Please Punch Me

A fear-ridden father corners his midlife crisis by enticing an ex-con boxing champ into the ring for the bout of a lifetime.

On a bitterly cold January morning in 2008, Adam Friedman and Alvin Valentine, friends and co-workers, climbed into a Brooklyn boxing ring and proceeded to go at each other for three hard-hitting rounds. There was nothing particularly artistic about what transpired in those grunting six minutes. Some solid blows were landed; there were no knockouts, and thankfully no blood. It was one fight of probably dozens that transpired in that ring that day.

But for both men, the boxing match represented something very different. For Valentine, a former Blood gang leader and longtime inmate, it was a chance to fight for something other than his life; to fight for fun instead of respect, or to instill discipline in the yard or send a message to a fellow inmate. For Friedman, it was a chance to face down a monster that had tormented him since childhood—fear.

That both men would ever cross paths, let alone face each other down in the squared circle, was unlikely. They both worked at Exodus Transitional Community, a grassroots organization with the goal of helping recently released inmates make their way back into mainstream society. But they came from as different backgrounds as New York City can offer, a distance much farther than the trip between the Upper West Side and Brownsville.

*   *   *

“Do you ever think about going back to your old life?” Friedman asked Valentine at work one day.

“Every day, every day,” Valentine responded.

“Why?”

“Because,” Valentine answered, humorlessly, “when you’re a drug dealer you never get an email saying you forgot to put something in the database.”

Alvin Valentine’s sweeping and audacious criminal career—a career that spanned a third of his life; a career rife with stick-ups, guns, knives, shivs, blood and Bloods, gang orders, and an encounter with a fresh one-legged corpse—all started with a child’s bicycle.

When he was twelve or thirteen, Valentine committed his first crime. He was hanging out with some friends in East Harlem, where he grew up, when he saw another group of kids. He liked one of their bicycles. They had it; he wanted it. He convinced his friends to rob them. He approached the biggest of the rival kids, beat him up and took the bike. It felt good. Beating the toughest kid filled him with pride.

When he turned forty years old, Adam Friedman, a father of two and deputy director of Exodus, made an odd request of his co-worker and friend. Friedman asked Valentine to beat him up.

Friedman, as best as he could describe it, was in the throes of a soul-gnawing mid-life crisis. A recent father, Friedman said he did not want his children to grow up a coward the way he felt he had. He thought he would find a cure for his tortured inner life in a boxing ring, facing down a former gang leader who was a decorated Golden Gloves fighter and boxing champion at Sing Sing prison.

Ever since he was a boy, Friedman ran from fights. Alvin Valentine would start and often finish them. Now Friedman and Valentine, thirty at the time of this bizarre request, were about to fight each other. The two men come from two different worlds. One lives in Trump Tower; the other in a tiny one-bedroom apartment in Brownsville, one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the city. But on a frigid Saturday morning those two worlds intersected in the boxing ring of a sweat-soaked Brooklyn gym.

*   *   *

It’s Not a Good Feeling

Friedman has always been averse to physical conflict. One spineless retreat from his teen years sticks out. He was walking to his New Rochelle high school cafeteria to meet a girl he had a crush on. He was carrying a copy of a Shakespeare play when three classmates intercepted him. They snatched the book and began tossing it around in a bully’s game of keep-away. Finally one of the students took the book and walked away. He brazenly stuck it in his back pocket, daring the young Friedman to come and take it. He never did.

Adam Friedman at Exodus Transitional Community in Harlem.
Adam Friedman at Exodus Transitional Community in Harlem.

“He was asking me to walk over there and punch him,” he says. “And I should have. But I didn’t. I was too scared.”

That moment of cowardice has shaped the man Friedman has become, and on a chilly Saturday morning nearly six years ago, he visited Gleason’s Gym in Dumbo, a waterfront neighborhood in Brooklyn, to exorcise this demon. Impending middle age has made Friedman obsessed with confronting fears that have dogged him his entire life. Months before, he finally confronted his fear of blood by donating for the first time. But a fear of fighting topped the list.

As Friedman approached his fortieth birthday, he became obsessed. And as a former boxer and hardened former gang leader, Valentine became the target of his desire to get this fear of fighting out of his system. He incessantly nagged Valentine about setting about up. Valentine finally relented to Friedman’s requests.

In the days leading up to the showdown, Friedman could already feel the fear that had dogged him his whole life reasserting itself. As part of his training he sparred with opponents much bigger and more skilled than himself. He left one of those sessions with a bloody nose and shaken confidence. He worried that the “humongous” guy he fought only went at him at half-speed. What would happen, he thought with a shudder, when Valentine came at him unrestrained?

“When I get in the ring, I want to get hit—I want to see what I’m made of,” he said. “I’m not confident I’m made of much.”

Valentine, for his part, said he thought Friedman would leave the fight a “humbler and wiser” man.

“He will learn a lot about himself,” he said. “He will learn how he reacts under pressure and crisis. He will also learn how he reacts under pain.”

When the day for the fight arrived, the cold, implacable reality started to settle in.

“I feel weak at my core,” Friedman said as he loosened up on the mats outside the ring. “It’s a shaky, weak, unsteady feeling inside. I feel un-solid, like my muscles don’t feel firm. The more I can really picture, not just picture getting hit but feeling the hit, I picture him coming in more, hitting me and clocking me. The feeling of not just getting hit but having to go for two more rounds…”

He added, with a Woody Allen-like instinct for understatement: “It’s not a good feeling.”

*   *   *

Moments before stepping into the ring on the day of the bout, that fear is obvious on Friedman’s face and in his lanky, lean body, which swims in a torn t-shirt. His gaunt, pale legs stick out of a pair of old, ragged Jams shorts. He sits by himself, a stricken look on his face. His complexion is ashen. His breathing is shallow. His eyes dart nervously around the gym, staring at demons no one else can see. The gym is alive with activity—boxers sparring, wrestlers crunching their bodies on the mat with a thunderous boom, the unmistakable sound of a fist slammed into a face—but Friedman doesn’t register them.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the gym, his opponent is smiling. Valentine’s toned muscles pop beneath his shirt. He shadowboxes skillfully. His long dreadlocks are bound tightly in a bunch. He is loose and confident. When asked if he has any concerns about the fight with Friedman, his boss, he shakes his head with a devilish smile.

Adam Friedman celebrates his 40th birthday by going in the ring with his colleague, Alvin Valentine, a former Golden Gloves boxer, at Gleason's Gym in Brooklyn.
Adam Friedman celebrates his 40th birthday by going in the ring with his colleague, Alvin Valentine, a former Golden Gloves boxer, at Gleason’s Gym in Brooklyn.

“No,” he says. “I’m good.”

“When this fight is over me and Adam are returning to two different worlds,” he says. “We’re going to speak different languages, live by different rules. He’s going to his apartment in the Trump Towers, I’m going to my one-bedroom apartment in Brownsville.”

As Friedman readies himself for the fight, someone points to a sign taped to a column. It reads “In Case of Boxer Emergency.” He does not find it funny. The amateur contestants climb into the ring. Friedman’s demeanor changes. He is no longer in a ring. He is muttering to himself, working himself into a vengeful reverie. At that moment he is envisioning his young son on a playground at P.S. 199 on the West Side of Manhattan. He is playing out a scenario where Valentine is picking on his son and he is going over to stop it.

Friedman and Valentine glare at one another as the referee reads the rules. Valentine’s fist crashes into Friedman’s face before the bell rings.

