It was late (or early, depending on your outlook on the world) when I was joined by the boy who was living in the room next to mine, way back on the other side of the building. I can remember, although I'd had some drinks, sitting alone in my friend’s room on a single bed, the mattress overly springy and with a coarse plastic coating, attempting to stream a song over our dorm’s spotty Internet connection. The whole thing went down near the end of my freshman year at a party, at which people from the whole dorm floor were drunk and celebrating, carelessly streaming in and out of each other’s rooms, following the various different pop songs until one room took their fancy. I was at college, living in dorms, and the experience-aside from the usual horrifying awkwardness and somewhat spontaneity of the occasion-was completely and utterly unremarkable aside from one thing: the guy I slept with identified as straight. I was 19 when I first had full-on sex with another man.
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Watching all the joy they get from being surrounded by such a large, loving family looks really wonderful, and I fear that without children or grandchildren of my own, such an idyllic scenario will be out of my reach when I’m old. We all stop by regularly to help them out with things that have become difficult, like changing high-up light bulbs or carrying heavy groceries, and frequently enjoy big family gatherings. My grandmother, 86, and grandfather, 91, live in the same city as two of their kids and most of their 11 grandchildren - including me. ![]() In our society, we’re really only given one narrative about how to be an old person, and it’s one I am intimately familiar with. For one, I wonder who will take care of me when I’m an old woman - a question people seem to bring up anytime I reveal my plans to skip motherhood. ![]() Most of the time, I feel secure about my decision to never have children. I’m 33 and childless, and I’m pretty sure I want to remain that way forever. |
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