story.

Realizing that I was a poet, loved musical theater, and was a twenty-nine year old virgin with a long list of romantic failures with the opposite sex, we both decided that:

“I might be gay.”

Now, mind you, we were in use of the modern “gay” meaning homosexual.

It’s weird that word was hijacked back in the ‘70’s.  One that used to mean “happy.”

It beat the shortened four-letter deal they were calling homosexual people, and it stuck I suppose.

I used to take the word “gay” on the comedy stage with me, declaring myself a very gay man, citing all the ways I was happy and that I wanted the word back for heterosexual use!!

“Give us our word back, man!!!”

***

So, there I was.

A James Taylor-like Takamine acoustic guitar behind us with great action—my first guitar—on the bed, deciding my sexual truth and/or fate.

I decided to try “gay” on a bit.

I walked away from the meeting with the social worker, declaring my gayness to a few people around the fancy psych facility.

It seemed easy, at least easier than performing as a heterosexual man.

There is more act, more effort involved, I think—in being heterosexual.  It’s not like you can declare your heterosexuality and get a lot of attention.

You were not joining a small club, but an expected state of humanity.

***

After a two-hour walk around with my new sexual status, I felt okay, but came back to my room before dinner at the nice cafeteria with awesome salad bar.

I was learning Tagalog from the Filipino cook, the dinner a show of sorts and I entertained a bit, under usual circumstances.

But gay Bill seemed calmer, more withdrawn, even shy.  To myself more, to be sure.

I did what all proper alcoholics in recovery do, even though I was not fully sober yet:

I prayed about it.

God,

Do you want me Gay,
or Heterosexual?

Gay was easy, could be a fun couple years, but I foresaw a disease and short life.

Heterosexuality was difficult, took hard work, and smacked me in the mouth with my historic failures, leaving me an old virgin.

But more God was in that road, and I saw a longer life…

So, I re-chose heterosexuality, and did not turn back, except for the odd thought—which I welcome as a challenge.

The thoughts I would really like to get rid of are my goofy memories from playing high-level volleyball in the past.

I used to think, if I could do it all over again, without drinking alcohol on Dad’s lap at five, drinking it with friends by twelve, blacking out by fourteen and messing up my life—that substance killing loved ones:

I would have been a triple threat entertainer like Fred Astaire.

And my sport would have been hiking and nature, camping and fishing.

***

Now, after my Native American studies, and studies of my family background, I consider:

What if I had been born in cosmically native Wales, United Kingdom, where the Watkins family came from and thrived before invading America in 1607?

I would have been nature.  I would have been One with my land, as the Native Americans are with this one between the Atlantic and Pacific, even though we have temporarily displaced many of them by violent force.  I would have gloried in God and nature, walked as one with it all, and I would have written great songs and poems about my love.

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