It wasn’t about getting off. It was about understanding myself.
I didn’t grow up in a house with yelling, cheating, addiction, or chaos.
I grew up in a “safe” home. A happy marriage. A right-wing, Catholic suburb.
But my brain? It was never quiet. Never neat.
And the sex ed I actually learned
The ADHD sex education I needed
came from strangers whispering into the night.
And it’s weird to explain now
but back then?
a little show called Loveline
hosted by Dr. Drew and it
was the first time I heard someone say out loud
the kind of messy shit I always felt but didn’t know how to name.
I didn’t relate to the callers because of their kinks.
I related to their chaos.
Their shame. Their impulsiveness.
Their aching need to be understood without being judged.
People assume call-in sex shows were sleazy or shocking.
But for me?
They were access points into empathy.
I wasn’t listening for the fantasy.
I was listening for the context.
How did they get there?
What had they been through?
Why did they feel like that desire made them bad?
That’s what my ADHD brain craved.
Emotional texture. Vulnerability. Backstory.
Even at 14, I didn’t want to be the guy having sex on the other end of the line.
I wanted to be the voice that said,
“Yeah, I hear you. That doesn’t make you fucked up. That makes you honest.”
I didn’t want to shock or titillate.
I wanted to catch the story before it collapsed.
I didn’t want to expose someone.
I wanted to guide them deeper.
Other kids were learning about sex from porn.
I was learning about silence and shame through strangers on the radio.
They’d call in with their voices shaking
not because they didn’t know what they wanted
but because they were scared to say it out loud.
And I wanted to hear every word they almost didn’t say.
While my friends were downloading nudes
I was reading confessions in forums
spending hours in voyeur threads
watching people type out their regret like it was the only thing keeping them together.
They got off to performance.
I got off to hesitation.
The moment before someone breaks.
The moment someone says
“I don’t know why I keep doing this”
and you believe them.
That wasn’t just arousal.
That was recognition.
That was a body telling the truth before the mouth caught up.
Maybe that’s a kink but for me
it’s always been a blueprint.
I wouldn’t have tried to fix anyone. I would’ve asked better questions.
I would’ve pulled people in slowly. Not to expose them. But to let them finally say the thing they were too scared to say alone.
I would’ve asked:
“What makes you feel broken? Who told you that was bad? And what if they were wrong?”
And if someone made up a story just to get on the air?
I wouldn’t call them out.
I’d rope them in.
I wouldn’t need the truth all at once.
I’d let them lie a little
until it felt safe enough to say
the part that still makes them flinch.
My body always knew when they were about to say the real thing.
Because the fake part is usually the mask.
And the mask always has a reason and a pattern that I just loved to look for.
Even now, I think about what that show gave me access to.
Not the callers. Not the drama.
The pause before someone said something they hadn’t even admitted to themselves.
The breath that carried the shame.
The way it felt to be allowed to say it out loud.
It wasn’t about getting answers.
It was about having space to ask something messy and still be heard.
No judgment. No tidying up. No performance.
I think that’s what I wanted the most.
Not to be the expert.
Not to be the one who knew.
Just the one who made it safe enough for someone else to stop pretending.
I didn’t learn that from porn.
I learned it from the radio.
From the static between the questions.
From the sound of someone breaking
and not being hung up on.