Since joining this sex positive community a little over a year ago, I’ve gone through some interesting transitions. My mind has been opened to all sorts of possibilities. Things that I once thought were a bit strange, odd, or wrong have now become understandable and acceptable. I guess I began having a ‘whatever floats your boat’ attitude a while before finding EdenFantasys, but I’ve been exposed to a lot more lifestyles than I even knew existed in the past year.

Some of the most intriguing of those were the S/m or D/s, and the polyamorous type relationships. I knew it wasn’t for me, but that didn’t stop me from reading about all of the different relationships people practiced. I did a really great job recognizing my feelings, and separating the fact that these weren’t lifestyle choices I wanted to participate in, from the ‘Why the hell would someone want to do that?!’ thoughts. . . for a while.

I began to see more and more people who practiced ownership type relationships and polyamory relationships speaking very derogatorily about monogamous relationships and marriage. I realize that not everyone shares these attitudes about lifestyle choices they haven’t selected, but it put me off to see these attitudes from the vast number of people who held them. Specifically when it came from people who stood on the biggest soap boxes of ‘sex positivity’. If someone said they weren’t particularly turned on by trans porn, or talked about how porn, sex toy usage and polyamory would make them jealous/insecure, the banshees would descend from on high. Social networks would blow up with calls to arms, as links and screenshots were retweeted and shared until the entire internet was made aware of the injustice. The offender’s blog hits would quadruple every day for two weeks, until they were too exhausted with trying to defend their opinion that they decided to delete the post, issue an apology or quit blogging all together.

When the tables were turned, it was a completely different story. It was as if the most ‘sex positive’ of the group followed a different set of rules. It was perfectly acceptable for them to discuss their disinterest in monogamy, marriage and vanilla sex in flat out rude terms. It wasn’t just that monogamy wasn’t their cup of tea. It was that monogamy wasn’t natural for humans, and that it was stupid for people to even attempt to be in monogamous relationships. Monogamy was setting your relationship up for failure, because it never works. Not that it never works for them, but that it never works for anyone. Marriage was just some stupid patriarchal tradition to keep white men in control of the world, not a celebration of love and devotion to your partner. On top of all of that, I was introduced to the concept of ‘polyamory’ when I discovered my husband was having an emotional affair that was about to turn physical.

Can you imagine how confusing all of this was? I was often overwhelmed with irritation. I started to feel annoyed with people who chose certain lifestyles and relationships, instead of giving myself the opportunity to get to know them. They were different, which automatically made them unfit to talk to. How could someone like Rayne, Airen or Kayla have anything in common with me?! I resented people I didn’t even know! How silly is that?

Eventually, I realized what a jerk and idiot I was being. I apologized to the people I had offended, and I began evaluating why I felt the way I did. I started to understand that all of our differences weren’t very different after all. When I chose to marry Chad, I wanted to spend my life with him. I wanted to walk through life with him, side by side, growing and changing together. We chose to share our love just with each other because we knew our boundaries. We chose what worked for us, just like everyone else. Whether they chose to commit themselves to be slaves to the man they love, to share their lives with many lovers and partners, or promised to be the Mistress their slave boyfriend needed, they made the choices that they wanted to make. They decided what worked for them. It’s not about pressure to conform to society, or a desire to rebel against the norm. It’s about taking charge of your own life (or letting your Master do it for you) because it’s what you want.

Sex positivity isn’t about forcing yourself to endure sexual acts or lifestyles you aren’t cut out for. It’s not about trying to convince people that your way is right and their way is wrong. It’s about figuring out what works for you, doing just that, and not getting fed up when other people make different choices. It’s developing a self-confidence and assurance that you made the best decisions for you, and realizing that everyone else is perfectly capable of it as well.

Nine years ago, I found myself pregnant with my first child, and struggling with some very quick, drastic changes to my body. My mother had already made mention, a few months prior to my getting pregnant, that she noticed I was putting on weight. She’s never been very careful about the way she talks about her daughters’ bodies. Perhaps she’s just unaware of how painful her remarks are. She was asking if I was pregnant when she noticed the small weight gain right before I was suppose to head off to college.

