Yeah, I figured I’d get your attention with “boobs”. Call it bait if you want, because it hooked ya. But there will be boobs so keep the kiddos away from this potentially TMI post. I need to write in order to get a hold of something that’s fumblingly slippery before I lose it to the depths. I could just keep it to myself but I don’t think I’m alone in this grappling for understanding. Seriously though, I may not even be able to publish this. If you’re reading it now then that means I was able to hook, reel up, and land this floppy, flailing, living-fossil of a creature from the deep sea trench of Truth without also hauling up those blind, muck-making, bottom dwellers: Blame and Shame. But be warned: You may get distracted by the misleading, siren duo as the sun glints and gilds their tempting scales just beneath the water’s surface tension. You may even find the trouble-making pair surfacing and muddying your own mind. That’s why I have a request of you. If you decide to brave this deep-sea adventure with me I need you to lay down your Judgement at the feet of this opening paragraph. Here - put it right here: __________________. Gracias. Now, you may join us, the pensive couple who had not seen another soul for about two months (uh, yeah, things are gonna get weird) on the starlit bow of Triplefin.
“Uhhhhhhhhhhhh, dude - come look at this! You’ve gotta write about THIS night, woman!” proclaimed a mesmerized Paul as he leaned way out over the edge of the bow’s pulpit railing to spy the growing menagerie of miniature, phosphorescent life frenzying about. “Oh, Man, you have no idea!” was the thought-bubble hanging like an entrapping net above my head as I reclined on deck struggling to focus on my soy chorizo-broccoli-quinoa bowl with caramelized-habanero-peanut sauce (we vegans suffer not on Triplefin). While masticating (that’s chewing, thank you; it’s not R-rated yet) I was listening to the nearby, woodwind inhale of a school-bus-sized Fin Whale (Balaenoptera physalus - the second largest animal on Earth after Blue Whales) surfacing under the condensing Milky Way. I was simultaneously trying to pointedly ignore my night-hyper husband and all the single celled lives employing light to shout out for attention. Little did Paul know that I was restraining my self. Well, my right foot, specifically. As he stretched waaaaay far out there to gaze at all the little fish, crabs, inking squid, and green-glowing whirly-gigs my right foot suddenly attained an impulsive, vengeant consciousness. Meanwhile, my logical, prefrontal cortex deduced that Paul’s cell phone was temptingly not in his pocket but safely inside. Far away from the foot that began to rise up sneakily to shove his teeter-tottering butt and flip him overboard into the still-winter-cold water. Would I dare do it? If I did, could I blame it on a singular appendage gone guerrilla warfare?
We were anchored at the Minor Midriff island of Salsipuedes that pokes up in the infamous Canal de Salsipuedes. This narrow but deep body of water rests upon the extensive, cavernous crack where Baja’s continental shelf is slowly but definitively divorcing itself from North America. It was long ago named by Spanish sailors as a warning to “Leave If You Can” (¡Sal si puedes!). Way up here in the far reaches of the Vermillion Sea the variable and difficult-to-predict currents can actually shove your boat backwards in space even while the wind is moving you forwards on the water. There are boat-sized whirlpools that can spin you right ‘round, baby. The difference between high and low tide can be four meters, causing you to wake up high, dry, and madly windmill-tilting on a sandy or (goddess forbid) rocky shoal if your anchoring math wasn’t up to snuff. It must be where sailors go to learn to cuss. But if you’re prepared and have reliable predictions of tides, currents, and wind you can experience Galapagos-like wonders from claw-footed fishing bats, giant chuckwalla lizards and endangered nesting birds galore including Brown Pelicans, Hermann’s Gulls (see Paul's pics below for those three), Storm Petrels, and Brown and Blue-Footed Boobies.
(No. It wasn’t a trick. Those aren’t the boobies I lured you in with. Patience . . . .) There’s megafauna up here too. As I type this I keep getting pulled away by the unignorable, nearby blows of a whole neighborhood gang of seven Fin Whales as we continue to island bounce together. And now I just got distracted by Paul who asked me anxiously if I’m writing about that other night. He’s afraid you’ll judge him harshly about what happened in the galley just before we supped on the bow to watch the bioluminescent light show. It’s what had my right foot going commando. You laid down your Judgement with the first paragraph, right? Because that’s what I just assured him.
