“Dear Bear,”
(you have written me. Dozens of you have written to me. And the body of the email that makes up over half of your responses from my initial callout for questions goes more or less like this:)
“Circumstance, circumstance, mitigating circumstance, qualifying statement, bitterly detached acknowledgement. Hopeful note, damning detail, hopeful note, statement of pure fresh stupid optimism.
“So ultimately, I guess my question is: is this a good idea? Is it okay for me to be fucking this person/working on fucking this person/fantasizing about fucking this person?”
Dear Reader,
I think we all know by this point in the history of our romantic and sexual lives that by the time we’re asking, “Should I be fucking this person? Is this a terrible idea?” the answer is almost certainly “Do not do this, it is a TERRIBLE idea.” However, that so rarely stops anyone from going right ahead and getting mucus-membranes deep in a bad plan. So it seems worth talking a little bit about why that’s the case, since I don’t want to waste the precious pixels allotted to me by trying to talk you out of something that you’re pretty definitely going to carry on with regardless.
First, let’s get one thing sorted – in no way am I holding myself up as a paragon of virtue in this regard. Any wisdom I may have temporarily gained on this general topic is the kind you get when you’re (let’s say) heartbrokenly listening to “Man On The Side” by John Mayer for the hundred and fiftieth time on repeat, on the earliest train, exhausted from chain-smoking dramatically and regretting your choices. So please accept the following reflections on whether it’s a good idea for you to be fucking that person (spoiler alert: still no) in a spirit of solidarity.
Because listen, I am very happy with my life – I adore my husband, my children are kind and smart and occasionally do as they’re asked, my work is fulfilling, our old dog is still hanging in there. Things are quite nice here. But also, I am a forty-year-old husband and father. If there’s any surprise at all in a given day, it probably features poop. And one thing that questionable fuck choices provide in spades is surprise.
They might be nice surprises at first: a warmly fuzzy spot in the small of someone’s back, a noise she makes, a new post-coital breakfast place, how he gathers you up in a hug like he can’t stand to leave any inch of you uncuddled, how pale and candy-like the pink of her areola are, how comfortable you feel being naked with them. These things are new and exciting, and they sort of wash away a certain amount of your usual diligence, true. But they’re delicious.
Unfortunately your hindbrain, the part of you that likes things to be new and fresh and surprising sometimes, isn’t always super great at distinguishing between nice surprises and awful surprises. It just likes to have its button stroked. And so when you veer out of “I might never get enough of the smell of your neck” and into “is there actually not a single clean towel in your house ever, really?” and then to “what do you mean, we’re not dating?” it’s kind of still just as addicting.
Because, surprises! Isn’t that what you came here for?
The other reason we do this is for attention. Admittedly, not everyone in the world likes a lot of attention, but some of us definitely need more of it than others. I am one of those people – I like a LOT of attention, and being a writer and storyteller helps with that a lot, but having other lovers doesn’t hurt a bit. My husband prefers to have very little attention, to a degree that means he is only even able to accept my exuberant focus a little at a time. It’s not really the fashion to own how much attention we like as adults, especially because those of us at the rather jazz-handsier end of things wind up being made to feel bad, but listen: you may be a person who likes a lot of attention. Or at least, more than you are currently getting, and therefore adding a person with whom to have sexual congress seems like a way to handle that (it is certainly /a/ way, that is true).
Here then, is my advice, about whether you should be fucking that person: Can you think of any better way at all to get your needs for surprises and attention met? What if you started participating in community theatre or street performance or competitive bodybuilding or Scrabble tournaments? What if you hinted or urged or frankly instructed any contiguous parties (dates, sweethearts, boo people, even spouses) you may have to get more fully on the surprises and attention train? Can you self-talk your way down from twenty fervid minutes on his man-bun or her broad shoulders? Because if there’s some other way – any way at all – to enjoy that hot fizzy feeling, or a version thereof, without doing the other thing then I for one encourage you.
And if you can’t, well? Empower someone sensible to give you a sit-down if you get too ridiculous, buy some new cute underwear, hoard a few sick days for the inevitable denouement and give yourself to it with abandon and all the energy due the moment.
Love and courage,
Bear
If you have a question for Bear, send it along to asking.bear@gmail.com.
