Mother Son Orgasm

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As a medley of painful life transitions builds to a crescendo, my eighty-seven-year-old father seizes the chance to open up about one particularly personal marital moment.
Story by Jenny Jedeikin  ·  Illustration by Michael Parkin  ·  1.14.15
I am lying on my back on an industrial khaki carpet with a semi-automatic screwdriver in my hand, assembling a six-paneled IKEA desk frame for my father, who has just landed in a new retirement community.
At eighty-seven, my father still marvels at my ability to wield a wrench. “Wow, I had no idea you were so good with tools,” he says, donning the gracious air reserved for those who grew up overseas before the 1950s. “Just terrific,” he says shaking his head, while my brother hands me tiny plastic and silver prefab bits from the floor. The four-hour Swedish construction meditation tests our spirit, as well as my fifty-one-year-old bone density.
After nineteen years in the Golden Gateway apartments in downtown San Francisco, my father moved into Grand Lake Gardens, a nice retirement community in Oakland. Everyone here asks him, “Why did you move from San Francisco?” As if making the fifteen-minute drive across the bridge was too bold a course for an octogenarian.
He responds, “It just fits.” And we are happy for him.
Now he can relax, we are hoping. Three meals a day, Qui Gong classes and seventy retired people sharing chicken cacciatore dining privileges. And what? Even a good Kosher bakery across the street, just down the block from the historic Grand Lake Theater, a farmer’s market and Trader Joe’s.
After we finish the desk, amid my father’s exclamations of joy and wonder, my brother departs for the road home to Los Angeles and I plop down on the couch next to my father in front of a flat-screen Rachel Maddow, his “favorite liberal female.”
I take a short swallow and clear my throat.
“I understand that Jim told you about his situation this morning,” I say. I have waited until my brother is gone before bringing up the subject of his likely separation from the mother of his two young daughters. I glance up at my father. “Terrible,” my dad says, shaking his head and looking down at his brown spotted hands. “Just terrible.”
“They were together seventeen years,” I say, “just like you and mom.” After the words leave my lips, I’m unsure where this highlighted similarity will take us.
My dad mutes the TV and stares into his lap.
“You know, your mother had her first climax with me, just before she decided to end the marriage,” he says. His revelation is circa 1970, but from his somber expression as he scratches at a thread popping out of the seam of the couch cushion, it could have been yesterday.
“Then we drove all the way back home, and she was so happy in the car,” he continues, “She said that was all she had wanted and needed. And now she could stay with me forever.”
They had been at a Masters and Johnson sex therapy clinic in the hopes of mending their intimate relationship, but my mother, donning loose knit ponchos with the entrails of a pot roach in her pouch pocket, already had one foot out the door.
My father continues: “and the next day in front of our therapist she said it was over. She never even told me. She just said it to the counselor — ‘The marriage is over.’”
“Was it really the very next day?” I ask, trying to focus on something concrete, rather than the image my father has conjured. “Right after you came back from the clinic? Was it maybe the same week?” I offer. “You were away for a weekend?”
“Well maybe,” he says. “She had been so happy during the drive. We were excited and making plans for the future.”
He looks up at me. Although forty-four years have transpired, he still doesn’t understand quite what happened.
I let out a breath and stare out the window. How can I hope to explain it to him, when I scarcely understand it myself?
When my kids were two and four I shocked myself and left my husband for a woman, coming out in mid-life. And since that time I have remained a gay woman, living alone with my kids, my ex a mile away. We raise our two daughters together, yet under the messy disjointed umbrella of divorce.
I look at my father now on the couch — still hoping for me to reveal the mystery of women, wives like my mother and I who, as he once said to me, “leave their marriages because of sex.”
Fragmented at best, we hold our fingers up to block the sun and squint like everyone else. We have given up our mortgages and cozy family-of-four cookouts in order to chase something that is elusive and never quite won. When the notion that my daughters will soon leave for college, and the lightness of their beings — sweet-dream kisses goodnight and promises of hot chocolate — will be subdivided evermore, sends me to my knees, I sometimes forget what I ever did it for.