Before I tell you what happened in the galley let’s back up to earlier in what was a notable day within a significant time period for me. If you’ve read some of my past posts you know (likely ad nauseam) that I’m newly menopausal and adjusting to a changing body with needs in flux. I recently realized that as far as sex goes I don’t even know what I want anymore. All the books (with high-heeled, sexy-pushy covers that make my right arm want to hurl them at the back of the head of the well intentioned person who gave them to me) tell me the same old thing we female Homo sapiens hear throughout our lives: That our bodies are messily problematic and that we just need to swallow pills, adhere patches, and insert potions so we can stay acceptably hourglass sexual and by-all-means penetrable. I’ve been doing all that plus making regular appointments with Paul to satisfy his still-going-strong desire. The thing is, the thing I just realized, is that I haven’t given myself time to feel desire’s tidal pull on me. On my changed body and mind. I’ve just been making myself get together roughly each week (I don’t mean it’s rough - oh grammar) because it means so darn much to him and because it’s what our culture taught us is expected of a cis-woman. Now that I think of it, that’s what I’ve done in most long term relationships: just given the fella what I perceive he needs or wants in order to please him so I don’t lose him. I’ve not dared consider what (well, mostly, when) I want or need sexually. Once I realized this I had to tell Paul who wants me to fully bask in the lingering twilight of my sexuality. Although he understandably struggled with not having any sense of how long it would be until the salty urge might surge in me he agreed to just waiting to see what, when, and how my high tide would rise to meet his. I tried to reassure him that he should just act naturally and not worry about offending me, say by touching a titty; that if he did something bothersome I would simply let him know. Now, here’s what’s interesting; with all expectations dropped, I found myself tuning into my body and having revealed to me what softens and warms my heart (Paul washing dishes before bed, giving foot tickle massages, helping care for my child, etc. ‘cause he’s that kinda guy) and what makes me curl-cringe and push away. That brings us to earlier in that notable day.
I did something brave. Something I’ve never done before. While listening to those second-to-one Fin Whales have a feeding frenzy in the near distance I allowed myself to acknowledge that I generally don’t like to have my breasts touched unless I’m already “in a frenzy” myself. I’ve just put up with random boob jabs and grabs for years because I was afraid to say so. Afraid to have the guy feel rejected. Can you believe there were times I even allowed myself to be photographed with a jokester hand on a boob* because my need to be accepted by the guys overrode my need for authenticity? I remembered how my throat burned as I fake-Orca smiled for the camera while swallowing my truth - which must be a barbed hook of a thing such is the ragged scorch of it going down. Again, once I landed this inconvenient truth I had to put my foot down before my sad-puppy hubby. I reassured him that there would still be some couch-cuddly times my mammalian buds could be embraced . . . with permission. It was such a relief to finally get that off my, uh, chest that day. Now, hold that titillating backstory as we revisit what happened in the galley to get my right foot seeking Paul’s balancing ass. But wait! Can you believe it? Those not-quite-the-biggest Whales just showed up right next to us! Let’s give them some attention before we go below to that night in the galley.
First, are you wondering why I keep referring to Fins as secondary to Blues? It’s because understanding and appreciation of Fin Whales compared to Blue Whales is analogous to our understanding and appreciation of human female sexuality compared to human male (the medical “norm”) sexuality. Every primary school kid can tell you who the biggest animals ever on Earth are and people travel from all over in hopes of seeing one of those Big Blues in the Sea of Cortez. One of our friends has worked undercover as a naturalist on some of the whale watching boats and has told of the incredible pressure the operators feel to find a Blue and only a Blue in order to satisfy their clients enough to get a living-wage tip. They’ve reported that if a “lesser” whale, even a barely smaller but equally miraculous Fin, shows up tourists are disappointed if they don’t get to Instagram post a bucket-list Blue. That’s the cetacean half of the analogy. How about the naked ape side?