*   *   *

Good Intentions Don’t Feed Babies

“Does anybody know what recidivism means?” Valentine asks a roomful of dispirited, suspicious ex-cons.

It’s early on the Monday morning after the fight, and Valentine is at the Exodus Transitional Community, housed in the Church of the Living Hope, a white, crumbling four story building on East 104th Street. In a dark second-floor room with low ceilings, three dozen recently released prisoners sit in institutional folding chairs. A few perch on a windowsill. All of the faces are black or Latino. They are rapt as Valentine speaks.

Exodus Transitional Community in East Harlem.
Exodus Transitional Community in East Harlem.

He is part preacher, part self-help guru, part hard-nosed CEO delivering a no-nonsense business presentation. He is a different man than the sculpted fighter itching to get in the ring. He wears a pair of dress pants that hang fashionably loose around brown dress shoes, and a matching tie against a collared shirt.

After a pause, a member in the audience mutters a response, something about someone who can’t keep it together on the outside.

“If you don’t do anything to achieve that goal you become one of those people,” Valentine smiles knowingly. “You know the type.”

The crowd, loosening up a bit, chuckles in recognition.

“They talk about doing this and doing that,” he continues. “People filled with broken promises and dreams that never materialize.”

“The road to hell is paved with what?”

“Good intentions,” a young man barks.

“That’s right,” Valentine sniffs. “And good intentions don’t feed babies. We’re dead serious about what we do here at Exodus.”

Valentine never had the luxury to fear fights because there was a scuffle every day when he was growing up in the city. He turned to a life of crime at an early age. At about the same age that Friedman was when enduring the taunts of bullies, Valentine saw his first dead bodies. The corpses were new, scattered around a counting house for a drug dealer in Harlem.

Valentine received a tip from a girlfriend whose mother counted cash for the dealer, and he set out to rob the place. He snuck up on the apartment and realized right away something was wrong.

“The door was unlocked,” he said. “I realized someone had beat me to it.”

He crept into the house, his gun drawn, and saw a pair of mannequin-like legs poking from the doorway of the kitchen. As he made his way to the room he was startled by a dead woman shot to death on the kitchen floor, her prosthetic leg leaning against a blood-spattered wall.

“It was so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator,” he remembers. He slipped out of the bloodbath, careful to wipe his prints off the door and anything else he touched.

After arrests on drug and armed robbery charges for sticking up a McDonald’s, Valentine spent time in various prisons upstate. In prison, as he describes it, he did what he had to do. That included stabbing people who stepped out of line.

At Exodus he started a new life, but one that is challenged every day. His old life constantly threatens to undo his new one.

“Every single day,” he says. “Every day. The temptation is huge.”

Shortly before his fight with Friedman, Valentine was offered several thousand dollars a week to become an enforcer for a New Jersey drug dealer. He turned down the offer. But his small salary and the demands of impending fatherhood—his girlfriend was pregnant with their first child—are always on his mind.

Alvin Valentine looks out from his favorite perch in Brooklyn.
Alvin Valentine looks out from his favorite perch in Brooklyn.

He says he is riveted by a vision, a metaphor that reminds him of his desire to never return to prison: It is of a burned ship that he has set on fire after sailing it away from prison. In his mind, Valentine thinks that if you destroy the ship, it is impossible to take it back to prison. In this thought exercise, he has stranded himself in a mainstream world of jobs and schedules and responsibility, and he has no choice but to make it work. It has to work. He can’t go back.

After the workshop, he ascends the steps to the roof of the church and recounts how he had to take an intern up there after a disturbing incident a while back. A client who recently enrolled in the program had become hostile toward the intern and started intimidating him. The intern came from a wealthy household. The client had just been released from prison. Valentine explained to the intern how hard it is to grow up knowing you are never going to have that life, the psychological toll it can take.

“This is my favorite place on earth,” he says as reaches the roof, pointing with a sweep of his arm toward the panoramic view of the city’s rich and poor. “It keeps me grounded. Why do I dedicate my life to this work? There are hundreds of young men down there who are going through what I went through. I can use what I know and get them on a different path.”

There was a period when, if Valentine saw a police officer, he worried about getting locked up. After he started working at Exodus, he says he began to look at police with a sense of relief.

“I know they’re there to protect me,” he says. “I’m the perfect example of what a prisoner to professional looks like.”

*   *   *

Who is This White Dude?

Julio Medina, forty-six, started Exodus in the early 1990s from his mother’s kitchen table after serving years for being a self-described drug kingpin.

“I was this major drug dealer,” he said from his office. “I realized I could use the smarts that I used for a negative and channel that into doing something I wanted to do.”

He performs the unglamorous work of keeping prisoners from the revolving door of incarceration. Without assistance readjusting to regular life, Medina says, many ex-convicts end up back in prison.

Sharon White, who served eleven years for manslaughter and then worked as a program manager at Exodus, says the work Exodus and similar organizations do is instrumental in preventing that from happening.

“The bottom line is that there are people coming home,” she says. “They’re coming home every day, whether you like it or not. The question is, what are you going to do with them?”

At Exodus, Friedman and Valentine are essential parts of answering that question. But Medina came close to not hiring either of them. Friedman came in for his interview with a suit and tie, a sophisticated resumé and a folder containing his work from a high-powered advertising firm.

“I didn’t care about any of that,” Medina says. “I couldn’t imagine this lanky white guy being able to deal with hard-bitten criminals every day.”

Medina indulged Friedman, reassuring him that he’d consider his application, with no intention of calling him back—until he saw the “lanky white guy” interacting with a room full of ex-cons, slapping them five and engaging them in easy, friendly conversation.

“Adam really connected with them,” he says. “It was amazing. I made up my mind to hire him right then.”

Valentine, conversely, started his career as a client. But even that almost didn’t happen. Valentine’s attitude was so disruptive his first day at Exodus that he was thrown out.

“He was like, ‘You all don’t know who I am,’” Medina remembers, doing his best tough guy impression. “‘I’m Alvin Valentine. I don’t need you all.’”

Julio Medina outside the headquarters of Exodus Transitional Community in Harlem.
Julio Medina outside the headquarters of Exodus Transitional Community in Harlem.

If not for Sharon White, who grabbed him and told him to cool off and come back the following week, Valentine isn’t sure what he would have done once he walked out the door.

He was a quick study, however, and soon became an employee, working with clients.

“In Alvin you have this mix that I really love,” Medina says. “He’s a tough guy, as you can clearly see. But he can get across to people.”

Friedman and Valentine’s relationship was contentious at first. Valentine bristled at what he saw as Friedman’s dismissive manner.

“Adam doesn’t realize it but Adam can come across as condescending,” Medina says. “He puts this facial expression on like he’s saying, ‘How can you not know that?’ I should know. He does it to me. It was definitely rubbing Alvin the wrong way.”

Valentine had spent nearly a decade in prison, where respect was the common currency. Now his supervisor was not paying it.

“Imagine Alvin comes here from prison, where he called the shots, and now he’s looking at this guy Adam telling him what to do in, let’s face it, a really annoying way,” Medina says.

Valentine confronted Medina about it.

“He came to me one day and he was angry,” Medina says. “He told me he didn’t think he could take it anymore. He said Adam was a sucker and all this. I told him to be patient. Friedman is a good guy.”

Valentine remembers his frustrations. “I went in there and was like, ‘Who is this white dude?’” he says.

Although friction defined most of their relationship, Medina says they developed an unusually strong bond.

