Girls and Gays, gather ’round and listen. If you’re a straight man who likes to be called ‘Daddy’ in bed, this conversation is for you, too. Now that I’ve gathered you all here. I have something to say that I know might be hard to hear, but… We got daddy issues, y’all. And ok-sure, you might be laughing like it’s not a real problem. It’s just my kink. And okay, I agree with you. But kinks shouldn’t stunt our psychological growth– which is why we gotta talk about this and take a serious look at who, and why, we call ‘Daddy’.

What is a ‘Daddy’, exactly? hahah– Buckle-up, kiddo. I just fished this gem outta the urban dictionary…

A ‘Daddy’ is a guy who calls you beautiful instead of hot, who calls you back when you hang up on him. A ‘Daddy’ will lie under the stars and listen to your heartbeat, or will stay awake just to watch you sleep. A ‘Daddy’ is the guy who kisses your forehead, and who wants to show you off to the world when you are in sweats. Who holds your hand in front of his friends, who thinks you’ re just as pretty without makeup on. A ‘Daddy’ doesn’t have to borrow your car because he already has his own, and he lives on his own, and can pay for the bill at dinner.

Sounds like a lot to ask out of a human male. Also, this definition is severely outdated. It’s 2020, y’all. Didn’t you hear? A ‘Daddy’ can be woman, too. Oh, sure they can! Haven’t you ever seen a boss-ass bitch? Financially independent, self-possessed, and in charge of their own destiny? THAT is a Daddy. Boiled down to it’s core. Don’t matter if they’re a male or a lady, everybody stans a daddy-queen, queen-daddy– whatever. Gender ain’t much of a thing anymore, either (we’ll discuss that later).

It’s interesting how quickly Millennials and Gen-Z have been able to capitalize on Daddy merch, amiright? Shirts and hats with that single, obsequious word: ‘Daddy’. Flying off the shelves. No other generation has embraced their psychological issues quite as like ours. It stems from an evolution of three generations that have suffered a collective phenomenon known as Divorce. That’s right. Along with Gen-X, our childhood single-handedly witnessed the collapse of the secular, nuclear family structure in America. Millions of children were raised by single-parents. Only one-sixth of all ’em were able to see their fathers as much as once a week. Close to half of ’em didn’t even get to see their fathers at all. Statistics have shown that nearly ten years after divorce, fathers are still absent from two-thirds of these– now– young adult’s lives.

Okay, so we got daddy issues. So what? So, we’re emotionally stunting ourselves, that’s what. And not only that, but we’re being exploited for it, too. If we don’t start questioning our desires to find ‘Daddy’, then we may never realize what we’re truly looking for– not just in our partners, but within ourselves, as well. Our wounded inner-child is screaming for their daddy, and no– no lover will ever be able to fill that hole.. I mean Role. It would seem that we’ve come to an age in humanity that demands every father-wounded figure to become their own Daddy. That’s right. Who’s your Daddy??– YOU ARE! And for those of you who worry about Toxic Masculinity, either within yourself or in the type you’re attracted to, don’t sweat it. These unfortunate side-effects of a fatherless world will slowly fade away as we focus on re-balancing the natural order of masculine and feminine forces within ourselves. I argue, it is our civic duty to heal this collective wound instead of indulging in it. That would be step #1.

Okay, fine. But what about guys who call their girlfriends ‘Mommy’? Or people who use Papi instead of Daddy, are those the same thing? Do Lesbians call each other Daddy, too? Oh! And where’s ‘big dick energy’ fit into all this?

We are gonna discuss all that and more– next week! Stay tuned. Just remember…

I think we’re old enough to understand the difference between a queef and a fart. That is not why I brought you here. It has come to my attention recently that Queefing is a rather common act in the bedroom. It’s time we discuss it. Like adults.

Now, when I first heard of the word Queef, it was in the back of a school bus– where else? I was in 7^th grade and honestly, I wasn’t even sure if women had 3 holes down there, or two. And now girls can fart out of WHERE? The best life lessons a kid coulda asked for. And, I didn’t. But I learned anyway.

I was able to forgo most of my life w/o thinking about women farting out of their vaginas. But whenever I did, I would remind myself that they all do it. My mother queefs. Your mother queefs. Your grandmother queefs. Everyone queefs. But it wasn’t until recently that I learned men can queef as well. It’s true folks. I’ve seent it. Dare I say it, I’ve even done it myself.