Consider this - By the mid1800’s anatomists were just starting to take an interest in the veiled uniqueness of female sexual anatomy. And just as the hooded but visible nub of the clitoris was being recognized as only the tip-of-a-hot-hot-iceberg-organ good ol’ cigar-focused Freud (plus a puritanically patriarchal society) ** sunk the curiosity ship. Yeah. Sigmund essentially declared that the clitoris, a mere stump of an envied penis, be renounced by women as a little girl’s plaything and replaced by vaginal penetration and women damn well better enjoy it as Nature intended. Now, if you think that’s ancient, misogynistic history consider this (And I know I’m not alone, am I?): When I first became sexually active in the pre-internet, dark-ages I thought there was something wrong with me for not feeling fully stimulated during the good old in-out like clearly every missionaried woman in the movies did. And you can’t let that shameful pussy cat out of the bag, can ya? So, I faked it. Yepper. All the time - until my dad rigged some renegade, electrical thing-a-ma-jig up on our roof (sounds weird as hell I know but keep reading) so we could pick up radio stations out of Washington D.C. thus allowing Dr. Ruth Westheimer to save me (and maybe you) from a shame-induced lifetime of bad sex due to mis and dis-information. Now, I ask:
Are You There, Dr. Ruth, It’s Me, Jo? I’m 54 and have been making myself have sex when I don’t really want to because I don’t want my cis-male partner to feel rejected or have balls o’ blue. I’m pretty sure she’d say, in her grandmotherly gentleness: Sweetheart, it’s ok to put your sexual needs, especially as an older woman, first for a change. History has made women second-class-sex-citizens so that we tend to revolve around the pole (adorable giggle giggle giggle) of the man’s prominent desire. Give yourself time to feel your own natural urge and then get some when and only when you want it, how you want it, and if and only if it feels good to both of you. If your partner is compassionate he will be patient, respectful, and appreciative of your honesty because that vulnerability and Trust is the real stuff of intimacy and our culture’s narrow focus on sex can distract us from that fact.
Oh, Dr. Ruth, thank you and do you know about Fin Whales? Collecting data on those second largest animals ever to live on Earth was actually what enticed us this far North to the tip of the Gulf’s wild pointy finger*** that jabs accusingly toward the country that Hoovered up its freshwater source. (Well that and the fact that Paul put my need for cool air above his need for warm water. He’s that kinda guy.) We’ve recently learned that Fins are quite communicative in their small, social groups. For the longest time scientists thought their long, loud, staccato songs that are sequentially repeated (sometimes for days!) were some sort of malfunctioning machine static or USSR spyware. But their vocalizations are the lowest-frequency sounds of any animal and can be heard for hundreds of miles. Speaking of penetration, the Fins’ vocalizations actually assist seismologists as their sound waves penetrate over 2,500 meters into the sea floor! It seems it’s the males doing the shouting - mainly during the reproductive season. (Who knows what the females may be more quietly whispering?) There’s now concern that the huge uptick in human shipping noise this past century is interfering with both Fins’ and Blues’ abilities to communicate and mate with females. And these baleen beasts need all the luck-in-love they can get since the “gilded age” of whaling (early 1800’s - late 1900’s) decimated their numbers. In fact, one of Triplefin’s tasks last year was to be on the lookout for an individual whale (human-named Flue) who could be readily identified by a fishing-net-torn dorsal fin. What’s so special about him? Flue is one of the newly known hybrids between a Fin Whale and a Blue Whale. Those randy Fin fellows have been so desperate to locate scarce, post-whaling mates that they’ve had to chase down slightly bigger, lady Blues. And that’s a pretty remarkable union since a Fin and a Blue are as genetically dissimilar as a Homo sapien and a Gorilla gorilla! Speaking of mating with a Gorilla . . .
After I shared with Paul my big boob news (Uh, grammar again . . . it was my brave sharing of the news that was big, thank you.) he reminded me of a meme that’s been circulating on TikTok. Here's the original video:
That is undeniably funny to us humans with cis-male partners. What happened hours later in the galley that night was, from my perspective, NOT. As I hungrily turned with my hands occupied by veggie bowl and fizzy water (Yeah, dammit, I’m drinking less beer now.) Paul’s right hand suddenly reached out and latched onto my thinly-t-shirted, left nipple, and held on, while he laughed. I gave him THE LOOK (y’all know the one) and even he seemed surprised at his own betraying hand for a moment before it let go. Then (and I swear I’m not making this up) his right hand reached out again for a re-grab but his left interceded and stopped it’s naughty partner while Paul’s face reflected humorously his battle of right and left appendages. I bet I don’t need to explain the mutinous impulse of my mischievous right foot to you now, do I? Just writing this is getting me steamed up (and not in the way a husband wants) so let’s blow off that judgmental pressure with a related “Big-Sister-Henri” story before we find out what that raised foot of mine does behind Paul’s balancing butt . . .
