So I wrote about getting pictures of penises on my cellphone.  And it was published in the New York Press, which was a like a whole new set of markers for my ego to huff. It wasn’t until after I submitted my revisions to the editor that it dawned on me: these things actually happened. Which means that this article could potentially embarrass some people. Granted, people who get embarrassed about being namelessly alluded to in sex columns are probably not the same people who brazenly take photographs of their genitals with their cell-phones. At least I hope not.

But an interesting point arose as a result of this article. (Pun definitely intended.) Does an author have a responsibility to conceal identities or alter situations, all for the sake of preventing hurt feelings and lawsuits? It’s certainly not a requirement, and even if select details are changed, that sure as hell doesn’t prevent litigation. Just look at one of my favorites, Augusten Burroughs.  "Undisclosed sum" is not a phrase anybody wants to be on the paying end of.  The introductions to many books contain tiny disclaimers about names being changed or timelines being shuffled. It’s safe to say that nobody wants to be compared to James Frey in that respect, either. Separate from potential legal ramifications, and other than the writer making their own excrement smell like lavender, should other parties be taken into account when writing personal narrative?

I have a friend who went on a date soon after his arrival in New York at the request of an associate. This friend had suggested that he go out for a night on the town with a pretty fashion blogger who lived in Brooklyn. The night went swimmingly, drinks were had, food consumed, and my friend, the Manhattan newbie, was stunned by the wit, grace, and charm of the lady writer. At the end of the night, in the wee hours of the morning, my friend parted ways with the woman, putting her in a cab, and sending her from the final watering hole they had closed out back to her pad in the county of Kings. He was a gentleman, and although he had wanted to rendez-vous in the carnal sense, he knew better than to go that fast, especially since she seemed like multiple-date material.

About two hours later, just shy of five in the morning, his phone rings. The female blogger has a leak in her apartment, everything she owns has been destroyed! She is sobbing. He is the only person who she knows is awake. She asks him to come over and console her. He refuses, as he has just begun a tipsy descent into dreamland on the Upper East Side. Without inviting her over, and without much more than a sincere apology and a promise to call her tomorrow, he hangs up. The next morning his  full name is featured on her well-trafficked blog, along with the question, "Whatever Happened To Chivalry?"

And such is the double-edged sword of first-person writing, especially in the age of new media. To paraphrase one of my favorite quotes, we will make weapons of our imperfections. And it seems like some of us will skewer you on those weapons if we so choose.

I wrote the New York Press piece because I found the situation hilarious, if a little creepy, not because I was feeling vindictive. Early in this blog’s nascent I chronicled how I wished I were a sex columnist and how I didn’t know how to go about doing that. Well, if having strangers send me their queries for queer advice can’t happen, I can do the next best thing, which is writing about the bizarre situations that I’ve encountered when it comes to dating, sex, and exploring my twenties. There are a handful of places that look for  humorous, smut-oriented, first person accounts, and they’re much more versatile when it comes to the portfolio.

But what of the exhibitionists who entrusted me with their penises? Shouldn’t they have a say? Most of my nearest and dearest could easily figure out who is who from the subtle hints (their profession, their location, the mention of a double-chin,) is that really fair? My answer is, in this case, yes. I could go on a long schpeel about how writers, musicians, artists, etc. all are influenced by the people they encounter and the experiences that they stumble through, how artistic integrity is a direct relation of subjectivity. And I would be a pretentious cunt. The heart of the matter is this: I wrote what was true because it was easier than struggling to come up with fictional identities.

What if I wrote that Simon was  Trent Reznor,’s doppelganger, with a knack for needlepoint, and a penchant for new-wave music and Dep hair gel. None of this is true, yet all of it is attractive to me. (Sorta.) But coming up with all of that, and keeping it consistent, would require me to step outside of whatever account I was recalling, and add a layer of distance between my writing and what I was trying to convey.  I mean it in the best of ways when I say that when I’m writing non-fiction, I have to forget about the way anybody might feel. It’s an exercise in selfishness, but it’s the only way I can keep the words coming and not slip into neurotic self-talk. I want everyone to like me. Every day I have to grapple with the fact that not everybody will. But maybe one day I’ll get the perfect hair-cut and all of that will change. Until then, I shoot from the fingers first, ask questions later, and accept the fact that there might be consequences by way of yelling or keys kissing the paint of my car.

