“Male loneliness is rooted in a lack of intimacy, not lack of friendship.” – Chest Rockwell

I saw this tweet right before I started writing this post. In fact, this tweet is why I’m writing this post, so thanks, Chesty.

A while back, I wrote a post called, “Why Can’t We Be Friends?” and even did a video on it. It’s an age-old debate among men and women. Can men and women be friends? Go read the post and/or watch the video for my answer to what I think about that particular question. But Chesty’s comment is the why to that question.

Men and women both will tell you that you will “die alone as a lonely old man.” I hate to break it to you, but we all die alone. Even if you happen to die at the same time, in the same circumstances like a vehicle accident, you’ll still actually die alone. The dying process is a solitary one. Each and every one of us will go through it eventually, some sooner than others. We all owe the world a death. It’s inevitable.

But you don’t have to live alone.

I’m not specifically saying that you need to “turn that ho into a housewife,” or that you need to play house with some woman, but at the end of the day, male loneliness is a lack of intimacy, not friendship.

I have very few and very select friends. I can count them on both hands. Some of them I have known for over 30+ years and some of them are more recent, like in the last couple of years. Some of them I talk to on a fairly regular basis, others I only talk to them once or twice a year if I’m lucky enough to do that. For a few of them, I haven’t talked to them in at least five years, but when we do talk and get together, it’s like there is no gap in time. We pick up right where we left off.

After I got divorced and especially after my ex-girlfriend left back at the end of 2018, I spent a lot of time being alone. The loneliness would only show up when there was a lack of intimacy. One of the loneliest periods of my life was when I was married with my wife in the bed next to me. I sleep alone nowadays for the most part and I’m never lonely when I do it. I may be alone, but I’m not lonely. Sometimes I even prefer to sleep alone, that way I get the rest I need and I can sprawl in my bed any way that I want. I don’t have to share that space if I don’t want to.

Nermal died a week ago for those of you who don’t follow along. While I grieved at the time, and his absence is still felt and will be felt for some time to come, I’m not lonely because he’s gone. He was my cat and I was his human, and in a very weird way, he was a “friend” to me. In some ways he was more of a friend than most people could ever be. But I’m not lonely because he’s gone.

Friends are great, fantastic even. They can be a lifeline when you are staring into the abyss and they can help pull you back from the brink of self-destruction. But they can’t “cure” loneliness. Nor is it their job to try to do it, that’s on you.

Male loneliness is rooted in a lack of intimacy and I’m not just talking about fucking. I’m talking about actual intimacy. While I don’t recommend that you blubber and cry on a woman’s shoulder, it doesn’t mean that you can’t express some of your hopes and dreams to her. Moments of silliness and goofiness can be intimate. I know the belly dancer has seen parts of me that very few women have. She keeps being able to unravel the enigma that is me, and that’s because I don’t put it all out there from the start. Even if she was to see this blog and this blog post in particular, it would be yet another thread into “who I am” to her.

If you are lonely, getting a dog or another type of pet isn’t going to be the answer to solve that particular equation. Sure, you can call a friend and go out, shoot the shit, and have a beer, and that will probably “take the edge off” for a moment, but it won’t last for long. It’s your lack of intimacy that you need to address and do something about.

I have talked to guys who have paid visits to brothels and have paid prostitutes for sex. I personally don’t have a stand on this particular activity. I figure there’s nothing inherently wrong with it, it’s been around for ages, and obviously there’s a demand for it. So if that’s what you want to do, by all means, go out and do that. If you don’t want to do that, then don’t. Plain and simple. What I have found out though from talking to these guys who have paid a prostitute for sex is that while she is “hot,” and the sex itself at the time, was “good,” it was ultimately wasn’t what they were actually looking for. That’s because the guy may have been horny, but he was also lonely. Why is it that guys will pay exorbitant amounts of money just to spend a little time with a woman, let alone fuck her? Because he is lonely. He’s looking for intimacy, not just sex and release. It’s called the “Girlfriend Experience” for a reason. He’s paying for intimacy. He’s paying to alleviate his loneliness.

The guys who advocate “WealthMaxxing” are intentionally or inadvertently sending you down the same road. If money can solve your loneliness, which it can for a short period of time, well then you had better get to hustling and grinding. But realize like these guys that I have talked to have told me, it was a short dopamine hit and the loneliness came right back, sometimes before the prostitute had even left the room.

Getting new friends or more friends or getting a pet isn’t going to solve your loneliness problem. Making money or more money won’t solve it either. Don’t get me wrong, it’s better to have money than to not have money, but it isn’t going to cure your loneliness.