It was the late ‘70’s so Henri must’ve been in her mid-twenties when she encountered her own Salsipuedes. Sometime after running away with the wooden-legged (and endlessly fascinating, double jointed!) Ice Cream Truck man but before she moved to New Orleans to be a photographer whose day job was pole dancing on Bourbon Street, she met a guy who had a houseboat on the lake outside Austin, Texas. So enchanted seemed the fellow that he bought Henri a plane ticket to visit him. His only request was that she bring a piece of luggage he was shipping to her. She arrived and once aboard the floating craft he opened the ferried package to reveal a bundle of cocaine. The instant my sister saw the illegal snow her two feet impulsively launched her into a swan dive off the boat. She swam to shore where, with only her bikini top, cutoff jeans, and soaked hair managed to thumb a ride to the airport. The couple who gave her a lift bought her a mercy t-shirt and she somehow got a flight home. Surely I heard our parents shake their heads and mutter the familiar “Oh, that Henrietta!” at the story.
Oh, that Henrietta! That mystified, common refrain now reveals to me something that seems to flow through our Bowman family: Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder (ADHD). Henri’s life-long addiction to nicotine was her way of coping, mine was (with an emphasis on Hyperactive) exercise addiction plus humor as anxiety deflection, and my go-get-em’ son is just now recognizing his need for a non-American fast-pace. Now, guess who else struggles with ADHD? Yep, our beloved Cap’n Paulito. In the lead up to the nip slip night I was doing some reading to help me untangle the roots of ADHD.**** It’s more complicated than simply this, but I now recognize that highly sensitive people like us, if not able to be given the necessary attention by their caretakers to feel secure as infants and young children, develop what we call ADHD as a way of coping with uncertainty and disconnection. It’s a natural response to a deficit of attention given in early childhood and results in various problematic behaviors such as fidgetiness, distractibility and (get ready for it) impulse control and hypersexuality . . . especially if you’re born male and experience depression. ***** Hence, Henri’s sudden “Abandon Ship!” moment, Paul’s regretful titty twister, and my right foot that we left suspended in mid-air behind Paul’s tipsy tush that night on the bow.
What do you think my right foot should have done that night? Given Paul’s butt the boot so we could’ve just laughed off the whole silly evening? That’s what he was hoping I’d do - not kick him overboard but just laugh it off - because that’s what I’ve always done - swallowed down my own arrow-tipped truth, denying compassion to myself so someone else can save face. Why? So I won’t hurt their ego? Maybe, but that’s an easy out, isn’t it? So they won’t reject me? Hmmm. I thought I already learned that lesson with Mr. H. Crabb. Perhaps I should have used both feet to launch my own self overboard, broccoli-be-damned, and swam away like my big sister, Henri, did when she realized she’d been made a mule (an ass) of. But this is way out there Salsipuedes, leaving me with no “away” to swim to even if I could battle the indifferent current that runs like rapids.
Look, I’ve been running away my whole life. According to family lore I skipped crawling and walking all together and went from caterpillar-skooching around on my belly to pulling up and running. Then they had to hold me down to change my diaper because if they didn’t I’d squirm and flop off the bed like an escaping catfish from the riverbank. I’d run straight out the front door, naked-as-a-jaybird, through the giant, green wilds of Timberville. I’ve run so long and so hard that I’ve cast myself away at sea. I’m tired of running, y’all. Maybe it’s time for me to put my foot down. That elevated, impulsive, right foot - put it down on deck and plant it firmly there beside its partner for once and face the man I love without judgement but with compassion (for both of us) and understanding because we got into this mess together. Yeah, he screwed up in the galley but how could I expect my partner to treat me differently if I either continue to resentfully join him in the old, worn out sex jokes or swim away solo or with some other fish in the sea? The proverbial sun is setting on us now. I want to live this night fully engaged and with clear intentions. I want to walk a middle path where one foot strides gently but firmly in Acceptance and the other unfailingly in Authenticity. And Paul IS the person I want to walk beside me in the dark. I mean, who else could slow down my anxiety-driven hyperactivity enough to wonder over the minute, luminescent whirligigs spinning on the water, or the nearly transparent, teensy Skeleton Shrimp feasting as they cowgirl ride on the back of a tiny Umbrella Sea Slug (see Paul's video below)? And who else but me would know that deep below his purple hermanizing of my left nipple that night is a small, bullied, always-moving-from-school-to-school, latchkey, lizard-chasing, little boy’s need to simply be seen and understood. And so . . . that night . . . .
