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To my mother, the most resilient person I have ever known. My mother—beautiful, soft-spoken, friendly, and someone who could swing a broom like a sword—is the best person in the whole wide world. She, along with my father and sister, migrated to Australia when I was four years old. They barely spoke English, had nowhere to live, but somehow, they managed. Her marriage with my father lasted just shy of thirty years. We weren’t the stereotypical American family you see on TV, sitting around the dinner table talking about our days. No, we were more of the kind that cleaned our bowls of rice and disappeared into our own rooms. I wouldn’t say I was close to either of my parents, but I loved them very much in my own quiet way. My father was a kind and reasonable man with a short temper. In the years leading up to their divorce, something shifted in him. It was subtle at first, but to my mother, it was anything but. She endured violent outbursts—sometimes physical, mostly verbal. My sister and I didn’t know how to help. We were children, untrained for these kinds of things. I think my mother endured it all to keep the family intact. Being a single parent on minimum wage would have been impossible. In 2018, while working for my parents at their restaurant, I started noticing things. My father would take breaks from his work as a chef to talk on the phone, his voice suddenly soft and sweet. I thought it was a relative from Vietnam. I remember sitting in my room one day when he asked if I wanted to have coffee with him. It was such an odd suggestion—we never had coffee together. He said he wanted to tell me something. I declined. A few days later, my sister came home crying. She told me what I had feared: my father was having an affair, and he had a child with another woman. My sister said she was going to tell Mum. A part of me wanted to stop her. I wanted to keep the secret because I knew once it was out, everything would change. This perfect family I’d fantasized about would be over. Sure enough, my sister told my mother. I will never forget the look in her eyes when she came home that day—lost, broken. She didn’t cook dinner. She didn’t clean the house. She sat on the phone with someone for what felt like hours, and when she returned, her eyes were puffy and silent. Sometimes I would find her lying on the couch, tears streaming down her face. And I regret to say that I walked away. I didn’t know how to comfort her. I was angry that she wasn’t strong enough to hold it together. During the pandemic in 2020, my father moved back in for a time. My mother cooked for him, for me. My sister had already moved out with her husband. For a while, I thought we were happy again. She cared for him like old times, and I let myself believe that everything was going back to normal. But when the restrictions lifted, he moved out, and we returned to being a household of two. A few years later, I found an old photograph of my parents on my mother’s bedside table. It was framed, sitting there as if it belonged. I thought it was strange and told my sister, who agreed. To this day, I wonder why she kept it there. Maybe she missed him, or maybe she valued the relationship for everything it was—the joy, the sorrow, the pain—all of it. Today, she laughs and smiles often. She’s still single, and I think she’s made peace with the idea of remaining that way for the rest of her life. It saddens me because I want her to have someone beside her, a companion. But she’s not alone. My sister, her three grandchildren, and I are always close. Still, I catch her occasionally talking to her friends about how my father mistreated her, and I wonder if she has truly healed. I think about my own breakup and the days when the emotions are overwhelming. In those moments, I think of my mother and her strength, how she moved forward despite the pain. I don’t discount my own sadness, but I take comfort in knowing that time dulls even the sharpest of wounds. I might not fully understand her pain, but as I grow older, I hope to understand more of it and, in doing so, become a better person.

After lockdown my sexlife went into overdrive. I've always had a lot of sex and mostly have a healthy relationship with it but there have been periods in my life when my demons take over. Last time this happened I quit my job to be a rent boy so I could have more sex. This time I reduced my days at work from 5 to 2 days, updated my grindr profile and joined Scruff, Nkp and BBBH and had sex with about 30 men that week. I was hooking up with guys all day and night on my 5 days off and even after work sometimes. I was having a tonne of fun at first but within a few months I lost my job and looked a wreck. I was recommended by a friend to go to a sex addiction group that was ironically on my street. There were about 10 people at the group and one of them was a recent and regular hook up. I will all him Dean, 40, white and a bit off rough trade and a fat 10 inch cock. We clocked each other but didn't let on that we were acquanted. As the Newbie the Team Leader asked me to introduce myself and anything that I would like to share. I'm not shy but I wasn't ready to bare all. When it was Dean's time to talk he spoke about a recent sex marathon with a guy and how it made him feel. That guy he was talking about was me and it was 3 days prior. My 8" cock was hard af so I was so grateful for my oversize trousers and bag on my lap. I lost concentration, all I could think about was Dean. At the end everyone chats casually, I told Dean that I resonate with his story and when noone was within hearing distance he asked if he could come over and bring a friend. Dean and his friend rang my doorbell 10 minutes after I had arrived. I wasn't expecting Dean's friend to be the straight Turkish 50 year old married to a woman man but I was so happy it was. I was only wearing a jockstrap when they arrived and they stripped down to theirs straight away. Adeel is 99.99% my type, his body is muscular with a touch of Dad bod and extremely hairy, only his balls are trimmed. His cock was 10" long like Dean's but it was much thicker and cut. We explore each other with our mouths, tounges and hands. Adeel has to go home to his wife after 4 hours but before he leaves the both double fuck me and the both breed their 3rd load in my ass. Dean stays till the night and leaves at sunrise. I was kind of expecting to possibly recognise someone as I've fucked a lot of people in my neighbourhood but I wasn't expecting hours of dirty sex with 2 hung tops. I was torn between success of a horny sex session and total failure on my first sex addiction meeting. Better luck next time next week I thought