“They are both committed to the work,” he says. “They just do it in their own ways. Something that each of them respect is their intelligence.”

*   *   *

See You Monday

Round one begins with a false start: Valentine hits Friedman before the bell goes off.

“When he first hit me before the bell I thought, ‘O.K., I can take a shot,’” Friedman recalls. Both fighters return to their corners.

After landing a blow and getting a taste of action, Valentine is impatient. He is restless in his corner and eager to get into it. As the bell rings, he freezes for an instant in a boxing pose then lurches into the ring.

Friedman shows no hesitation. He doesn’t wait for Valentine to come to him. He takes long, crane-like strides toward Valentine. Friedman throws the first punch, a left jab that glances off of Valentine’s guard. But Valentine, a southpaw, lands the first blow, two right jabs in quick succession that catch Friedman on the chin. Friedman regains his balance and the two exchange a series of punches, each feeling the other out. They circle each other in the center of the ring, neither man backing down.

Valentine gets in a punch during his bout with Friedman.
Valentine gets in a punch during his bout with Friedman.

Then Valentine sets Friedman up with a combination. He absorbs a left jab from Friedman and responds with a right jab, then a body blow. When Friedman lowers his guard for an instant to protect his ribs, Valentine takes advantage and lands a devastating left overhand. It lands with a popping sound and jars Friedman’s head. Valentine tries to follow it with a roundhouse right to knock him out, but Friedman backs away from the blow and it narrowly misses.

That flurry of action leads to a cautious ending to the first round as they throw some exploratory jabs, and then size each other up. The bell sounds and the fighters return to their corner. Friedman talks strategy with his corner man, who squirts some water from a Poland Spring sport bottle into his mouth.

Friedman remembers thinking, “Wow, thirty seconds is a long time in the ring.”

Round two opens with a blur of activity, both men throwing a riot of punches. Friedman throws a left that Valentine needs to step back from to avoid. Valentine responds with a wild right that Friedman dodges. But Valentine composes himself and sets Friedman up for another savage combination. He stuns Friedman with a left to his chest, then follows up with a right to the face that brings the lanky fighter to his knees, his head bowed as if in supplication.

The referee, an employee of the gym, sporting jeans, a white t-shirt and a gold necklace dangling from his neck, rushes over. Friedman pops up quickly, but the ref examines him closely before letting him get back to the match. He asks Friedman a series of questions to make sure he is O.K. to continue. Friedman looks woozy, but he is ready to go. He nods his head vigorously. The ref lifts his guard and tests whether Friedman can hold his fists up on his own. He can, and the fight continues.

They meet again, exchanging some punches, but most of them are deflected. Friedman seems to find his legs and holds his own until the end of the round.

Rounds one and two were unanimous for Valentine, but in the third and final round Friedman fights to a draw, giving as good as he gets, landing a few shots, and taking some solid blows from Valentine without breaking stride or faltering. Throughout the last round Friedman seems to savor each moment, not wasting time dancing. He is active, taking healthy swings. He advances on Valentine, keeping up the pressure.

“Alvin said there were a few things he tried in that round and that I foiled him,” Friedman says later.

The bell rings and an exhausted Friedman struggles to raise his arms in triumph. The two fighters hug briefly in the ring after the fight. There is an atmosphere of camaraderie in both Friedman and Valentine’s corners. The fight meant different things to each boxer.

A video of the fight between Adam Friedman and Alvin Valentine, directed by Vin DeCrescenzo and produced by Adam Friedman.

Valentine was the unanimous victor, at least to the handful of pugilists who took a break from their workout to watch the odd match, but Friedman acquitted himself respectfully. He was palpably relieved when he scooted under the ropes and took in what he had just accomplished.

Friedman dedicated the fight to his two sons and looked forward to the day when they could watch a tape of it and understand why he did it.

Valentine used it to measure his stamina. At the time he had aspirations of boxing regularly again and wanted to get into shape to go the distance for a twelve-round fight.

“I’m glad there was a knock-down,” a jubilant Friedman said, loping around the ring, his hair matted with sweat. “I’m glad. I feel like I got hit. And I got up!”

Valentine shook his hand and shouted in support: “You got up, man!”

Valentine had considered Friedman a friend before they fought. But now he had a newfound respect for his co-worker.

“I am very proud of Adam,” he said. “I think he did an extraordinary job. Tremendous.”

“He was in rare form today,” he added with a broad smile.

Alvin Valentine congratulates Adam Friedman after the fight.
Alvin Valentine congratulates Adam Friedman after the fight.

Friedman and Valentine shook hands and then hugged. As they gathered their belongings and prepared to go their separate ways the two men said their goodbyes.

“I’ll see you Monday,” Friedman said.

“See you Monday,” Valentine confirmed.

They had work to do.

*   *   *

The Aftermath

The fight became a thing of lightweight legend around Exodus. Friedman earned the respect of his colleagues for daring to step into the ring with Valentine. Medina took him aside and told him, “That took guts.” Valentine would show the footage of the fight to his friends, who chastised Friedman for not attacking when Valentine stepped back and dropped his guard to showboat.

Friedman’s own father could not bear to watch the tape of the fight. He didn’t want to see his son get hit. (Though that didn’t stop him from encouraging his son to “knock him out!” the morning of the fight.)

The fight with Valentine did not have a sudden, transformative effect on Friedman. But a little while after the fight, Friedman was at work late one night doing an assessment of data on Exodus clients, tracking the number of people who were meeting with the job development counselor. He noticed that forty percent of the clients were not going to their meetings, which, for a newly released inmate, is unacceptable. An essential part of integrating back into society is getting a job. Everyone wants an inmate to have a job—the parole officer, the reentry counselors, and the inmate himself.

Alvin Valentine gives a lecture at Exodus Transitional Community for the new clients, who come every Monday morning.
Alvin Valentine gives a lecture at Exodus Transitional Community for the new clients, who come every Monday morning.

While many former inmates who might be tough when faced with physical confrontation, they are daunted by the prospect of sitting down for a job interview. The clients would fumble for excuses to avoid meeting with the counselor. Friedman was troubled by the discovery. And that’s when he had a revelation.

“It’s not that they were lazy,” he says. “It was that they were scared.”

At Exodus, Valentine always led the first meeting with new clients, telling them his life story, using his experience to earn their trust and encourage them to avail themselves of the programs at their disposal. After Valentine gave his presentation, it was Friedman’s turn. He headed up a workshop on the nuts and bolts of what the program had to offer.

The next Monday, before he launched into his spiel, he played the tape of the fight.

“If I can get in a ring with Alvin,” he told them after it was over, “then you can go out on a job interview.”

The following week the head of job development sent out an email to the staff. It informed them that for the first time, not one client missed their appointment for the week.

*   *   *

Going After the Big Dog

About a year after the fight, Medina and Friedman parted ways. They had different ideas about what direction to take the organization, and clashed on a number of occasions over the program’s details. Friedman thought it best to look for a new job, so he left.

When the phone rang at 5:55 a.m. on a weekday about five months ago, Friedman jolted awake in a panic. His first thought was: Who died?

He answered the phone. It was former New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey, who had served as an advisor to Exodus when Friedman worked there. McGreevey asked him if he would like to work for Jersey City, helping formerly incarcerated people make a go of it. Steven Fulop, the mayor, had appointed McGreevey, famous as America’s first self-described “Gay American” governor, to a position as executive director of the Jersey City Employment and Training Program. McGreevey wanted Friedman to join his team as deputy director.