It was my third date with Tony. He really liked me, he’s kind. And it was his birthday the next day so I thought, why not? I’m not usually the first to give-it up for a fella, but I wanted to prove something to myself. So I prepared to receive ’em, but nothing coulda prepared me for that evening of queefs. And I’m not talking about once or twice. I queefed like, 12 times. It was embarrassing— i can’t believe I’m even writing about this. But fuckit. The truth must be told. I come from the land of queefs, a gay man with a message. WE ALL QUEEF. And I stand by that statement.

Luckily, the guy was totally chill with my queefing. He really liked me, like I said, but the queefing just kept bringing me out of the moment. We changed position 3 times, and in hindsight, each position just made it worse. This had never happened to me before so I kinda panicked. He stopped because I didn’t look like I was having a good time– and I mean, yeah. I was afraid I was shitting all over the place. Fortunately, I wasn’t. But after we talked about it, everything was fine. He seriously wasn’t phased at all, and I could tell because he hadn’t gone soft. What a nice guy, this guy. I on the other hand, tried my best to act cool until our date was over. And as soon as he left, I googled anal queefing– immediately regretted it. Do NOT look it up.

My only source of solace was found after discussing queefs with the ladies. My eyes were opened to the rich underworld of straight and lesbian queefing lore. I would have never known if I hadn’t experienced it for myself. I didn’t feel so embarrassed anymore. There was some sort of queef-bonding taking place that, as a gay man, I was honored to be apart of. As a gay man, I was the missing ingredient to this queef-sisterhood and together, we shared our experiences to find a well-rounded truth. Here it is:

As a Queefer, there is an innate embarrassment that we all know. The involuntary fart noise just ain’t sexy, don’t know how else to put it. “A vibe killer,” one straight girl said, “I’m still embarrassed even with the love of my life inside me.” Damn. All Queefers know that feeling. Now, as recipients of the queef– the Queefee– there is no inherent shame. Some Queefee’s are even known to like the event. Others just work with it as a natural cause of the act. As a lesbian puts it, “idgaf about queefing, i’ll make that moment work for me and that special lady.” And we *snap* to that. Spoken like a true Queefee. I can see reason on both ends. So what use is there in talking about it? Well. That’s pretty much the only point I’m trying to make. We gotta talk about it.

You see, we aren’t in the back of a school bus anymore. There are like 5 million queefs happening every second, around the world, and we just don’t talk about ’em enough. Or if we do, it’s about how we prevent it from ever happening in the first place. I argue we stop caring, I mean, it’s clear the Queefee’s don’t. So why do the Queefers? And who knows. Queefs might even make us laugh if we don’t take ’em too personal. Really, what matters most is that we just open up and talk about our experiences. No matter if they’re awkward, or funny, or downright gross. As soon as we bring our queefs to light from that underbelly of embarrassment, it’ll transform moments of shame or guilt into funny stories that we can grow and laugh about as we go thru life. In the end, doesn’t that make us sexier anyway?

Top, or bottom? This applies to straight folk, too– Top, or bottom? If you answered top, cool. If you answered bottom, good. If you’re confused, here’s a little history lesson for yah. In ancient greece, they didn’t define sexuality by gender, they defined it by sexual position. There weren’t no fuss about genitalia. Just pleasure, and the reverence to pursue it. This wisdom echoes throughout history, culminating with a resounding comprehension of human connection, and an intellectual inquiry to our very existential nature best summarized by this simple question…

Top, or bottom?

Now, here’s a question for the ladies: Would you date a bisexual guy? Sure, why not, some of you might say. Okay. Well, what if I tell you he likes topping women as much as he likes bottoming men? hmm? My bet is you’ll draw the line there. Jealousy aside, women just don’t like the idea of their man getting it ‘up the bum’, especially from another guy. Even the most open-minded women I know. Doesn’t matter how hot he is— It just wouldn’t work, they’ll say. Then I’ll ask what they think about pegging a guy and they’ll laugh, entertaining the idea. But a REAL penis? Now, you’ve gone too far. That man might as well be gay.

Okay. So let’s flip it. Dudes— fellas—brohams, you’re approached by a woman you really like and find out she’s bi. Does that hurt her chances at getting with you? What if she liked girls as much as guys, you mad? Probably not. Worst case scenario, she makes-out with another girl. Deep down, you think she’s havin’ fun. What a wild girl, it kinda turns you on. Besides who’s she kiddin’. She’ll come back for that D, right? (wrong) But essentially, what I’m saying here is that there aren’t many guys out there that’d be threatened by their woman being with another lady. Some might actually like that idea. Besides, women aren’t a real threat– ahh, there it is– I knew it. The double standard. Alive, and kickin’.