There is an answer though. I have talked about it on this blog over and over. I have hinted at it, alluded to it, and in a few cases, even spelled it out. I have done the exact same thing on my YouTube channel. It’s even what Nick, Bull, and I have talked about for the last three years. If you can’t figure it out, or don’t know what I’m talking about, then I can’t help you.

I remember back in September of 2007. My girlfriend at the time, who later went on to become my wife, and then later to become my ex-wife, brought you home. You were just a little ball of fuzz. You were pretty quiet, unless you were eating, and then you wouldn’t shut up. You were so tiny back then, you could fit inside a little easter egg basket.

I remember my ex-wife telling me that her dog “needed a companion,” at yet she had always been a “dog person.” So how the hell did you end up here? She knew I was a cat lover and had always been one, since I was a little boy. That’s how. The funny thing is, I knew her ploy, I knew what she was up to. The real funny thing is, you became my cat and I became your human from day one. This was back when you lived with her and her dog in that shitty apartment that she had. From day one you were mine and I was yours.

You grew pretty quick though.

Within a few months your colors started really showing up. I remember that you were mostly white in the beginning, with black balls and a black tail. Nobody could imagine the colors that would ultimately come out of you and just how big you would get.

I remember when the ex-wife brought Kabuki home. You had been living under my roof for about a year at that point. And I expressed my discomfort with having another cat in the house because I didn’t know how you would take her. Would you be aggressive and mean? Would you be territorial and attack her? Turns out you did none of that. You played with her. You cared for her. You mothered her. The same could be said about both dogs when they were around. You would occasionally bite or claw them when you had enough of their shenanigans, but for the most part you played with them and hung around them.

You and Kabuki became best of friends. You would have had offspring too if I hadn’t had you neutered and her spayed. You guys were inseparable from day one.

You would even pose for me on occasion.

When I divorced my ex-wife, she didn’t want you, she wanted Kabuki and the dog. I gave her the dog without a fight, because she and the dog had bonded in ways that the dog and I never did. But I wasn’t about to split you guys up. Not a chance in hell. So I got both of you.

You were there for my marriage and my divorce. You were there for my long term relationship that followed. It was my ex-girlfriend who told me one day that when I would leave the house, you would find your mouse toy, carry it around in your mouth, and caterwaul. I had no idea you did that until she told me. Talk about separation anxiety I guess. The funny thing is, you never did that when either my ex-wife or my ex-girlfriend would leave the house. You couldn’t give two shits. You were definitely my cat and I was your human.

You grew and grew until you became the magnificent behemoth that you were.

Look at you, you glorious bastard. In this picture of me holding you, you had your front paws on my shoulder. It was the only part of you that would fit there. When you were a tiny kitten, all of you could nest on my shoulder. And that’s what you did for closeness and comfort.

I remember on my birthday back in 2011, you got out of house because you liked to explore. I remember this because I came home from work in the evening and the door was cracked, and you were nowhere to be found. I remember it was the dead of winter and it was fucking cold. I called and called for you, but you didn’t answer. I hardly slept that night. I remember waking up the next morning and trying to call for you again. I was devastated and heartbroken. You was such a beautiful and friendly cat that I could imagine you going up to just about anyone. Stranger or not. I imagined someone picking you up and disappearing with you. I also imagined more terrible scenarios.

But as I was about to give up and go inside, you cried out to me. I found you underneath the neighbor’s car, covered in oil. I took you into the house, plopped you in the tub and showered you. You fought me for a moment and then just relaxed into it, letting me get that oil off of you. Once I had you cleaned up and mostly dried off, I cut you loose to finish the grooming job. Kabuki hissed at you as she smelled you and that’s because you didn’t smell like you to her. A couple of days later though, everything was back to normal.

You always made me laugh and feel loved. You even became an unofficial member on Masculine Geek, Let ‘Em Burn, and Red Evening. You would always come up, give me a hug, wipe your snotty nose on my microphone, and then plop your ass in my lap. I’m going to miss that.

But most of all, I’m going to miss you, Nermal. Today, July 15th 2023 was your last day. You had been getting slow and I thought it was just old age, and maybe some of it was. But you lost a lot of weight in the last couple of months. And your sense of curiosity was mostly gone. Instead of sitting on my lap or on the edge of the couch, you hung out on the bed for awhile, and then you hung out in the living room by the closet. And that’s where you stayed unless you would get a sip of water or a bite of food. That’s where you were when it was time.

I took you to the animal hospital at 9:30am on Saturday. The vet and the techs checked you out. You were so weak, so frail, that you didn’t try to escape or put up a fight. Your liver was failing, there wasn’t much we or I could do, and so I made one of the hardest decisions of my life. I decided to let you go. I decided to end whatever suffering you were already going through and to prevent further and future suffering.