In the wake of the public disintegration of his political and private life after getting caught up in a gay sex scandal with a staffer in 2004, McGreevey has dedicated himself to reforming juvenile and criminal justice, helping people, young and old, to avoid getting caught in the prison pipeline. He worked closely with Integrity House, an organization that helps women prisoners and victims of domestic violence in a number of ways, from job training to providing substance abuse programs.

Now, back in the public sector in Jersey City, McGreevey is behind an initiative to disrupt the school-to-prison pipeline for at-risk youth. The program brings together the city Board of Education with the building trade unions, providing high school juniors with union mentors.

From his small office in a bleak grey building in the Journal Square neighborhood of Jersey City, Friedman paused as he reflected on how the fight affected him. He leaned back in his squeaking office chair and stared at the drop ceiling. He said he has become not a better father, but a more confident one.

“I wanted to show my kids that you can get in a ring with Alvin,” he said. “If my dad had stepped into the ring with Alvin maybe I would’ve grown up differently. I didn’t want to raise them to be cowards like I was. Getting into the ring with Alvin showed that I could go after the Big Dog.”

*   *   *

“Sometimes I Wished I Caught a Bullet in the Stomach Rather Than Do This Time”

Steven Llanos calls Friedman and Valentine “the odd couple” with a resonant laugh that speaks to the absurdity of the pairing. Despite their differences, Llanos credits both men, in their own idiosyncratic ways, for saving his life.

Llanos, thirty-five, was in the life as far back as he could remember, selling selling crack at nine years old. Whenever he got in trouble, his mother, a drug addict, would always be there to bail him out because she knew she would be able to get drugs from her son as compensation.

Llanos was on his way to scoring crack to get back in the drug-dealing game when a wrong turn in East Harlem landed him in front of the white church that housed Exodus. A group of men were outside on a smoke break when he overheard them talking about prison. Llanos had recently been released after finishing a bid for drug dealing. A member of the group invited him up for some lunch and a coffee. It was Valentine.

“Alvin invited me upstairs, he invited me to his workshops, he gave me lunch and coffee, something to drink,” Llanos says. “I never left after that.”

He stayed on—first as a client, then as a counselor, then moved up to project manager. Valentine’s example gave him the confidence to keep his head down and throw himself into the work. Llanos and Valentine had similar backgrounds as children who grew up in a world of violence and crime. He eventually looked up to Friedman as a father figure, a source of inspiration as he negotiated the pitfalls of fatherhood.

“My dad was pretty much not in my life,” Llanos said. “Adam was like the father I always wished I had growing up. When I saw Adam and the way he was coaching Little League, and being present in his kids’ lives, watching him be the father he was made me become the father that I am.”

But that was not always the case. Llanos says that initially he was weary of Friedman.

“It was that old prison mentality,” he says.

As a child and teen, Llanos only saw white people as members of a system that ground him, and people like him, down. When his friends got beaten by the cops, he says, the officers were always white. When he got placed in foster care, the people who wrenched him from his family, they were white. When he was in prison, it was always a white corrections officer who was meting out discipline.

“I don’t know what they call it, transference and stuff like that,” he says. “But it started to change when I saw that tape. That’s when I started to trust Adam. It brought humor. He was funny; he was goofy.”

Two years ago, Llanos relocated his wife, whom he met through a prison pen-pals program, and his eight children to suburban Atlanta. He went to school to become a welder and now runs a crew as a foreman. He does not think he would have made it if he hadn’t met Friedman and Valentine, and says he intends to go back to helping former prisoners make that transition to mainstream society.

Llanos had a refrain he would repeat to both the clients and his coworkers at Exodus: “We are the population we serve.”

The phrase flashed in his mind’s eye when he heard that Valentine had been shot in the summer of 2010.

Before he left Exodus, Friedman said Valentine started becoming “feral.” Friedman said it was hard to put his finger on it, but that he became withdrawn and started acting “gangstery.”

So when word reached him that Valentine had returned to the life he had sworn to leave behind, it was devastating news, but it didn’t come as a complete surprise.

It didn’t come as a surprise to Llanos either.

“I just think Alvin lost track,” he says. “He forgot where he had come from, what he had left behind. And you should forget that life. But there’s a catch-22 at the same time. That life we lived—it’s the nature of the ‘hood. He forgot the pain and got caught up again.”

Llanos says that the longer a former prisoner is free, the easier it is for him to take that freedom for granted.

“You forget about the four o’clock count, the guys you left behind in prison. When you forget that, then you’re in trouble.”

Llanos was relieved to hear that Valentine survived. And he was not surprised that he turned his life around once again in the wake of the shooting.

“Unfortunately he went through that pain, but it got him back on track,” Llanos says. “Sometimes I wished I caught a bullet in the stomach rather than do this time. Sometimes. You need that pain to get back on track.”

According to his old friends, Valentine is working as a doorman and building manager in Long Island City, a gentrified waterfront neighborhood in Queens. It’s a job that McGreevey helped him get once he heard his former colleague had lapsed.

*   *   *

“People From the Hood, We Don’t Do Yoga”

In prison, Llanos says, you develop a sixth sense. When something is about to go down in the yard or the mess hall, that sixth sense starts humming. One afternoon at a workshop he was leading at Exodus, Llanos said his sixth sense was in overdrive. Two clients in the room had a turbulent history in prison. One of the men had ordered the stabbing of the other client’s friend. The old score was about to be settled in the church basement.

“It was really getting to the point where, if we were in prison, it would’ve been on,” he says, recalling the incident. “They made eye contact and you could feel it going through you. Something was brewing. It was about to happen.”

Llanos interrupted his workshop and asked if there was a problem. One man responded: “Yeah—him.”

The other man stood, ready to fight. Llanos pleaded with them to give him a minute, one minute.

“I grabbed the tape and threw it in there,” Llanos said.

The two rivals watched the tape of the fight, saw Friedman’s and Valentine’s preparation, and saw their camaraderie after it was over.

“People from the hood, we don’t do yoga,” Llanos says, referring to a portion of the video where Friedman is folded into a ball. “When they saw Adam doing yoga, they were on the floor cracking up.”

Llanos says watching the fight lifted the tension in the room. A week later when the two men met for staff lunch and held a service, they were side-by-side, part of a circle holding hands.

“That tape, that fight,” he said. “It was like magic.”

*   *  *

Daryl Khan is the New York bureau chief for the Juvenile Justice Information Exchange, a national news site that covers young people and the system, where he assigns stories and writes long-form and investigative pieces. He runs the bureau from the CUNY Graduate School of Journalism, where he also teaches.

Robert Stolarik has been a regular contributor to the New York Times since 2000 and has worked on assignments covering the Kosovo Conflict, Civil War in Colombia, coup d’etat in Venezuela, Hurricane Katrina, Haitian earthquake, and Hurricane Sandy for Time Magazine, Le Monde 2, Stern, Newsweek , The National, and JJIE.

When a Magician’s Curse Swung Boxing’s Biggest Bout

In 1939, Tiger Jack Fox got his first and only shot at the title, and lost it thanks to black magic, a woman with a razor blade, and a manager with a knack for hypnosis.

