 'Someone Else Was At the Wheel': What It's Like to Have Sexsomnia My mouth is wet against her neck. Her taste—the oil, the sweat, whatever it is—it's like lime sucked right off the rind. And I can't get enough.
But I'm not really there. I'm far away, up in the rafters somewhere. I'm watching him turn her over. She's moaning, waking up with his tongue in her mouth. His hands scrape down her bare back, he claws away her shorts, and then he presses himself into place when she asks, "Are you awake?"
"Uh . . . yes," he says with a greedy self-assurance. He goes to penetrate, but she stops him. She can tell. Sitting up, she watches as the space behind his eyes begins to light up. The grin goes away. He recedes. I come to.
We're in my bedroom. It's 3:00 on a Saturday morning and the air conditioner is sputtering. We've been asleep for about two hours, but I've just woken her to initiate sex. And we're about to have it—hell, we've already done everything except penetration—but until this exact moment, I'd been fast asleep. Someone else was at the wheel.
I have sexsomnia, a sleep abnormality that causes me to initiate sex when I'm asleep. Think of sleepwalking, but instead of walking I, well, you know. Those of us who've got what the DSM-5 calls non-REM sleep-arousal disorder, which research has found to be as much as three times as prevalent in men as in women, are prone to fondling a partner, performing oral sex, and even engaging in full-on penetrative sex and reaching orgasm, all while completely asleep. For me, as I understand is common, it flares up when I'm stressed, sleep-deprived, going to bed drunk, and particularly some combination of all three. I've only recently learned that there's a name for this disorder. For years, I've just thought of it as something—or someone—that activates inside me at night.   The Fall and Rise of CM Punk January 27, 2014. It's just hours before Monday Night Raw, the biggest show in the history of professional wrestling, is scheduled to begin, and CM Punk's voice is echoing through the cavernous backstage of Cleveland's Quicken Loans Arena. He is screaming for someone to help him. Tonight. Right now. His head feels like it's going to explode from a stiff blow he suffered during the Royal Rumble last night. He's had enough concussions to know he's got one. There is a disgusting welt on his ass that hurts like hell and keeps getting bigger. His ribs ache and his knee is shot. An infection rages in his body; he's been coughing up yellow bile for weeks. A steady stream of oral antibiotics has been causing such intestinal distress that he shit himself on live TV a month ago. CM Punk calls himself "the best in the world," and to the millions of fans of professional wrestling who watch him every week, he is exactly that. But today—right now—he feels like the world has broken him.
 Robert Pattinson Channeled Bruce Wayne at The Batman Premiere The dark knight rises. That's exactly the vibe Robert Pattinson imparted at the New York premiere of The Batman early this week. From the double-breasted cashmere topcoat to the dress shirt and trousers to the heeled cap-toe oxfords all by Tom Ford, it's the kind of look that imparts billionaire bad boy that's a secret vigilante. Basically, it's what Bruce Wayne would wear, and Pattinson completely looked the part. The actor has definitely been serving looks—masterminded by his new stylist, Mobolaji Dawodu—throughout the press tour for The Batman, which included suits by Valentino and Jil Sander. But this monochrome Tom Ford number understood the assignment most.  The Stories My Grandfather Didn't Tell Toward the end, my grandfather told us about the time he was sailing on a United States Navy battleship in the Mediterranean Sea and his convoy was attacked by the German Luftwaffe. In the cacophony and chaos, he watched a gunner on another American battleship in the party turn the great deck guns and shoot a Nazi warplane out of the sky. It spun from the air and crashed into the water not far from my grandfather's own ship. He told us all this, and then he told us what he thought while he watched it happen. "That poor bastard."
 My Autistic Brother's Quest for Love, Part II "Baby, will you marry me?" asked my brother, Randy, crouched on one knee in his living room, sporting a Flyers jersey and Nike shorts, his voice trembling. It was a humid afternoon last July. He extended his shaking hand; in it, an engagement ring. Before she replied, Sarah, the love of his life, who was born with a chromosomal disorder and cerebral palsy, leaned back in her chair and watched a slideshow he'd spent months assembling, and which he played for her now. The pictures expressed the sorts of emotions Randy, who has pervasive developmental disorder, mild cerebral palsy, and severe attention deficit disorder, could not with words alone.  When I Did Time, I Was—Technically, Legally, Constitutionally—a Slave Back in the late nineties I owned a SID number (12218354) and an address in an Oregon state prison. For part of my biddy prison bid—the old heads said my time was short fore I got there—I worked as an orderly in a mental ward of the Oregon State Hospital. The official duties included sweeping and mopping the halls, changing sheets soiled with feces and/or soaked with urine, and making beds tucked with tight hospital corners. Research also attests that I was a slave at the time. And I ain't speaking hyperbolically or philosophically but literally and officially here.
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Sunday, March 06, 2022
My Life With Sexsomnia
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