But then I stare out the window and remember the reason. While my mother left my father because he was an unbudgeable “square” in 1969, for me it was sexual orientation. Yet my sexual identity is something so personal it exists outside language, and there is no way to adequately explain it to my father. Instead I sit and say nothing, merely absorbing the weight of his pain and long-worn confusion.
After some moments I offer, “Shall I come back next Sunday? Maybe we could watch a ball game together?”
“Sounds good, Jenny,” he responds, startling into the present at the sound of my voice. “I would like it if you brought the girls, won’t you?”
On the drive home as I merge with the traffic on the freeway, the lights blur and the colors fray. Since my mother died from ALS in 2006, I alone carry the torch of defiance for the women in our family who went astray.
I may not have an intact nuclear family, but today I got to witness the depths of my father’s pain. And despite the bleak emotional landscape of the experience for both of us, I revel in moments like this, where our memories rise up and remind us who we no longer are.
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As Black Lives Matter protests swept the nation, the rubber bullets and tear gas canisters started to fly. This epidemic of “blinding by police” inspired our unlikely network of survivors.
Story & Photos by Wil Sands  ·  Edited by Brendan Spiegel  ·  5.20.21
Story & Photos by Wil Sands
Edited by Brendan Spiegel
My mind raced in the seconds after I was shot.
I heard the gun go off and turned my head toward the sound, just in time to watch the spinning aluminum canister slam into my brow. Everything went black. I stumbled. When I regained my balance and opened my eyes, the sight in my right eye was gone. Something in my head told me the tear gas canister was the last thing I’d ever see clearly.
It was May 30, 2020. George Floyd’s death was still headlining most news reports. The country was finally (rightly) paying attention to police killings. Meanwhile, during the protests that followed, another less deadly but still alarming trend was developing: “blinding by police.”
According to Shot in the Head, a report released in September 2020 by Physicians for Human Rights, during the protests between May 26 and July 27 of last year, U.S. law enforcement officials shot 115 people in the head with “less lethal weapons.” Of these victims, at least 30 suffered permanent ocular damage.
“These were some of the worst injuries we’ve seen in a long time,” George Williams, M.D., former president and current spokesperson for the American Academy of Ophthalmology (AAO), explained to me. “If our mission is to protect sight and we are seeing these injuries, we have to step up and say something.” The spike in ocular traumas associated with the protests caused the AAO to issue its first-ever public condemnation of law enforcement’s use of rubber bullets.
As a professional photojournalist, I’d been covering the protests outside the White House when I was shot. It’s perhaps needless to say that any eye-related injury is basically a photographer’s worst nightmare, tantamount to a musician going deaf.
While I dealt with the aftereffects of my own injury and tried to make sense of what had happened, I came up with a new mission for myself: I set out to meet as many of the other people blinded by the police as I could.
“It felt like they were playing Call of Duty.”
Earlier on the same day that I was injured in the nation’s capital, 400 miles away in Cleveland, John Sanders was shot in the face with a beanbag round. Lead pellets from the canvas bag ripped through his left eyelid and ruptured the globe of his eyeball.
I met John, a 24-year-old former journalism student, last July at his friend’s house in a middle-class neighborhood in Akron, Ohio. A self-assured, tall and slender Black man, John’s presence was calming. We sat at a picnic table in his suburban backyard and compared notes about our traumas. A plastic deer used for target practice listed to the side a couple of feet behind us.
John tells me how, in shock and worrying he’d be shot again, he lay down in the street. “You know, ’cause my eye was literally hanging out of my head,” he says in his nonchalant deep voice. “‘Don’t make yourself a target, get down and hopefully someone comes over and gets you.’” As he flattened himself against the asphalt, blood puddled under his head. Eventually a group of panicked protesters gathered around him and carried him off the street. He was stabilized and taken to the hospital.