PART ONE: THE TIGER WAS A NIGHT OWL 

John Linwood Fox, a.k.a. Tiger Jack Fox, was a superstitious man. He was a late-night playboy. But before all else, he was as powerful a boxer that has ever fought. A light heavyweight who boxed professionally from 1926-1950, Fox is distinguished as one of Ring magazine’s Top 100 Punchers in history. His 24 first round knockouts rank him second all-time, behind only Jack Dempsey. He was a showy and unorthodox boxer who often fought with his hands down at his knees, sometimes sticking his chin out or making opened-mouthed gestures in a ploy to lure opponents into attack, at which time he’d open up, punching wildly. Journalists thought it was funny. His opponents did not. 

Fox fought often, and toward the end of 1938, he was closing in on 100 career victories, with his record sitting at 98-14-10. When National Boxing Association light-heavyweight champion John Henry Lewis decided to move up in weight and challenge Joe Louis for the heavyweight title (a fight John Henry lost in 93 seconds), the New York Athletic Commission stripped Lewis of his belt, and an elimination tournament was set up to determine a successor. Fox fought his way to a title shot; his opponent would be Melio Bettina, a young fighter from Beacon, New York. In 1939, Tiger Jack would get his big break, but first he’d have to make it out of 1938 alive.

John “Tiger” Linwood Fox, better known as Tiger Jack Fox.

Fox had long made a habit of staying out late and spending every dime he made. He hated working out; he hated preparing for fights, but it never seemed to hurt him. Trainer Al Morse told a story, recounted in the Spokane Daily Chronicle, about a time when he lost Tiger Jack prior to a 1936 bout at the Spokane Armory. As the night moved on and the undercard bouts were finishing up, Tiger Jack was still nowhere to be found. With mere minutes to go before the headline bout, Fox finally made an appearance. 

“Where in the —— have you been?” Morse asked, according to the Chronicle. 

“Well I got in a card game down the street and I was trying to win enough money for cab fare to the Armory.” 

Fox pulled his gloves on, went into the ring, and won the fight in three easy rounds. 

On December 6, 1938, Tiger Jack’s late nights caught up to him. It was three a.m. in Harlem when he met a woman, Edna Boyd, on his way back to the Woodside Hotel. Not long after, guests heard screams coming from Tiger Jack’s room. The hotel detective broke down the door, and found a room covered in blood. Boyd had stabbed Tiger Jack with a ten-inch blade, just below the heart. He was bleeding still. Fox was rushed to the hospital, and Boyd was arrested claiming self-defense. She showed the patrolman the cuts on her fingers as proof. 

Fox’s injuries were critical. He had lost a great deal of blood, and one reporter predicted that his fight career was finished, “even if he recovers.” But on December 17, Fox invited reporters to his hospital room, where he lounged in his bed reading a Wild West story, to show them that he was “not as bad off as they say.” 

When asked to give his account of the events, Fox disputed Boyd’s account that they had met on the street, and gave no explanation of the incident, saying that she had stabbed him in his sleep. 

“I was on a party with a couple of guys and girls,” he said. “The others left before the cutting. I was lying across the bed when she stabbed me.” 

Details would remain murky. When reached at the Women’s Detention Home for a statement after being charged with felonious assault, Boyd, a hotel maid, replied only “No, no, no. I will say nothing.” 

Tiger Jack promised that he’d take his shot at the title, facing Bettina on February 3, just two months after the stabbing. Edna Boyd and her knife would not, as it happened, be the only things standing in his way. 

PART TWO: “THE MAD MAGICIAN OF MAUL”  

Superstitious athletes have a way of attracting eccentrics. Characters like five foot nine Jimmy Grippo, a boxing manager fond of suit and tie, and who sported thick black glasses, which matched his penetrating black eyes and thick, curly, black hair.  

The 40-year-old Grippo lived in Melio Bettina’s hometown of Beacon, New York. He had managed Bettina since the start of his career, but that was only a side gig. Really, he was a magician and hypnotist who would one day be credited by the Las Vegas Sun as an expert in, “clairaudience, clairvoyance, dream interpretation, extrasensory perception, handwriting analysis, magic and sleight of hand, palmistry, precognition, pupilmetrics, telekinesis and telepathy.”  

Grippo’s biography is, fittingly, a bit of a mystery. The story goes that he was born in Venosa, Italy, in January of 1888, the oldest of nine children. There, he first learned of hypnotism from a local elder. When Grippo was around 12 his family immigrated to America, settling in Beacon. He caught Harry Blackstone Sr.’s show once when the magician barnstormed through upstate New York and the Great Blackstone’s performance captivated Grippo. By 18 years old he was versed in the art of legerdemain (defined as the “skillful use of one’s hands when performing conjuring tricks”). Hypnotism was also an early specialty, and Grippo’s work in this discipline gradually became highly respected and had him partnering with doctors to use hypnotism as an alternative to anesthetics. (Grippo was a pioneering advocate of hypnosis for mothers during childbirth.) In 1932, Grippo was summoned to a New York hospital to perform hypnotism on the King of Siam, to calm the nervous King prior to eye surgery. Following the successful operation, the King presented Grippo with a large diamond and ruby ring shaped like a sheik’s head. 

Jimmy Grippo

In the years to come, Grippo would become the first house magician at Caesar’s Palace when it opened in Las Vegas in 1966. There, according to present-day magician and preeminent coin manipulator, David Roth, Grippo’s specialty was sleight of hand magic with rings and coins. Roth met him some 40 years ago, but one thing stands out above all else: “Jimmy was a showman.”  

In Beacon, Grippo lived down the street from the Bettinas. When shy, skinny young Melio was bullied in school, it was to Grippo that his mother came for help. The magician got him started in boxing, managing him when the boy turned pro, and using hypnotism and auto-suggestion to bolster the young prizefighter’s confidence. When they came to New York City to train at the legendary Stillman’s Gym on Eighth Avenue, Grippo hypnotized Bettina twice a week.  

“Hypnosis can be a tremendous help to an athlete, but you use it in training, not combat,” he later told the Miami News. “I’d drill into his subconscious mind that he was going to retain the knowledge he would pick up in the gym, that he would have good reflexes, that he would be able to absorb punishment, that he was going to win. In a wakeful state he now had greater confidence. It was the power of suggestion at work.” 

It was hard to argue with the results. Bettina grew husky and strong, a rough-and-tumble fighter who was a far cry from the reserved kid who first showed up at the gym. He stuck with the sport through the Great Depression, earning more in the ring than he could anywhere else. By 1938, Bettina was rolling, having not lost a fight in nearly two years, his record sitting at 43-6-2. He was 23-years-old and ready to fight for the championship of the world. 

Tiger Jack, meanwhile, was not.  

“He doesn’t look at all ready,” wrote Carl Beckwith of the Washington Afro-American just days prior to the Bettina fight. “We noticed that when he shook hands, he kept his arm as close to his side as possible, and in climbing in and out of the ring, he definitely favored his right side.” But Tiger Jack didn’t care. This was his chance, and he wasn’t going to miss it.  

As the bout approached, the bookies made Fox a 3-1 favorite. On fight day, the New York Times declared, “Fox is the choice to turn back his youthful rival… He is a sturdy, well-rounded boxer, who can stand up well under a punch.”  

But could he stand up to a hex? 

“Jimmy Grippo, who manages Melio, is a magician and a hypnotist,” wrote Harry Ferguson of the United Press. “He is planning, it seems, to send his man into the ring in a trance which will make him impervious to a smack on the kisser… Manager Grippo, who never has objected when anyone referred to him as ‘the Svengali of Pugilism,’ intends to make his hypnotism work both ways by putting a hex on Fox. He explains that if he can come face to face with Fox before the gladiators begin gladiating he can send Fox into a trance that will make him helpless against a left to the belly.”  