I may be a sadist, but I’m not that kind of sadist. I didn’t want you to suffer and I hope that you understand that. I was worried initially that I may have been premature in the decision that I had to make. Then I worried that I might have kept you around for far too long, for my own selfish benefit. Turns out I was right on time.

Nermal was born in July of 2007 and he took his last breath at 10:04am on July 15, 2023. He was 16 years old. Goodbye my old friend. I will miss you.

My Father and I have always had a “strained relationship.” He wasn’t “there” when my parents got divorced, which was ultimately because my Mother “wasn’t happy.” But I know where I got my stubbornness from.

My Dad is a “die on the hill” guy when it comes to the shit he is willing to die on. I’m no different. He digs in his heels and he won’t be moved. I’m the same way. I’ve had women say to me, “It’s your way or the highway.” And while that can often be misconstrued, they are not wrong. Especially when it comes to the things that “this is the hill I’m willing to die on.”

My Father is in his early 70’s as I write this. There’s been some health issues that have cropped up lately. Plus he’s not getting any younger. It’s hard to help someone who because of fear, pride, independence, and “not wanting to be a burden,” who shrugs things off and downplays things. I’m going to have to have a serious talk with him in the near future.

Which brings me to today’s article.

I saw a poll recently, talking about alcoholic beverages with straws being gay or not. Now I know the person who posted the poll was just having fun. They really don’t care. Neither do I.

But the responses to the poll as “being gay” if you have a straw or umbrella in your drink = gay?

Guys…

Really? Are you that insecure and hung up about a straw in a drink? I like pina coladas. Straw or no straw. I don’t care. Neither should you. I don’t care what you think. Nor should you care what I think. Does having a straw in your drink define your masculinity? It doesn’t define mine. Nor does the name or face on a label. Drink what you like, straw or no straw, because that’s what you prefer. Date or don’t date someone, because that’s what you prefer. Who cares what the internet thinks. Who cares what your friends think. Who cares what your family thinks. It’s your life, and you are the only one who has to live with you 24 hours a day. Your friends and family don’t live with you 24 hours a day, only you do.

If you are okay with looking at yourself in the mirror and you’re okay with who and what you see, then you are doing fine. If not, well, you have some work to do.

My Father has always had an appreciation for the feminine form. My first encounter with nudity was finding a Playboy in the cupboard of the coffee table. I believe I was around 10 or so. This was after my parents got divorced, but apparently my Mother didn’t know he stashed them there.

My Father loved the feminine form. Still does as far as I know. I know I love the feminine form as well. It’s why I date the way that I do. I like to think that I date the way that my Father would have, if only he had given himself permission to do so. I am my Father’s legacy, writ large, and maybe “out of control” by his “standards.” I have become the “monster.” I have become what he wished he could have been. If only…

From what I see and have heard from parents, they want their children to be “better” than they were, and to have a better life than what their parents’ had.

Mission accomplished, Dad.

I have a better life than you did. I’ve become more than you aspired to. I’ve done many of the things that you wished you had done, but never did because of “responsibility” and “duty.” If only you had done the same.

That’s what I wish for my Father. If only he had done the same as I have done. He could have been a bigger “monster” than I am. That would have given me something to truly aspire to.

I wish that my Dad could have been and would have been a bigger “ladies man” than he was. I would have gotten a thrill out of seeing the neighborhood ladies smiling and patting my head, or pinching my cheeks, saying, “Oh you’re Rob Sr’s boy.” I don’t necessarily wish that for me, but for him. I know somewhere deep inside him, that is something that he would have wanted.

The belly dancer said to me recently, “I’m dating the Devil.”

Yes, it’s a fantasy and a metaphor. But she’s not entirely wrong.

I’m the one who told her I was the Devil early on. Because I am. And I am to her. That is the reality that I have created for myself and for her. That is the reality that I choose. So yes, she’s dating the Devil. And “I’m here to the Devil’s Work.”

Reality is reality, I won’t argue that. Then again, you can choose to create your own reality as well. Sure, many people are going to argue with you about it, because it’s not their reality. But do you really care? So what if their reality doesn’t match yours? I like my reality better than your reality. In my reality, I get the things that I want. Your reality says, “that’s not possible.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“That is why you fail.”

Assume the sale. Assume she’s into you. Assume “You’re the Man.” Assume “you’re the Devil.”

It’s always a “yes,” until it’s a “no.”

I am my Father’s Legacy, writ large and fulfilled.

Thank you, Dad.