When I read personal narrative or non-fiction,  I hope that I am being brought into a world that the author wants me to be present in, the same way that I want to suspend my disbelief every time I hear a fish story in my uncle’s garage. Of course I don’t expect everything to be sworn on a Bible, but I do want the integrity of the one recounting the tale to be giving me the best blow-by-blow that they can. For me personally, protecting the innocent, or in this case, the not so innocent, would be disingenuous and hurt my writing. So I didn’t even think about doing it, and when confronted with the possibility that my article might make someone upset, I took the somewhat dick-nozzley approach of, "Well, oops. Too late."

At times I want to write about certain things that I just know better than to confront. Either the story will hurt a friend, shame my family, or cause distress in some way or another. Those stories, no matter how scintillating and funny, I don’t write. It’s not a sacrifice, it’s just good juju. In a case like this, however, it’s a very different nut to crack. (Intended. Again.) I figure that if someone puts themselves in a position so ridiculous as to be offensive — supporting Sarah Palin, reneging on a payment, sending me an unsolicited photograph of their penis — I have a right to string them up with words. Half of humor is the oh shit factor. But I’m still convinced that writers have to take into account that sometimes, even with the best intentions, those closest to the page are bound to get burned. After all, we’re all a little self-obsessed. (Who hasn’t Googled themselves yet?) Looking for your likeness in the art of a companion is only human, I think. So maybe it’s just a little reminder for me not to do anything too stupid, lest I wind up being flogged, or blogged, into shame.

“Take the time to yourself for writing out thank-you notes: don’t try and wedge it in between laundry, a TV show and extra work from the office. You’ll be able to think more clearly and your focus will translate to the page. Above all, try to enjoy yourself. Giving thanks shouldn’t be a chore—and doesn’t have to be if you make the effort to keep it interesting.” Emily Post

I do not handle nice things well. I deflect compliments the way that Wonder Woman deflects bullets. I dodge praise and feel awkward if I receive it, opting to change the subject from myself to the paint on the wall, your shoes, bacon. The only verb for what I do on my birthday is “endure.” Random acts of kindness are treated like a direct sexual overture by Milo Ventimiglia, wherein the result is a deep red blush and me stammering, flabbergasted. I will promptly say the wrong thing. I like to ignore any sort of sweetness, opting to search for the crap cake where there is only icing. To put it mildly, I’m not so good at nice.

So when I posted on this blog that I needed a computer following my five year old Gateway — a graduation gift from my dad — giving up the ghost, I was totally floored when I received emails expressing concern and solidarity over my digital disaster. People reached out, said they had heard about desktop discounts at work, spoke of sons and daughters in companies where computers are practically for sale in vending machines, offered to ask around or slowly tailgate delivery trucks. I was shocked, once again, that anybody reads this shit. And I was shocked that anybody would be so compassionate. I was previously convinced that compassion was reserved for hippies and grandmothers.

Part of this is my New York-bred skepticism. When someone does something for me, I wonder what they want in return. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, that sort of thing. But the whole thing with back scratching is that you have to be itchy first, and you have to ask for that rasping relief. Even though I posted my plea on the blog, I really didn’t expect much to come from it.

As a sort of segue, I should explain that I have learned a lot about giving to others since I quit drinking. (Yes, yes, I know “a level of anonymity in press, radio, and film” but this is a blog, and if someone reaches out seeking help because of something I write, I’ve done my job. If you have a problem with me writing about my recovery, call your sponsor.) There is an obligation to be of service to your fellow man if you’re working a decent program, so I’ve started trying to be kinder to strangers, less of a cynic, and separating the sourpuss from the sweetheart in the centrifuge of my heart. But my nature is to expect the worst of people. The only benefit of this is that when I’m proven wrong, the definition of humanity as a whole becomes more rich and rewarding within my inner lexicon.

Since I started writing Jerk Ethic, weird things have happened. I’ve made friends through the Internet, been offered writing gigs, and discovered that, get this, there are literate blog connoisseurs out there who are willing to donate a few dollars for a girl to get a burrito. This was beyond what I could have imagined. I had been hoping to prove to my parents that I wasn’t a complete waste of fifteen minutes and a hotel room, as I had assumed they would be the only people to read this thing.