PART THREE: “YOU WILL NOT QUAIL”  

Madison Square Garden. February 3, 1939. Tickets ranged from $18 all the way up to $189. A snowstorm battered the region, and only 7,947 showed up for the fight. The weather hardly slowed the Beacon battalion, as an estimated 1,500 fans trekked the 65 miles south from the Hudson Valley. Some called Bettina a country boy, others a farm boy, but up in Beacon the kid was a star. 

Before the bell rang, Grippo gave Bettina his marching orders.  

“You will be courageous,” quoted Red Smith in the New York Times. “You will not quail. You will feel no pain and you will conquer. He will not hurt you. You will attack, attack, attack. And you shall prevail.” 

Then Grippo set his eyes on Tiger Jack. Fox was ready for him. At the weigh-in, he’d worn sunglasses to protect himself from Grippo’s gaze, and now he did everything he could to avoid making eye contact with the magician.  

“He wouldn’t look me in the eye,” Grippo later related. “When we started to put on the gloves I went to his corner but he kept his head down.” 

Another tactic was required. Grippo looked back at his own corner and yelled, “Don’t forget to put the stuff in the gloves.” Tiger Jack’s seconds ran to Bettina’s corner to make sure that they weren’t putting weights in his gloves, and Tiger Jack’s head snapped up in the commotion. Grippo got his eye contact. The hex was in. 

“What you doin’ to me?” moaned Tiger Jack, according to Grippo. 

Finally, it was time to box. Things got off to a slow start, the fighters sizing one another up, exchanging punches and maneuvering for position. Bettina was not only green, but also a plodder, moving at his opponent straight ahead, punching from a low crouch. He pressed Fox into the ropes. Fox countered, throwing rights and lefts, catching Bettina with a thundering blow to the head, opening a cut above Bettina’s left eye.  

Bettina bounced back to take the second and third rounds, pacing the action. In the fourth, Fox connected with a vicious right hand that staggered Bettina. The belt looked like it was within Fox’s reach. Fox attacked with a flurry of punches, while Bettina looked to crowd him, bullying Fox into the ropes to stem the onslaught. It was toe-to-toe action in the fifth, with Bettina getting the better of it with short, stiff combinations to the head. He won the sixth round as well. In the seventh the two fighters banged heads, then Fox went in for the kill, landing a solid left, but just missed with a right uppercut. Bettina’s face was red and his left eye was cut. The seventh ended with a flurry, bringing the crowd to its feet.

Jimmy Grippo, manager of Melio Bettina, shows Tiger Jack Fox some sleight-of-hand tricks at Boxing Commisison offices on February 1st, 1939, two days before the match with Bettina. (Photo by New York Daily News via Getty Images)

In the eighth, Bettina came alive, charging ahead and striking with three consecutive shots to the jaw. Fox countered with a left to the body, then just missed with a wild right and nearly tumbled to the canvass in the process. Bettina saw his opening. He struck with a big left hook, sending Fox down for a nine-count. Back on his feet, Fox was wobbly and Bettina continued punching unceasingly until the bell. Fox held on, barely, and stumbled to his corner. The Beacon faithful roared with approval, eager for more of the same in the ninth round.  

PART FOUR: THE GREAT MANERO AND A CAVE IN ALBANIA 

A magician’s audience walks away buzzing about the climax of a trick, but the voila is not always the most important part. For a magician like James V. Grippo, a showman, it’s what comes before the trick that matters most of all. 

When asked where he first learned the power of hypnotism, Jimmy would take his listeners on a journey back to verdant Italy, where he lived an idyllic childhood eating figs and grapes and olives, until the day he met a 114-year-old mystic named Manero. The two traveled across the sea to Albania, to a cave lit by an olive-oil lamp, where Manero spent nine years imparting the secrets of hypnotism.   

“He hypnotised me four of five times a day, an hour at a time,” Jimmy later told Las Vegas Today. “From these sessions I learned how to hypnotise others and the unique power of self-hypnosis, which in turn had taught me how to be the master of my body and not a slave to it.”  

Grippo would regularly tell such stories. This was the groundwork. The trick before the trick. Tell enough reporters, like old Harry Ferguson, and Jimmy’s stories got around. Never mind that his Manero story would have had him learning hypnotism as a three-year old if he indeed made it to America when he was 12 — Jimmy’s trick was the story of the cave. It didn’t matter if it was true or not, you believed he absolutely could have been a boy apprentice in Albania. If nothing else, he possessed the power to make you consider — could he be a sorcerer, a magic man, a spellbinder — and the answer was always “yes, he very well could have been.” So before the ninth round, before the first bell, before he looked into Tiger Jack’s eyes, the groundwork was already laid. Not even the sunglasses could have saved Fox. 

Prior to the ninth round Fox’s trainers worked feverishly to patch him up. But as soon as the bell rang, Bettina had him against the ropes and was pounding away. Here was Tiger Jack Fox, who according to Red Smith “could hit like the wrecker’s big iron ball.” Tiger Jack Fox, a savvy veteran of more than 100 fights, getting sleighed by a farm boy. Pummeled by a plodder. How could it be? Was it as simple as Bettina absorbing his manager’s words? You will not quail…he will not hurt you….attack, attack, attack…And you shall… 

Again, Bettina backed Fox into the ropes. A right, then a left, back and forth. Fox was gasping for air, but would not go down. Bettina trapped Fox in a neutral corner and battered away. And sure enough, it really was just as Grippo had told him. And you shall prevail. Referee Eddie Josephs called it at the 1:22 mark.  

Bettina’s supporters kicked up the brass band.  

Bettina had won the title.

Tiger Jack Fox and Melio Bettina weigh in at the Garden, February 3rd, 1939. (Photo by New York Daily News via Getty Images)

A week after the championship tilt, Newsweek and Ring Lardner’s coverage of the bout was focused almost solely on the manager, referring to Fox as “Grippo’s victim,” and pointing to the eighth round as the moment when the magic kicked in. Grippo’s hypnotic stare remained “undefeated.”  

Fox, meanwhile, had no other recourse but to get back out there. He was back in the ring, and the win column, by March. He would fight a total of 11 matches in 1939, winning seven with a draw and a no contest thrown in.  

Bettina’s winning streak did not last much longer. Five months later he fought Billy Conn, whose team attempted to bar Grippo from participating in the official weigh-in. They failed, but Grippo earned a rebuke from the New York Boxing Commission, warning of “no monkey business,” and Conn took the title from Bettina in July of 1939 by unanimous decision. 

Moving forward, Grippo was the story, not Bettina. Here was Harry Ferguson again, obviously enamored with Grippo’s hocus pocus, writing before Bettina took on Red Burman at Ebbets Field in 1941: 

“If it were strictly a fight between Burman and Bettina, your agent would be inclined to pick Burman. But there is a third person involved in this conflict — Bettina’s manager who has the glittering eye of Svengali, who is a better magician than Berlin and who can put people under a Hypnotic spell. Grippo is the name — Jimmy Grippo — but whenever the scholars assemble in leatherfist lane to discuss such erudite subjects as the super-natural and hypnotism they refer to him in hushed voices as ‘Grippo the Great.’” 

EPILOGUE: “WHO HAS CAST THE EVIL EYE ON YOU?”  