Then, in November of 2001, I discovered I was pregnant. By the time you find this out, you’re usually about 5 weeks along. I wasn’t quite showing, but I was unable to button some of my pants because my abdomen was hard and a bit swollen. It started with my dress pants and pencil skirts, and eventually my jeans were too snug. I needed maternity clothes. Only, I wasn’t showing enough for them to look cute yet. When I got married in February of 2002, you couldn’t even tell it was a baby bump. I was just between clothing sizes and styles. My normal, teenager clothes were too snug and uncomfortable, but maternity clothes made me look like a small child trying to wear her mother’s clothes.

Underneath those clothes were more changes. Most of which I wasn’t prepared for. I remember talking to my sister-in-law, when I was about 3 or 4 months along, and telling her I had stretch marks on my boobs. She was surprised that I was already developing them. She recommended cocoa butter and oil to prevent any more from popping up. My husband bought me some and massaged me with it daily. It seemed to be working until I was about 6 or 7 months along. Then several more stretch marks started appearing across my abdomen, above my belly button. Towards the end of the pregnancy, the baby ‘dropped’, which basically means he positioned himself for labor. I went from carrying him high in my belly and never being able to take a full breath, to carrying him low and feeling like I was going to pee my pants all day long. That drop led to more stretch marks, literally overnight. These were thicker and spread across my lower abdomen and over my hips.

I weighed 145 lbs at the beginning of my pregnancy. The day before I delivered I weight 204 lbs. Everyone told me it was all belly. My sister-in-law bounced right back, so I figured I would do the same. I had no idea what other changes were in store.

After I pushed my son out, the doctor held him up and I looked at him as they took him off to do all that stuff they do to new babies. I sat up, slightly, and looked down at my deflated belly. My doctor saw me do this and said, “Look how small it is now!” I did not see what she saw. My stretch marks were more visible, and now I had what equated to a watermelon of loose skin gathered on top of me.

The next few days in the hospital, I’d walk past the mirror. Actually it was more of a hobble, but I saw my reflection. Most of my body looked the same as before, but I had this excess loose skin hanging down. What a way to start a marriage off. I was embarrassed, and I did not want my husband to see me like this. He was unphased, because he’s amazing.

My mother bragged, the entire time I was pregnant, about wearing her size 5 jeans home from the hospital after giving birth. “Hopefully you’ll be like me.” she’d say. I was hopeful. I brought my pre-pregnancy clothes to the hospital. I was also practical. My sister-in-law told me my abdomen would be sore, and I would want to wear stretchy maternity clothes. I wound up wearing the maternity clothes home. My mother began making comments about how I must have taken after my sperm donor’s side of the family. It’s how she referred to my biological father that I didn’t meet until I was 18. As much as she bad-mouthed him, he actually came to visit me in the hospital after I gave birth, and he spent a good deal of time there. Longer than she spent, even.

When I got home from the hospital, I tried on my old clothes every day. They never quite fit right again, even when I could squeeze myself into them.

Over the next 8 years, I got pregnant 3 more times. My weight fluctuated a lot. In July of 2010, three and a half years after my youngest was born, I was at my highest weight. I was almost 270 lbs. I told myself I was not going to allow myself to get to 300. That day I got serious about getting this weight off. I knew, from many previous attempts, that there were right and wrong ways to do it. Slow and steady was how it needed to be. I began counting calories and exercising 5-6 days a week. At first it was hard. I couldn’t believe how difficult some things were. I used to be so fit!

It had taken me all this time to get used to and accept my fat body. Over the past 6 months I’ve lost 25 lbs. In comparison to how much I still have to lose, it doesn’t seem like a lot. There have been more changes though. Changes I wasn’t prepared for, some good and some bad. I’ve found many things are easier to do physically, which I attribute more to the exercise than the weight loss. I know both play a part in it though. Like when my pregnant belly deflated, I’m noticing more stretch marks. I’m between clothing sizes, again. Plus-size clothes are too blousy. Straight-size clothes are too snug. Even bras are frustrating me. It was fairly easy to find a 42DD bra, even if they were in styles that weren’t young and sexy. Finding a 38DDD in a style that fit my new shape took nearly a months worth of weekly trips to department stores. When I finally found something suitable at Lane Bryant, I noticed the band and cups were getting loose about a week later. I’m happy to be making progress, but it’s frustrating to have nothing to wear.

