Let’s be clear: If I’m not going to sleep with you, I don’t need to know anything about your sexuality. And children—who are not going to sleep with anyone—certainly don’t. Your sexuality is not sacred. It’s not a personality, it’s not a protected class of performance art, and it’s not the center of anyone’s moral universe but your own. Unless we are in a relationship, I am not obligated to acknowledge, affirm, or be exposed to your private desires—especially not in public, and especially not in front of children. This used to be understood. Now it’s called hate. No, We Don’t Owe You an Audience Sexuality belongs in the private realm. It is intimate by definition. If you feel compelled to wear your kink on your sleeve—or on a float, or in a first-grade classroom—you are not inviting understanding, you are demanding submission. You are violating others’ right not to participate. Consent doesn’t vanish because your fetish is “progressive.” If anything, the burden is higher. No one consents to being flashed on the subway. No one consents to a stranger’s arousal. No one consents to a stranger telling their child about masturbation, kink, gender identity, or pornographic categories under the guise of “inclusive sex ed.” Yet all of this is happening now—in public parks, in classrooms, in televised programming. It is not tolerance. It is invasion. Children Are Not Here to Validate You Children are not queer. Children are not sexual. Children do not need to “see themselves represented” in a spectrum of adult desire. This idea—that identity is only valid if sexualized and mirrored—is narcissism, not pedagogy. There is no legitimate reason to initiate a child into the language of sexual preference, gender identity, or alternative lifestyles. The only people who benefit from that dynamic are those looking to normalize boundary violations. Let me state it plainly: Children who are not going to have sex do not need to be exposed to sexuality. Period. Any adult who insists otherwise is not confused. They are grooming. Public Fetishism Is Not Liberation There is a vast difference between being gay and demanding the right to simulate sex acts in front of children. Between being transgender and insisting on teaching kindergartners about breast removal. Between being proud of who you are and insisting the whole world observe your kink play in the street. This is not diversity. This is decay. Men in dog masks being walked on leashes by their lovers are not brave—they are forcing strangers into their psychodrama. This is exhibitionism, and when children are present, it becomes criminal exhibitionism. We used to know this. Peeping, flashing, voyeurism—these were considered red flags. Dangerous behaviors. Early signs of escalation. Now they’re filmed, hashtagged, and funded by public grants. Stop Calling It Love—It’s Entitlement This is not about who you love. It’s about how you demand to be seen. If you need the entire public to witness, applaud, and adapt to your sexuality, you’re not a pioneer—you’re an emotional colonizer. Love does not demand a captive audience. It does not parade past toddlers. It does not demand that schools teach four-year-olds about “preferred pronouns.” Love protects children. Love guards modesty. Love waits. And if you can’t wait—if you need to be seen, affirmed, and obeyed—you’re not talking about love. You’re talking about power. Consent Applies to Culture, Too We teach children that consent is sacred—so why are we failing to apply that lesson to public life? No child consents to drag queen story hour. No parent consents to leather harnesses on city floats. No woman consents to being exposed to male sexuality in the ladies’ room, or in the school library, or anywhere she cannot opt out. Consent is not just for sex. It’s for everything. Attention. Language. Presence. Ideology. Imagery. And we are done pretending we don’t notice when it’s violated. The boundary is back. And we are drawing it in bold.

I’ll never forget the day I got the call. I was out at Diego Ranch, checking on the horses. The phone rang, and on the other end was a voice I didn’t know. It was Tom, an Army veteran, and he didn’t waste time with small talk. “I need help,” he said. “I heard about your equine therapy program. If you can’t get me in, I’m done. I’m ending it.” His words hit like a punch to the gut. There was no mistaking the desperation in his voice, the kind that makes your heart stop for a second. I’d been running the equine-assisted therapy program at Diego Ranch for a few years, helping folks work through trauma, anxiety, and all sorts of invisible scars. But this was different. Tom wasn’t just asking for help—he was clinging to it like a lifeline. I told him to come out the next day. No waiting list, no excuses. We’d figure it out. When Tom showed up, he looked like a man carrying a storm inside him. Tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes that didn’t quite meet mine, like he was afraid of what I’d see if he looked too long. I could tell he’d been through hell. Deployments that left memories he couldn’t shake. He didn’t say much at first, just stood there by the horses, hands shoved in his pockets, staring at the ground. That’s when I introduced him to Ranger. I’d seen Ranger work wonders with others, but with Tom, it was like the horse knew exactly what was at stake. The first session was rough. Tom was skeptical, tense, like he was waiting for this to be another letdown. I had him start by simply brushing Ranger, leading him around the arena. At first, Tom moved like he was following orders, mechanical and detached. But Ranger? Ranger had this way of leaning into him, just a slight nudge with his muzzle, like he was saying, “I’m here, man. You’re not alone.” I watched Tom’s shoulders start to loosen, just a bit. Over the next few weeks, something shifted. Tom kept coming back, and each time, he and Ranger seemed to understand each other a little more. I’d catch Tom talking to Ranger when he thought no one was listening—quiet murmurs about nightmares, about buddies he’d lost, about feeling like he didn’t belong anywhere anymore. Ranger would stand there, ears flicked toward him, steady as a rock, like he was soaking up every word. One day, maybe a month in, Tom told me about a moment that changed everything. He’d been at his lowest, sitting in his truck the night before, staring at a 45, convincing himself no one would notice if he was gone. He came to the ranch the next morning, not sure why he was even there. That day, we had him do a trust exercise leading Ranger blindfolded, relying on the horse to guide him. Tom said that when he felt Ranger’s steady steps under his hand, the warmth of that big animal trusting him to lead while he couldn’t see, something broke open. “It was like Ranger was telling me I was still worth something,” he said, his voice cracking. “Like he needed me as much as I needed him.” That was the turning point. Tom started showing up with a little more light in his eyes. He’d joke with me about Ranger always yawning or how the horse would nudge him for treats. He started talking about the future, small things at first, like fixing up his old motorcycle or volunteering with other vets. The man who’d called me ready to give up was starting to find his way back. I’m not saying Ranger fixed everything. Tom still had hard days and still does. But that horse gave him something to hold onto, a reason to keep going when he couldn’t find one himself. Ranger didn’t just save Tom’s life—he gave him a reason to want to live it. And every time I see Tom out there, laughing as he brushes Ranger down, I’m reminded why we do this work at Diego Ranch. It’s not just about the horses. It’s about giving people a chance to find themselves again, one step, one nudge, one moment at a time. Please support here 👇👇👇 givesendgo.com/diegoranch?ut…