I did it. I put both feet down on the deck of the bow, inhaled deeply the Fin Whale-exhaled mist, stood tall like my mom taught me, tip-toed over to Paul and joined him in peering way out over the edge, letting him share with me his natural exuberance and wonder at all the tiny glowing lives swirling below us confused lovers. I silently committed to speaking with him about that night the next day. Mañana. It’s so easy to put off doing the hard stuff, isn’t it? Stuff like engaging in essential conflict in an attempt to be understood. Fortunately my chest had my back. What I mean is, although Paul didn’t pinch all that hard, my left nipple actually burned against the bedsheet all night long presumably in a psychosomatic attempt to make sure I followed through on my promise. And it worked because I lay (lied? laid? Whatever.) awake most of the night fretting over how best to approach that night the next day. I needed to find the correct words and demeanor to simultaneously convey a serious breach of boob boundary without dredging up those subconscious monsters, Shame and Blame.
I finally managed to drift off around 2 am that night thanks to the eight-hour, looped recording Paul painstakingly made for me of croaker fish croaking somnambulantly over a rocky reef (he’s that kinda guy). Alas, I was too soon awoken (wakened? woken up? Grrrrr.) by a whosh-splash-SMACK followed by a PHOO!-wheeze and Gizmo doing his “Holy quaking Kraken! Get your hairless behinds on deck people!” bark. Yep. At 3 am a pair of Greyhound busses, I mean Fin Whales, arrived and demanded our undistracted attention. I swear they were trying to rouse us for their nightly entertainment by smacking their king-sized-mattress tails about 10-15 meters from Triplefin. It was moonless-dark as Paul and I and the dog beheld in barely-breathing awe the enormous pair only because they were glowing with eerie, green coats of phosphorescence. I admired the ability of simple, sperm-shaped dinoflagellates (no - not dinosaur farts but “lowly” plankton) to completely enwrap in spooky-sparkling blankets the second-largest animal on Earth as Paul put his arm around me. And that’s when this thought lit up my sleep-deprived mind: Most any American cis guy raised on DC and Marvel Comics wants - no - needs to think of himself as “one of the good guys” - surely not a p#$$y grabber. So if instead of laughing along with them they are confronted about being in any way sexually harassing (especially by their female partner who they want to protect) their hero identity feels called into question. So, what’s a damsel in distress to do to help her man feel pragmatically healthy regret after screwing up without also feeling soul-smushing Shame or Guilt? In my case she goes back to bed again with one tender left nipple and the next day begins to write. And here we are, folks. It’s about time to put this into Paul’s anxious hands and find out if he’s ok with me putting it in yours. Will he be good enough with it to make a requested music video for the ending of this writing?
But first: What happened when all four of us ADHDers met for Christmas at Henri’s house? Well. As soon as Henri picked up me and Paul and my then 15-year-old-son from the airport we high-tailed it to the grocery store so she could shop to make us a grand veggie feast. The cart was overflowing as our travel tummies growled audibly at the register. After getting everything bagged Henri reached in her wallet to discover she forgot her credit card. Instead of letting us pay she used the coins she had to buy four potatoes and promised she’d shop and we’d feast mañana. The next morning as Paul was showering in the solo bathroom upstairs, I did yoga on the floor next to my kiddo who was deep-teenager-sleeping on the couch under the stairs. Suddenly, Henri charged through the front door with a couple overflowing bags of groceries. She was a snowflake blasting, scarf-spinning, whirling dervish - plopping the bags on the floor, frisbee-flinging her hat and mittens over my standing warrior pose, blowing dry leaves off her arms, hopping and questing deep in one of the bags for some precious object, locating it by feel, pulling it out with a victorious smile, and then tossing it’s plastic-packaged, glinting weight onto my son’s barely awake form as she pack-a-day throat sang, “HEY! Wake up and Merry Christmas! Here’s your gift!” Now, I ask you - what’s a fifteen-year-old-boy (who lives with his vegan mom and stepdad) to do when his beloved aunt plop-gifts him a silver cheese knife? My son’s was, “Aw. Thanks, Ant Hen!?!” as he remembered the store was offering a free cheddar knife (and mini cutting board) with the purchase of over 100 bucks in groceries. My sister’s disembodied voice yelled back without irony, “You’re welcome!”, while bounding two-steps at a time above his head. When she hit the landing, shivering the timbers of that old Staunton house, she banged on and hollered through the bathroom door to a still-semi-soaped Paul to “Get outta the way! I gotta go poop!” and he naturally did. (Hey, he’s that kinda guy.) And there he stood in the hallway, evicted from the shower, wet and dripping with an undersized towel around his man bits, when our newly married niece and her groom arrived to meet Paul for the first time. Like all us Bowmans they too ran up the stairs immediately to greet him with slippery, sopping hugs, dripping handshakes and crazy, swirling stories of happenings on their honeymoon. The rest of the holiday was an ADHD blur of rowdy, Bowman fun but I do remember what Henri gave Paul, her new brother-in-law, as a gift. One of the jobs she was able to hold down for a reasonable amount of time required her to get licensed as a notary. So, Henri wrote her new brother-in-love a welcome-to-the-family note on a quality scrap of paper that said, “I’m so glad you’re not an asshole”. Paul was so overjoyed with the official, big-sister proclamation that he asked her to notarize it. And like my beautifully sensitive son and his cheese knife, he kept it to cherish.