I’m taking my measurements every month, but I’m having a hard time adjusting to the smaller sizes. Just last month I was choosing pantyhose for a funeral, and I spent 45 minutes staring at the boxes for a size that was too big because I forgot I’d lost 25 lbs. Size charts are difficult to navigate since the changes. Making the choice to spend money on new clothes is hard. I feel like I’m wasting money, because odds are that next month they won’t fit me anymore.

Even though these changes are coming so quickly, and they’re sometimes difficult to adjust to, it feels good to be making progress towards my goals. The changes are mostly positive. I’m going to keep pushing and accept things they come, just like I did when they were coming at me in the opposite direction.

I have a lot of siblings. My biological father was married once. Besides me, he has two other children. My younger brother is actually about 5 months younger than I am. I guess he was pretty busy. My mother was married four times, and has four biological children by three different fathers.
When she married my step dad I gained three more step-siblings. All together, that’s eight. If you couldn’t keep up, I don’t blame you. It’s complicated.

We’re not all one big happy family either. Shit is complicated enough when you’ve got one couple that splits and has to share custody. When you’ve got three dads, and the step-dad’s ex-wife, juggling custody of nine kids around, it gets even worse.

I didn’t actually meet my brother and sister, through my biological father, until I was 18. But that’s a story for another day. My youngest brother and sister, the ones my mom had with her second husband (Just stop trying to sort the timeline out now. You will be confused.) went to live with their biological father. They came for visits infrequently, due to the distance between us all, so we didn’t really have that close of a relationship.

It was my step-siblings, and my mother’s child from her first marriage, that wound up growing up closest to me. As the oldest, I took the role of the babysitter. I was the one who was left in charge when we were left at home. I often got called the Mother Hen. I’ve never really found my way out of that role. I’m the one who gets called when they are having problems, financial or personal, and I help them work through it. I still behave like I’m their mother. It’s probably because I grew up so fast, having my first child when I was 19, getting married, and doing the whole grown up thing.

I’m stable. So they call me when they need that. They’ve all had to live with me at some point. My youngest step-sister actually moved in with me, off and on, for the past 3 or 4 years. She graduated from high school while living in my house. I had to take care of her because my parents were taking care of my step-dad’s parents, who had Alzheimer’s. Senior year is a big deal to teenagers, and she was able to participate more while living with me.

It was a difficult adjustment though, having her move in. I wound up having to get a job to help make ends meet. I also had to navigate a very bumpy road, taking on the role of her mother while still trying to be her sister. I’m 27 and she’s 19, and we’ve always had a close relationship despite the age difference. I didn’t want to lose that by having to become someone who was telling her what to do at the most hard-headed time of her life. She was at the point in her life where she thought she was grown, and she thought she was ready to be on her own. She thought she knew it all. We all go through that stage. Ya know, where we think our parents are idiots. Only, I wasn’t her parent. I was her sister. I didn’t want her to think I was an idiot, though I might make some dumb decisions now and again. There was huge potential for this situation to royally fuck up our entire relationship.

It almost did.

We had a huge fight about 4 months after she graduated. I was working 40 hours a week. She was babysitting and keeping house so I could make enough money for her to live with us. She was tired of being at home. I know the feeling. I loved my new job and freedom, but it was also necessary for me to have those if she was going to live with us. We had talked about me cutting back to part-time hours so she could get a job, and we could work around each other’s schedules.

Teenagers aren’t the most patient of creatures, though.

She was developing an itch, and she couldn’t scratch it fast enough. She told me I was a bad mother because I worked, and she saw my children more than me. I was hurt. That stung. I explained that I got a job because she moved in, and that my job bought her prom dress, and paid for all the fun things she got to go do her senior year. It also paid for the food she ate and clothes on her back. I tried to remind her that the agreement was for her to look after the kids during the hours I worked. She shot back with the fact that she was tired of being home with the kids all the time. I told her that I knew that feeling well.

She said “They’re your kids, your responsibility. Not mine. I shouldn’t have to feel like that.”

Ouch.

She moved out while I was at work the next day. Our relationship was strained for a few months. She realized that being a grown up was a lot harder than she thought. Her best friend from high school kicked her out after a big fight about bills. Temporary jobs weren’t cutting it. She moved back in with me at the beginning of 2010. She got the job this time, and paid us rent. I tried to help her adjust to being an adult. I gave her financial advice, and helped her get her first credit accounts, making sure she didn’t get talked into bad deals.