“It almost seems like they were doing target practice or something,” John recalls. “I literally felt like they were playing Call of Duty out there.”
Unfortunately, John’s injuries were not virtual. In the first three months after being shot, he endured three surgeries: one to stitch up his eye; one enucleation (removal of the eye) and eyelid reconstruction; and one to fill in his orbit with fat from other parts of his body. He was also hospitalized for diabetic ketoacidosis, a potentially life-threatening problem common among diabetics. John is sure it was due to his heightened stress and depression, a direct result of being partially blinded.
As police forces across the U.S. and the globe have grown more militarized, there has been a rise in injuries like John’s and mine — a result of the proliferation of “less lethal weapons” that are not designed to kill, yet leave many civilians with life-changing injuries.
In the peace that followed World War I, law enforcement and military officials around the world began developing new weapons for crowd control. The goal was to create tools that would afford authorities the ability to manage large groups of people without relying solely on violent baton charges and lethal force.
Chief among those new weapons was CS gas, more commonly known as tear gas. First discovered in 1928 by chemists at Middlebury College, tear gas was understood to be a less toxic substance than the CN gas used in the trenches of Europe. It soon became a common tool for crowd dispersal for police departments across the United States, including during labor strikes and civil rights marches.
In the 1960s, the British military developed rubber bullets as a “nonlethal” way to suppress protesters in Northern Ireland, and Argentine intelligence officers adapted electric cattle prods to torture detainees during interrogations. A few decades later, “less lethal weapons” emerged as an important growth sector for the international arms industry, leading to the development of new technologies.
Today, law enforcement and military forces alike have a wide array of less lethal weapons to draw upon. There are kinetic impact projectiles such as foam-nosed bullets, beanbags, pepper balls and wooden baton rounds, to name a few. There are chemical irritants such as tear gases, pepper spray and mace, as well as conducted energy devices such as Tasers and stun guns. Flash bangs and smoke grenades are used to disorient targets. Finally, many police departments across the U.S. are now using acoustic weapons such as the Long Range Acoustic Device (LRAD), which emits an extremely high decibel sound designed to cause physical discomfort and dizziness.
On the same day that John and I were shot, Soren Stevenson was among a group of protesters in Minneapolis who tried to march onto the westbound lane of Interstate 35. Police were quick to arrive on the scene. Most of the protesters hadn’t even reached the on-ramp.
When calls went out for “white bodies to the front,” Soren volunteered. He’d just linked arms with others on the front line when a 40mm plastic round cracked against his head.
“I felt my face, and it was wet and soft where there should have been bone,” Soren recalls. Beyond losing his eye, he was also robbed of his sense of smell and some feeling on the left side of his face.
Soren and I met up in a park near his house in Minneapolis. It was dusk on a cool August night. JusticePirate, his handle on social media now that he wears a leather eye patch, was 25 years old and had recently earned a master’s in public policy from the University of Minnesota. However, his injury and the COVID-19 pandemic had stunted his plans for the future. Soren had just started a job search when he was shot. Between surgeries and recovery, he wasn’t able to find employment until almost a year later, in April 2021.
Soren emphasizes that his injury is small compared to the everyday violence black and brown communities face without respite, and he still hopes that the protests will lead to systemic change.
“This is a moment Americans can’t miss,” Soren says. “We can’t miss this moment to demand both elected and unelected officials do something about racial inequity and police violence.”
Nikita Tarver, 33, was getting ready for another surgery when I picked her up in my too-cramped-for-the-COVID-era economy rental car. Since being shot on May 30, she’d moved into her mother’s humble apartment in a gentrified Seattle neighborhood.
“The saddest part of it all was what my friend said afterward,” Nikita recalls. “She said that just before I was shot, she looked back and saw me, the only Black face in a sea of white protesters. They shot me cause I’m Black. That’s messed up.”