Melio Bettina retired in 1948 with a career record of 83-14-3, losing his only other title shot to Anton Christoforidis in 1941. Tiger Jack bounced back, boxing all over the northwest, then Canada, then Alaska, where he became the Alaskan Heavyweight Champion at the age of 46. Fox’s last official fight came in December of 1950 in Twin Falls, Idaho. A sad affair at the Radio Rondevoo, Fox was called in as a last minute replacement after the original opponent found himself in stir. Old man Fox suffered a hernia in the bout before falling in the second round.  

Fox suffered a stroke in 1951 that nearly paralyzed him, but he got off the canvas as usual, recovered and became an ever-present figure around Spokane, walking with a cane, taking in the fights, and buying 25-cent movie tickets to spend the day at a triple feature. He fell one last time in April of 1954, suffering a heart attack while entering the El Rancho Theatre on Main Street. His final record in the ring stands at 140-23-12 — an astonishing number of fights, considering that most of today’s greats average between 50 and 70 fights in a career — and a remarkable 91 KO’s.  

Fox’s obituary made note of his nocturnal nature. “The Tiger never believed in letting his ring career interfere with his good times.” The write-up also mentioned that the stabbing “undoubtedly cost him the world title.” Perhaps. But when anyone asked, he always pointed the blame at his opponent’s manager. Fox never doubted Grippo’s hex. 

Long after Tiger Jack and Bettina were forgotten, Grippo stayed in the game, offering his services to boxers looking for a magical edge. His name pops up all the way into the ’60s and ’70s, in bouts involving Liston, Patterson, Ali, Norton, Holmes, and so on. He worked into his 90s as the self-appointed greeter at Caesar’s Palace, wowing guests fresh from the airport with magic and coin tricks, and he performed for every president from Eisenhower to Carter. His quintessential performance, however, came just after World War II, when he was summoned to 10 Downing Street, to perform for Winston Churchill.  

Grippo approached the Prime Minister, according to the Los Angeles Herald Examiner, with no fireworks, no assistants — just a solitary pack of cards.  

“Pick a card,” asked Grippo, instructing the Prime Minister to make his selection mentally, without touching the deck. Once Churchill chose, AlakazamGrippo forcefully flung the cards against a window across the room. The cards scattered. Outside it rained. At the base of the window the cards were counted. Fifty-one. Jimmy pointed to the window where the 52nd card — Churchill’s card — was stuck to it… The outside of the window. The card was streaked with rain.  

I Met My Long-Lost Brother…And I Was Overcome With Lust

I was 34 years old and it was a primal attraction I couldn’t control. But this was before I discovered Johnny’s dark predilections.

My brother Johnny had just been paroled from the Georgia state prison system when I found my birth family. When the train taking me to the reunion pulled into the Savannah station, Johnny was waiting on the platform with my sister Belinda and my brother Mike. Already in tears, I went for my sister first, and then Mike, while Johnny stood quietly and waited his turn to hug me.

Johnny was dark, like me and our mother, who’d died the previous year. His eyes were my eyes, his lips were my lips. He had a dimple on one cheek that appeared when he smiled, just like me. He was a good-looking man, as were all my brothers. He’d just been released from prison; his body was meaty and well-nourished.

Learning I was related to someone with felony convictions didn’t bother me; I was no saint, for one thing, and I’d also been a criminal defense lawyer for ten years by then. Nothing could shock me, I thought.

Riding that train for twenty hours, I swung wildly between worries and hopes about what life inside a new family would mean to me. My mother had been fifteen when I was born, and just three months later she married the man who would be the father of the rest of her children, a daughter and five sons. I’d been adopted as an infant by a family up North. My siblings grew up with my mother and their father. This would be my first time meeting them. Would they be so different from me that I’d be repelled? Or would I snap into place with them? I’d learned a little about them all from letters and phone calls. It sounded like most of my five brothers were a lot like my clients. Unlike some defense lawyers I knew, I liked my clients – and I liked the no-frills, no-bullshit, blue-collar culture of people who were poor and struggling. I liked rule-breakers.

At the train station, and all during the week of my first visit to Savannah, Johnny and I spent long minutes staring into each other’s eyes. I was under a spell of fascination with the resemblance I’d been missing my whole life as an adopted person, and although I looked like all of my siblings in some way, the resemblance was strongest between Johnny and me. He was the sort of man who wouldn’t look away from another person’s gaze; probably, I thought, a habit picked up in prison, where to look away meant weakness. I was 34 then, and he was six years younger than me. I wanted to be literally in touch, as if separating from him physically would tear off a piece of my skin.

A book I’d read before getting on the train, The Adoption Triangle, had prepared me for those sorts of feelings. Of the many stories of adoption reunions, there were a few of brothers and sisters, and mothers and sons, who fell headlong in love, intoxicated by “deep, unrestrained love” and “intense, incestual feelings.” This didn’t surprise or disgust me when I read about it, or even when I experienced it myself. After all, it’s easy to confuse love with sex and sex with love.

I’d devoured stories of brother-sister incest all of my life: Wuthering Heights, Ada, The God of Small Things, Game of Thrones. It wasn’t me who’d turned those stories into bestsellers and critically-acclaimed classics. The attraction I felt wasn’t a sign of deviance, but I didn’t plan to act on it.

* * *

Soon after I got back to New England from that first visit to Savannah, Johnny was arrested on a burglary charge. Confined in the local jail, he charmed the female relative of an employee into helping him escape. He was picked up again within days. A few months later, I traveled to Savannah again, this time with one of my courtroom outfits packed away.

I dressed up like a lawyer to visit my brother in jail, and brought the maximum number of boxes of Marlboros allowed. We sat in an open visitation area at one of fifty tables. We held hands, the only contact allowed. Rules meant to prevent revealing attire were enforced against female visitors. In spite of that, the women visiting their men turned up the heat with the arch of their spines, the curves of their lips. Their heat spread to me, and I caught myself looking down at my breasts, which swelled against the silk blouse I wore, and I felt the same heat from Johnny.

Psychologists will say we repeat our families’ pathologies because we try, as adults, to rebuild the patterns we know. I’d always been attracted to reckless men like my brothers, even though I didn’t grow up with men like that. Once I met my brothers, I decided my desire was simpler and deeper than trying to replicate a childhood pattern; it was blood calling to blood.illo_2 For the next few years, Johnny and I communicated through letters while he was locked up. I learned, partly through his letters from prison, and partly through what others told me, that he’d been institutionalized at seven years old and given shock treatments and anti-psychotic medications. He’d been sexually abused by staff at that institution, and later in juvenile offender facilities and foster homes, where he was called “hyperactive.”

By sixteen, he was living on the streets, and he’d survived by stealing and prostituting himself. “If the price was right,” he wrote in one of his letters, “but as I got older and wiser, I started just robbing them kind of people.” By the time he reached his twenties, he’d spent half of his life incarcerated.

Johnny’s prison terms and deep dives into heavy drug use kept him away from all but one of the series of beach-house reunions I staged in the first ten years after I found my family. I was fixated on having everyone under one roof at the same time, trying to recreate the family-that-would-have-been if my mother hadn’t given me up, and I was oblivious to reasons why that might not be a good idea.

That one he made it to was in the fifth year of my reunion with my family, after I’d left my first husband and sold my law practice, after I’d started teaching college classes. That year, I began drinking with my brothers, and drinking hard, as I had in my teenage years and early twenties.