Things were going better this time. She began dating, and towards the end of 2010 she found a guy she was pretty serious about. I thought they were moving too fast, but she was ready to move in with him. There was a bit more fighting, this time it was more about our brother. We had agreed to take him in before Thanksgiving, and share the burden of trying to get him a job and on his feet. I felt like she was trying to leave me to deal with him. She took him with her when she moved out.

Now, I’ve got my house back. It’s just Chad, the kids, and me. No more trying to walk the line of being my sister and brother’s parent/sibling. She comes over and we watch movies. We hang out and paint each other’s toe nails. We cook new recipes. We gossip. We go shopping and go out to eat. We get to act like sisters again, which is awesome, because I’m better at being her sister than I am at being her mother.

I’ve been married to my husband for nine years. Every year, around the time of our anniversary, we start to reminisce about all the things we used to do when we were dating. I’ll roll my eyes and mention how silly he sounded while he rambled for hours when we first met. He’ll go on about how he couldn’t stop staring at my thighs and thinking about having them wrapped around his head. I’ll remind him that he didn’t even kiss me for an entire month, and that we sat in the car for 3 hours before he finally worked up the nerve to do it. That kissing quickly progressed into us spending hours in the back seat of his 94 Chevy Lumina (that we still own). At this point of the conversation we always stop and ask each other the same question.

Were my parents complete idiots?

He would pull into their driveway before my curfew, and we would sit in the car until 3 or 4 o’clock in the morning. We had hours and hours of sex in the backseat of that car, all while parked in the driveway. There were times we even got up in the middle of movies and said we were going to the car to ‘talk’, and they never said anything. You would think that they would have gotten up to come check on us at some point, but they never did.

One could argue that we were being pretty stupid too. Having sex in the backseat of a vehicle can get you into trouble for indecent exposure and public sex acts, requiring you to register as a sex offender in our state. In our defense though, I lived on a dirt road in a heavily wooded area. The odds of a police cruiser finding us on it’s patrol were slim to none. My parents could have caught us at any time though. They just chose to completely ignore the fact that we were having sex.

I doubt they could have stopped us from doing it. Horny teenagers have a way of figuring out how to get the sex they want. But I sometimes wonder how different my life would have turned out if my parents had been more concerned. What if they thought the way that I do, instead of sticking their heads in the sand and pretending to not know what was going on with Chad and I? Maybe if they’d asked about condoms, or taken me to get on birth control, I wouldn’t have been telling them that I was pregnant a couple of months after I started dating Chad. I adore my children, but having a child while you’re still a child is hard. We didn’t really even get to enjoy the honeymoon period of our relationship before we were launched into all the responsibilities of parenthood.

What if I had gone to college like I had planned, before I peed on that stick and two pink lines showed up? What if Chad hadn’t been the type of person who takes responsibility for his actions, and left me to raise our child alone? Would we have had to struggle so much to make ends meet if we had waited to have children? Would we have had to go through the pain of our affairs if we had the opportunity to learn to love each other before we had to put the kids first?

I know people say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but why should you have to go through something that almost kills you in the first place? Especially when it could have easily been prevented. Teenagers are going to have sex. Isn’t it better to prepare them for it than to pretend it’s not going to happen?

I certainly think so.

It doesn’t do anyone any good to stick your head in the sand and ignore reality. Talking about things, even if they’re painful or embarrassing, is the only way to learn from them. I’d much rather figure out how to talk to my kids about sex and contraception, than figure out babysitting arrangements so they can finish high school, or help them call their previous sex partners to explain that they’ve possibly been exposed to an STD. Explaining how to properly use a condom seems a lot easier to me. Don’t you think so too?

There are things that no one warns you about when you enter into any new situation. They tend to paint a prettier picture so that they can convince you that it’s something you want to do. If they do give you any indication of what you’re in for it’s usually described with the most polite and un-alarming words possible. Take the side effects with medications, for example. You will see an entire commercial about this medication designed to be a miracle pill for whatever ailment you’re experiencing. Then, at the tail end and said in a super quick voice over, you’ll be told that you may experience headaches, sexual side effects and anal seepage. If they were completely honest and said ‘You may shit your pants in the middle of the grocery store while taking this medication’ you might think twice and decide to just deal with your restless leg syndrome.