Everybody is going through hard times these days, we’re not special. I’m not going to whine about the fact that I ate canned refried beans for weeks ’cause they were the only things I could afford, I can’t complain about that because I don’t have children to take care of. My family is in tact in New York and Chicago. I have a human being who I love and I get to share my life with as his bitchy girlfriend; we might not have much, but we do have each other. I’m poor, but I’m happy. And these random-ass donations that occasionally come in allow us to pay our phone bills on time, they take away some of the day-to-day stress that comes from living hand-to-mouth, and they make us feel less alone in the struggle. In turn, we try to give to others in whatever way we can, even if it’s just through dopey emails, phone calls, or coffee “Tweet-ups.” (Hate that term.)

When you’re in need, every tiny gesture should come with its own soundtrack. It’s that dramatic and meaningful. I still feel uncomfortable and humbled when it happens, but receiving encouraging email, donations, or comments on this site has made this past year — while financially the most terrifying — the richest of my life. I know, I know, cue up the Sarah MacLaughlin and roll credits. Would you like fries with this corndog?

The other day I received a computer from a stranger who reads this blog. First of all, it wasn’t just any computer, it was exactly the one I wanted (a Lenovo IdeaPad S10 in pink), and secondly, it wasn’t just any stranger. It was a client, one who happens to read this drivel that I write for kicks.

My usual reaction to things like this is to return them. This would be impossible because a) he lives in Texas, and b) I really need a computer to do work, including the work for him.

I cannot say anything to Josh Fetner that would properly convey my gratitude. Perhaps it’s the true definition of irony to say that there are no words for it. Simon and I stood, dumbfounded, staring at each other when we opened the box. This was promptly followed by hours upon hours of cooing and squealing, so much so that I believe my neighbors think we’re either running an amusement park for porn stars. The first song I played on its curiously powerful speakers was Kraftwerk’s “Computer Love.”

Greenwood Insurance, the company where Josh is at the helm, makes sure that people and businesses are protected in case of disaster. I did not know that insurance salesmen actually sought out people who needed help, but apparently I had some sort of karmic policy on my laptop.

If anyone is in the market for a computer, let me just say that this netbook is badass. Lenovo has their shit on lock. I could never have afforded a computer like this on my own, and it makes writing this a treat. It makes doing everything a treat. It’s like a vibrator for my brain’s G-spot. I want to write more just because I want to use it more. I greet it in the morning. I haven’t started fantasizing about it while masturbating…yet.

When somebody does something this nice for you, what are you supposed to do? Simon astutely pointed out that doing things for others makes us feel good, so therefore Josh must be feeling pretty fucking high right now. But I don’t have anything to offer him to show my gratitude. Naming my first born after him would require me actually wanting to have children in some sort of active way. Other than that, all I can do is enjoy it. Soak up the good feelings I get every time I see its shiny, pink exterior, like a little sunrise inspiring me to spend my day plunking away on its dainty QWERTY keyboard.

My life is feeling very full at this moment. I have people around me who I love deeply. I have a job that isn’t exactly lucrative, but it pays in pride, pleasure, and promise. I have a new hometown filled with people who don’t stare (too hard) when they see my tattoos, who smile and hold the door, who own mountain bikes instead of fixed gears even though there are no mountains in the entire state. I have strangers sending me kickass computers. I have never felt better. So what do I do with all of this goodness? Let me just say that posting to Twitter while feeling this happy has been a motherfucking chore. The kindness of strangers has softened my edges, made me a little less acerbic, made me a trifle less panicked. It has made me want to write more, to do more, to give more of myself, may it be in words, editing, tutoring, or just loopy smiles that make Oklahomans wonder if I’ve been “rode hard and put away wet.”

I have to say to Josh Fetner, and the entire Greenwood Insurance team out there in Texas, I am truly, deeply, irrevocably grateful. Who know that something so small (10.2 inches, but 1.6 GHz!) could make an impact this big? In closing, the best advice I can give to anyone at this point is be good to each other. You don’t know how much it can mean. And if anyone out there needs tutoring or advice, this is the time to hit me up.

Email me – AinsleyDrew at the gmail one.

Thank you to everyone who reads this blog, or comments on it, or emails, donates, laughs, etc. You keep me going, and I mean that at the most visceral and basic level.

You can always hire us for a much more concrete “give and receive” relationship.

If you, or someone you know, is suffering from addiction, you can find help at the AA website, or reach out to me and I’ll try to assist you the best that I can.

Did you read this all the way through? I love you more than…bean and rice burritos. Extra vibrator batteries. Gene Kelly movies. Comic books. Okay, some comic books.