Since I made a New Year’s resolution to give people the benefit of the doubt more often and it isn’t yet February, I will operate under the assumption that you’re behaving ethically.
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I sure hope you aren’t asking me how to cheat on your wife. “If a law enforcement agency wanted to prohibit the gifting of a toy to one’s child, I think there are significant constitutional issues that could be implicated in terms of family privacy rights,” he told me. I asked Walters if you could get in legal trouble for giving your son a vibrator, and the answer is probably not. I thought it might be useful to get a legal expert on the record here, so I talked to Larry Walters, a First Amendment lawyer who serves as general counsel to the Woodhull Freedom Foundation, a nonprofit that advocates for sexual expression as a human right. That is good parenting, if you ask me.īut I’m guessing that part of why you’re asking this question is because facilitating a teen’s sexual expression is taboo and may feel like a weird thing to do, given teens’ vulnerability to exploitation. By providing a vibrator, you are not merely being sex-positive you’re fostering efficiency. Just as you wouldn’t try to stop a fish from swimming or a bird from flying, so should you not attempt to impede a teenager from masturbating. Their Kickstarter campaign to build will remain live until Wednesday, April 16.Philosophically, I see nothing wrong with you buying your 13-year-old son a sex toy, as he will be masturbating anyway. Along with Alysia Abbott, author of Fairyland: A Memoir of My Father, she is launching The Recollectors, a storytelling forum and digital community for people who have lost parents to AIDS. Whitney Joiner is a senior editor at Marie Claire magazine. And all he would’ve had to say in return was: I am.
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“I asked Mom once if you were gay,” I would have said. I wish I could have known that some part of him accepted-and was proud of-who he was. I’m not angry about it I just wish it had gone differently. It was probably one of the hardest conversations he’d had in his 38 years. He sent me a starstruck postcard from London exclaiming, “Guess what? You know Jimmy Somerville from Erasure? I met him at a club here!!” (Never mind that Somerville was actually in Bronski Beat, another of Dad’s favorites.) But to actually let me in-to sit on that blue blanket, look me in the eye and tell me he was gay-was something he couldn’t do. When he went to see Truth or Dare with his hairdresser, Mickey, he told me about it. In some ways I think Dad was on the verge of coming out to me back then. “Something like that,” he answered.Įvery once in a while, my brother and I talk about the what-ifs: What if Dad had held out a little longer, if the drugs had been approved a little earlier, if time and the eventual softening of our culture would have softened him? Would he be meeting me for dinner in New York? Would I be flying to visit him in Louisville or Lexington with his middle-aged partner? “Like leukemia?” I once asked, as we drove away from the doctor’s office, thinking of the hokey Lurlene McDaniels books scattered around my middle school classrooms, in which innocent cheerleaders bravely fought some sort of cancer or another, hoping to get one kiss before they died. I knew he’d had some kind of “blood problem” for a while he’d explained that much when we accompanied him to get his blood drawn during our summers together. Since my brother and I spent most of our time with my mother and stepfather, two hours from Dad in a small town south of Louisville, his life seemed far away when we weren’t with him. Dad taught business law at Eastern Kentucky University and served as a deacon at our church. I didn’t want to know.įor the previous four months, my father had been in and out of the hospital in Lexington, Ky., half an hour from this rented duplex in Richmond, where he’d lived since he and my mother divorced three years earlier. I didn’t know what he was going to tell me. We sat on the itchy baby-blue blanket on my bed in the room I shared with my 8-year-old brother.
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On a Saturday afternoon in April 1992, when I was 13, my father told me we needed to talk.