You know, growing up, I remember being gay was bad enough, but if I claimed to be a TOP, things were a lot better. Straight guys found common ground with sticking our dicks into stuff, while women found it easier to forget I was gay. Both benefited me as an alpha. And the more strict of a TOP I was, the better. I had found a loophole in the fabric of society and yes, I exploited it as much as I could. That led to my own rendition of toxic masculinity, but more on that later.

So anyways, the real question comes down to, why do Tops get more street cred than slutty bottoms? And sure you can say, nobody likes a loose butthole. But I’d argue, it’s the same reason why people believe bisexual men are secretly gay, and bisexual women will end up with a man some day. It would appear that as a society, we believe all roads will lead back to one thing. Dick. And it’s beyond gender. It’s beyond sex. Universally, we can all agree: it’s better to fuck, than be fucked– cuz yeah, there’s a special power in that. Obviously. But there’s so much more to sex than that. Straight men like their buttholes licked, too, you know. And women can strap-on dildos with feminine power. It’s cool. The combinations are endless. Next time, we’ll talk about the art of versatility. So for now, just remember…

A finger up the bum today, is equality tomorrow.

Went on a date last night. And by date, I mean hookup. And by hookup, I mean we sat together, naked, in the dead of night, talking about our lives for 3 hours and never gettin’ around to actually doing it. The blue haze off the TV was our only source of light. It’s our second time doing this. I don’t mind. And besides, he lives 6 minutes away. Walking. So. It’d behoove us to get along. And I mean, it ain’t hard. He’s tall. Handsome. Muscular. (ass was pretty nice, too.) Physically, we matched. Mentally? Yeah, sure. But emotionally? That’s what we’re here to find out. So we start talkin’ ’bout turn-on’s, and he goes first.

Voyeurism, Group sex, & Domination. Cool, I said, acting like a cool cumcumber. What about you? he asks. I bit the inside of my cheek, the words drylodged in my throat. I was laying down next to him, his arm reached around my neck and my legs untwinning with his. Romance, I blurted out. Silence. He takes his arm back. I felt stupid. Lame. Like melted icecream. And for the first time in a long time– possibly ever– I fully realized my situation w/ love. Dating. Ugh. I put on my clothes after that. Our conversation died just like our boners.

You ever been to a mattress store? Hear me out. Did you ever leave without trying one of the beds? If you have, what’s wrong with you? For the rest of us, that’s dating. It looks good, so we wanna try it. In the process we figure out what we like about it. What we prefer. A little softer, a little harder, whatever. Everyone wants something different. That’s part one. Then, we look at the price, right– is it worth it? And somehow that reflects our self-worth. Interesting. Let’s put a pin in that for later.

Now, from personal experience, I’m a mattress slut. I’ve literally tried every mattress in the store, even the ones I know I won’t like just by looking at it, but I try it anyway. Why not? More often than not, I’ve been pleasantly surprised. But this one time, I strolled over to the most expensive mattress in the store. The audacity, I thought. A tempurpedic memoryfoam with powers of levitation or some shit, it was expensive. However. When I tell you. That it was. The best. Fucking. Mattress. I have ever. Ever. Had the privilege. To lay on… Listen. I forgot every other mattress that’s ever touched my skin. Even now, I can feel the softness in my bones, remembering it. All I knew at that precise moment, was that my life had changed forever. Didn’t care about the price. Didn’t matter how it looked. All I knew was that this mattress and I, we happened.

Instinctively, I hopped off and went back to the previous mattress I enjoyed most. It was a cement block. I tried others I thought were good before, too and– no. Disgusting. Utterly repulsed. All my body craved was that one fucking mattress. My body knew the difference now. Couldn’t argue. Sorry, no. The facts were in. Needless to say, I disappointed that saleswoman. Didn’t buy anything, but I walked out with knowledge I could never afford. I experienced true love.

And so, last night, as I walked back home within those 6 minutes, I relearned who I am. Or rather, my body remembered. Commitment, Adoration, & Desire. Consistency. Those are my kinks. Give it to me. I know they exist. My mind can be cynical sometimes and try to convince me of otherwise. But my body knows the truth. So if I can wholeheartedly accept someone else’s kinks, then why can’t I accept my own? Even if it is Monogamy & Romance. Those are my kinks and they aren’t stupid. In fact, as I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed, I thought. In a world were apathy is encouraged, to care is an act of rebellion. And I’m a rebel at heart. Stay true.