Enough with the forestalling distractions. It’s time for Paul to read and hopefully judge this tale as non-judgmental. Oh, wait! Yet another distraction! Hear that? Our gang of seven endangered Fin Whales are back, demanding our attention once more. (Come join us aboard and see if you can ignore a whale come-calling!) I know they’re not the biggest animal on Earth but they’re still worth paying attention to and so are those tiny, bioluminescent dinoflagellates. To me their respective pulses of sound and light are telling me something I’ve been trying to figure out all my life. What Love is. It’s not an illusion but it’s also not the romantic fairy tale we’re brainwashed to believe in. It’s not the pricy, play-it-safe-store-bought Hallmark card with a pink-sappy, mass-printed “Be Mine” message of possession. No. Love - real, non-transactional Love, freely given without expectations, is simply this: Paying Attention. It sparks out tentatively in the dark ether, “Hey, you there. You may not be the Biggest Blue; you may be just a teensy, overlooked, flailing, fucking up speck of a thing but I see you there whirling and glowing and I want to understand you because you matter in this world you imperfect and precious creature.”
And now, I bring you something extra special: Paul's hauntingly gorgeous video of coddiwompling Fin Whales and comparatively tiny Triplefin in breathtaking Salsipuedes. As you watch know that it also features Paul’s vulnerable, first-time-ever, public sharing of his freestyle composing and playing of guitar. And, I declare! An old friend I'll call Prometheus just previewed it and had an insight I missed. To him the pair of Fins who continually surface, submerge, and resurface together are like Paul and me now: diving down into our shadowy depths to wrestle with those Guilt-gilded illusions of Blame and Shame and then surfacing together to exhale and breathe - joined - in the clean sunlight of Original Innocence. Now, enjoy his divine creation:
*Do you recall my Day of the Dead wedding post? In the leading photo of our altar for lost loved ones (see left) I dropped Paul what I thought was a pretty big hint about needing to move my boundary regarding jokes about my sexuality. If you look in the lower left corner of the altar there’s a photo of 13 year old me in a purple Sears and Roebuck monokini posing with one of my favorite, fun-loving Uncles (who Paul has always reminded me of behaviorally) at the beach. If you look closely you’ll see that my dear uncle is picking on my dad who’s taking the picture. My uncle snuck a joking set of fingers into the side of my cut out suit as if to say, “This one’s gonna be trouble”, just as my dad snapped the picture and then we all laughed. When Paul first saw that pic years ago he was very judgmental of the uncle who I had to adamantly and repeatedly insist was not at all creepy - just a rascally joker. When I added it to the altar I thought I was sending Paul a clear message to remember to put to rest that kind of humor that makes a joke of my/women’s sexuality. But I didn’t have the self-assurance and self-respect yet, even then - just seven months ago - to simply come out and tell him straight up so he, the Cool Aid Man, missed it. Ohhh . . . creepy weirdness . . . I just noticed how our reflection is sort of a D.O.D. mirror image of my younger self and uncle. Shivers up my spine!
**I highly recommend Vagina Obscura by Rachel E. Gross. Her Anatomical Voyage is an informative and fascinating read on our history of understanding (as well as such Freudian mis and dis-understandings) of human female sexual anatomy.
*** That’s a reference to Hayes Carll’s brilliant song of non-judgement: Wild Pointy Finger
**** Still the classic on understanding ADHD is Gabor Mate’s Scattered Minds: The Origins and Healing of Attention Deficit Disorder
***** A new study: ADHD and hypersexual behaviors: The role of impulsivity, depressive feelings, hypomaniacal symptoms and psychotic prodromes - ScienceDirect
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