No one told me there were any negatives to reviewing sex toys. When I found out that I could get a bunch of free shit and all I had to do was tell people what I thought about it, I was thrilled. (Don’t even try to lie and say you’re doing it for a more noble reason.) Since no one told me I thought it would be nice if I told you. A little list of things to consider…

1. You will run out of things to say: Really. There are only so many ways you can describe a plastic vibrating bullet. You can’t skimp on your reviews though, because you’re getting that shit for free and it’s rude. You’ll find yourself rewriting the same, boring information about each and every toy you come across. Every once in a while you’ll get something really awesome that stirs your inner Shakespeare and causes you to wax poetic, but mostly it will get repetitive. This is no different than most jobs though so just become friends with your thesaurus to help get you through the writer’s block.

2. You will run out of places to hide this stuff: I’ve been reviewing since November of last year. My collection started out as a few vibrators and bottles of flavored lube which I stashed in a shoe box in my closet. Within a month I had purchased an actual storage container that my collection outgrew no less than two months later. Now it’s too large to store in my nightstand and is hogging up a few dresser drawers. We’re currently searching for something large enough that blends in with our furniture. It’s hard if you’re an organization freak like me. Thank goodness for Rubbermaid, right?

3. You may have embarrassing encounters with your neighbors: You’re going to be on a first name basis with the USPS, UPS, and FedEx deliverers, but if you start reviewing for multiple companies there may be mistakes. I recently had my Liberator throe replaced and it was delivered to our neighbors. Fortunately most sex toy retailers are smart enough to know that people don’t want their business all over the neighborhood so they send things in unmarked packages with very discreet shipping addresses. It doesn’t make it any less awkward to go ask your neighbors if they received a package that was addressed to you. You know what’s inside and that’s all that matters. Plus, it’s pretty obvious when an unmarked brown package arrives that you’re getting something naughty. Most companies plaster their advertisements all over the box, so it’s the opposite that seems to raise more eyebrows.

4. You will break the bank buying batteries: Unfortunately, not all manufacturers have gone green yet. A lot of toys are rechargeable now, but there are still quite a few great ones that require batteries. Some of those toys are battery hogs and will suck the juice out of them after just a few uses. You might as well suck it up and buy a battery charger and several packages of rechargeable batteries. Set up a schedule and keep switching out used batteries to be recharged. You don’t want to have to wait until payday to try your new toys.

5. You will get tired of masturbating: No, really. You’ll look forward to days when you can get out of the house and mow the lawn or do your grocery shopping. Your skin and eyes might be sensitive to the light after you’ve been cooped up in your bedroom for so long. Your arms and hands might be a little sore or cramping from repeating the same motions too. You will find yourself saying “Hooray! I’m caught up on reviews now and I don’t have to jerk off today!”

I’m really not kidding.

6. Your brain will be stuck in ‘review mode’: From the second you get your new toys in the mail you’ll be cataloging the specs in that part of your brain where you store that information. How does it feel? How does it smell? What does the packaging look like? If you’re not careful this will carry over into sex with your partner. You won’t need to think about math problems or baseball to keep yourself from cumming too soon because your brain won’t stop analyzing your sex toys. Is it getting weaker or noisier now that it’s inside of me? Is this a better angle? You’ll need to remind yourself to stop thinking and just enjoy sex!

Don’t get me wrong, reviewing sex toys is one hell of a hobby. Just be prepared to handle these things when they come up or you might find your interest in continuing this hobby waning.

Have I told you lately about how I despise the term ‘vanilla’? Specifically when it’s used in reference to other people’s sexual lifestyle. It’s typically uttered from the lips (or fingertips) of self-proclaimed ‘kinksters’ as they almost knock you over with their smug sense of superiority. They want you to know that the sex they’re having is better, filthier and more interesting. They imply that the sex that you’re having is plain and boring, just like a bowl of vanilla ice cream.

My lifestyle and choices are ‘vanilla’. I’ve been in a sexually and emotionally monogamous relationship for nine years. My husband and I ‘collared’ each other eight years ago this past February. Mine is gold with about 1.5 carats of diamonds on it. His is thicker, black and silver. An upgrade because the one I gave him on our wedding day snapped while he was working. The only time I ever take mine off is when I’m preparing squishy, slippery meats for dinner. He takes his off when he’s giving me a massage. We got ours from Kay Jewelers. I reckon since you got yours from Eternity Collars it makes you kinkier than us.