Nikita had responded to a message I’d sent to her through GoFundMe, where a friend had created a campaign to help pay for Nikita’s growing pile of medical bills. She told me she wanted someone to talk to. Someone who could understand what she was going through. So did I. For months, we sent each other quick text messages, updates on our trauma animated by eye-patched Memoji.
“… it’s going to be awesome to have somebody going through the same experience to actually speak to. I mean I have people in my corner but they don’t truly understand my situation,” Nikita writes in one message.
I reach out late on another night to vent my frustrations: “I’m done moping around the house. but I get tired super quick!!! And then have to take a long nap. Sucks cause I’m not spending enough time with my kids … hopefully though things will slowly get better … I’ve picked the camera back up and that’s a good thing.”
We talk about our families and plan to start journaling our recoveries, but we don’t actually talk about being shot until I fly out to Seattle to meet Nikita in person.
As we talk, a tear rolls out of Nikita’s good eye. She sighs a deep breath.
“Every day is a roller coaster. I think I’m at about 100 days and I’ve cried every day.” Nikita is transparent in her fragility. “I’m fighting for my fucking eye, never in a million years did I think I was going to be facing this.”
The shot caused a severe scarring of her cornea and left her retina partially detached. Doctors couldn’t give her a timetable or a definite prognosis for the future.
Since our interview, Nikita has recovered some vision, but it is still so distorted that she’s resigned herself to wearing an eye patch.
“Blinding by police” is not a trend that is unique to the United States. Wherever less lethal weapons are used with frequency, some targets inevitably lose their eyes. During the protests that rocked Kashmir, the disputed region between India and Pakistan, in 2016, it is estimated that thousands of eyes were lost to bird shot fired by Indian security forces. In Beirut, at least two eyes were lost in one night during protests following the Lebanese government’s criminal mismanagement of the August 2020 port explosion. In France, the 24 people partially blinded during the Yellow Vest uprising in 2018 became popularly known as the mutilé, or mutilated.
And in Chile, more than 400 people have been blinded or partially blinded since protests against neoliberal economic policies and for a new constitution began in 2019. More than anywhere else, they have become famed embodiments of the broader political struggle — living martyrs of the estallido, or uprising.
“How could someone rob something so beautiful, so marvelous to humans as sight?” a weeping Albano Toro asked the camera in one of dozens of video testimonials collected from members of the Coordinadora de Victimas por Trauma Oculares, a political organizing platform created by Chileans who’ve lost their eyes to less lethal weapons. Built on a praxis of mutual aid and solidarity, the Coordinadora help members receive medical attention, raise funds for those left destitute due to their injuries, coordinate political demonstrations against police brutality, and advocate for transformative change in Chilean society. It’s the kind of advocacy group that, unfortunately, many communities around the world are likely going to need more of in the years to come.
In the ambulance ride to the MedStar Washington Hospital Center, an EMT wrapped my head with a bandage. He asked me some basic questions, presumably to rule out a severe concussion. The bright lights and reflective metal surfaces made me squint. I was in shock; fight or flight had kicked in. There was still relatively little pain, but my senses were alert and I was acutely aware of my surroundings. Accompanying me on the ride were two Metropolitan police officers, also injured in the protests. I glared in their direction. In my mind I ridiculed them for the minor bruises they appeared to have suffered. I didn’t want to show any weakness, even if it was objectively clear that I was in a far more precarious state than they were.
On Sunday, May 31, I was released from the emergency room with an appointment to see a specialist later that afternoon. Twenty-four hours later, I was in an operating gown getting ready to go under the knife. Retina specialists cleaned out the hemorrhaging in the back of my eye, reattached my retina and inflated a gas bubble against the back of it. Finally, a scleral buckle was inserted around my eye. This silicone band held the retina in place by applying pressure on the globe from the outside. It was a permanent addition to my a
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