He’s a manager for a major retail store. He works long hours and brings home the paycheck that feeds our kids and pays our bills. I tend to the housework and he tends to the yard work. He pitches in with my duties around the house when he’s home and I am his sounding board about his issues at work. We treat each other as equals. There is no Dom/Domme and no sub. It works for us. I guess since we have no desire to be controlled it means we lead a very bland life.

We enjoy sex in the privacy of our bedroom, rather than in a public dungeon for all the members of the local kink clubs to witness. We aren’t interested in water sports or scat play. When we use paddles, whips and restraints it’s never too rough. We don’t want to bruise each other or draw blood. We only want to have sex with each other. We don’t swing. We don’t want to bring in any extra players to the game. We don’t want to open our relationship. I’m sure we’ve done some things in our bedroom that would be considered wild by some.

But to most of this community it would be called mild. Bland. Plain. Boring. Vanilla.

To me? It’s amazing. It works for us. It’s what we like. You don’t have to like it because you’re not the one participating in it. The sex you’re having isn’t any better or more interesting than the sex I’m having — if you ask me. The sex I’m having and the life I’m living is loaded with flavors I love the taste of. You have your own sexual preferences and you don’t have to justify them by comparing them to mine — so stop it. Find your own confidence in the things you enjoy doing. There isn’t a war between the ‘vanillas’ and the ‘kinks’. Let’s just retire that word, shall we? Let’s go back to using to describe ice cream flavors rather than people’s sex lives. And don’t go digging through the thesaurus for another word to replace it, because you don’t fucking need one. If you enjoy the sex you’re having so much, then you don’t need to preface your accounts of it with how it compares to the sex I’m having.

There are times when my twitter stream makes me feel old. Times when I wonder what I am doing being friends with a group of people who are clearly at a different place in their life than I am. I guess there isn’t really anything wrong with befriending these people, though I do find myself needing to bite my tongue when I read the things they gripe about.

One of the things that really makes me roll my eyes are the complaints made by teenagers (or adult children still living at home) about being their parents ‘chore slave’. They’re simply outraged that their parents would have the audacity to require them to be active participants in keeping a house that they live in, typically free of charge, clean.

Let me tell you something, oh wise teenagers. If anyone is a slave to the chores of the house, it’s your mother and father. From the time you are born until you move out, and usually well beyond that point in time, we’re busting our asses to provide for you. We hold down jobs that aren’t always fulfilling to make sure you’ve got what you need. A house to live in, a bed to sleep in, food to eat, school supplies, and clothes. We work overtime during the holidays so that you can have the newest game console and a college savings account. Our free time is spent cooking you food, washing your clothes, chauffeuring you around to various extracurricular activities and sleepovers. We’ve also got to squeeze in enough time to shower ourselves, pay the bills and go grocery shopping. We want to be able to do stuff that we want to do too!

Children grow up. As they grow they become less and less dependant on their parents. They become capable of contributing to the household duties. It’s only fair that you help with the dishes, considering you eat off of them and your mom cooked dinner. For Pete’s sake, you’ve got a dishwasher and all you have to do is load the damn thing and turn it on! When I was your age I had to stand at the sink and hand wash all the pots and pans, plates, silverware and cups for a family of 7! You can clean up after yourself. You can take out the trash, cut the grass, put up your own freaking clothes and vacuum the living room every once in a while. At the very least, you’re paying your parents back for all of the free shit you get. More importantly, you’re learning skills that are necessary for living on your own. Unless you plan on living in your own filth.

My oldest son is going to be 8 next month and he is always complaining about all of the chores I have him doing. Of course, I complained when I was his age too. I had other stuff I wanted to be doing. I wanted to watch Nickelodeon and Disney Channel. I wanted to play football with my friends outside. I wanted to go spend the night with my bff. I didn’t have time to wash dishes and pick up the living room. Now that he’s doing the same thing to me I understand how my parents and grandparents felt.

When you teenagers find yourself complaining about how miserable your parents are making your life, consider that we’re probably doing it on purpose. After 15, 16 and 17 years of you acting like an entitled brat we’re starting to wish we were a family of birds and it was as easy as shoving you out of the nest to fly on your own.