My uncle’s redheaded wife was the person in our family who most often told it like it was. When Johnny was released, and it looked like he would make it to the fifth beach-house reunion, she took me aside to tell me to watch him around children, and to explain why her husband – my uncle – didn’t want to be around my brother. When their daughter was three years old, they’d left her in then fourteen-year-old Johnny’s care and had come home to him with his pants down, his penis in the little girl’s mouth, and him saying “Just suck on it like it’s a bottle.”

I wondered why my other brothers, or my sister, hadn’t told me Johnny had molested our cousin. Maybe they believed it wasn’t necessary because he was safely locked away so soon after I met him. Maybe they saw that I loved Johnny, and they knew love had been in short supply in his life. Maybe they wanted me to love him, and they were afraid I’d recoil in disgust. But I didn’t.

In that fifth year, in a crowded two-bedroom beach house on holding over a dozen people, where I was hell-bent on recreating the family dynamic I never had, I lay down on the Berber carpet in the room where four of my little nieces were sleeping in a bed. Johnny lay down a few feet away from me. He and I were the last ones up after a night of full-throttle drinking. Other than the time I visited him in jail, this was the first time we’d been together since my first trip to Savannah. I’d been watching him around the children, the youngest of whom at that time were four-year-old Brandon, who was sleeping on a couch with his mother, and six-year-old Candi, who was one of the little girls in the bed. I hadn’t seen anything amiss.

I punched a pillow down under my neck to make the floor more comfortable, and then I reached back and pulled Johnny to me. It was the familial love, the call of blood to blood, and it was sexual.

“Don’t do that, Michele,” he said. “Please, don’t do that.”

I stopped, realizing the wrongness of what I’d just done, and realizing I couldn’t get away with it. I’d just turned forty, and I was informed enough to know better. And then I passed out.

When I woke at dawn, Johnny was a few feet away from me on the floor, snoring heavily. The girls were all still asleep in the bed. Nothing had happened. But what if? And even drunk, how could I have made that move with the children sleeping in the room? In a life full of bad acts, that move is the act I’m most ashamed of, even though it didn’t go any further than a gesture, even though my brother, the convicted felon, stopped me cold and saved me from myself.

* * *

His final conviction was for armed robbery. By that time, I was of two minds about him being in prison: it was violent, dangerous and dehumanizing, but safer than the street, where there was nothing at all to protect him.

At forty, he was no longer young and strong enough to rebound from privations and beatings, no longer quick enough to evade the rage of people he stole from, and on his way to becoming the homeless man who creeps around the edges of a campfire, snatching at scraps, and getting kicked for it.illo_3

He was in prison in 2004 when my brother Rudy and his wife, who were addicts, signed the papers to give me guardianship of their daughter, my niece Candi. She’d just turned thirteen, and over Cherry Coke slushies, she told me Johnny had molested her, too, when she was about three years old. Her parents had gone out to score some drugs and had left him in charge of her and some other children. He brought her into a bedroom and started licking her private parts. He was an adult, not a confused fourteen-year-old kid. His assault on my little cousin wasn’t an isolated incident. I had to admit my brother had a predilection for molesting little girls.

I wrote to tell Johnny I knew what he’d done to Candi, that she was living with me, that I still loved him, and that the next time he got out, I’d try to see him on his own, away from the kids.

Current research leans toward the conclusion that pedophilia is hardwired, a sexual preference like heterosexuality or homosexuality that emerges in adolescence and is pretty much exclusive to men. But only about fifty percent of the men who molest children are actually pedophiles; the other fifty percent are men with histories of violence or personality disorders. Those men tend to molest family members. I wondered which category my brother fell into, and whether it mattered.

Candi is twenty-five now. I messaged her, told her what I was writing about, and asked, does it matter to her? She told me no, the why didn’t matter, but knowing Johnny was also abused helped her to let go of wondering why. And then she added: “Some of the worst things can become our biggest blessings. I’ve decided to heal and to not let that control me, so I don’t mind talking about it. I’m not hiding anymore.” I was reminded of my little cousin, who is now forty years old, and a conversation she and Candi had about Johnny, how my cousin said, “There can’t be any dark secrets if you don’t keep them in the dark.”

One dark afternoon, Candi and I went to the boardwalk near the pier at Jacksonville Beach to see the ocean after a hurricane. The air was still tropical, and the waves still curled like rows of fists, ready to pound the sand. The wind blew her long blond hair around her shoulders, and we both spread our arms wide to feel the uplift, to pretend we could rise up at any moment and fly.

She didn’t notice the man sitting next to the Coast Guard station, the dark man with wild hair and a wild beard and the ruddy look of someone who’d been outdoors and drunk for months. But I saw him. How could I not? He stared back at me with my own eyes. We held each other’s gaze for a few long moments. I tried to figure out a way to distract Candi so I could go over to Johnny and tell him I loved him. But the boardwalk was empty, and the shops were shuttered closed. I turned my face from his, and hustled Candi into the car with the promise of a stop for Chinese food. I looked back, and he was still staring at me. I did not reach out to him. My brother, who’d had so little love in his life, was not my heart. Candi was my heart.

Back at our apartment, the door closed behind us with a little push from the wind. Inside, the air was cool, the lights were bright, and the dining room table was waiting for us, clear except for a bowl of flowers we’d arranged together earlier that day.

The next day, after Candi left for school, I drove back down to the beach, parked my car, and wandered around where the homeless people hung out. Johnny was gone, like a mirage that disappears once you look away, or once you stop believing in it. I never saw him. I never saw him again.

That Time I Tried Topless House Cleaning

After years getting paid to bare my breasts at more clubs than I can count, when my funds hit an all-time low I pioneered a cleaner brand of sex work.

Topless Housecleaning + Lapdance
Gentlemen, do you need a good, clean tease after a hard day’s work? I’ll clean your house and give you a (1) lapdance
$100/hr – have your own cleaning supplies – no blocked numbers.

When I arrive at the house of the first viable person to respond to my Craigslist ad, I knock on the door and take a step back. He opens it right away. Jim or John, suddenly I can’t remember. He’s young to have such a nice mini-mansion with a swimming pool and younger than I normally like to deal with. I like his work jeans and dirty white t-shirt, though. They feel kind of homey.

I step in, a little flirty, but all-business to begin with. I get him to show me the whole house, which serves the double purpose of planning ahead for cleaning and making sure there’s no one else hiding, ready to pop out for a gang rape later. Just when the tour is complete my phone rings. It’s my security detail — Possum, the hillbilly witchdoctor I’ve befriended, following instructions to wait for me to clear the house and call to be sure everything’s okay.

“Hey,” I say. “It’s all good in here. Call me in like an hour.”

Ayep,” Possum replies in his drawl.

I turn to JimJohn and start to pull my shirt off, then stop. “Business before pleasure, babe,” I say, making the little money sign with my fingers.

“Oh, of course.” He pulls a hundred out of his pocket and presses it into my hand. I shove it down one of my stockings as I take my pants off, because I have always believed that the safest place for my money is right against my skin.

* * *

I’d had eighty dollars left to my name when I drove into Greenville, South Carolina. Half a tank of gas and two blueberry smoothies later, it dwindled to sixteen dollars folded together in the bottom of my pocket. For some people, this might have been a problem, but not for me. I have the magical ability to walk into a strip club just about anywhere there is one and make a few hundred bucks just because I’m willing to get naked and smile at people.

Sex work is my trust fund. When I’ve been broke down on the side of the road with no money, when I’ve been a homeless teenager, when I’ve wanted to buy a house, a car, an education — sex work has always been there for me. I’ve done almost all the sex work: everything from street hustling to dancing in bejeweled gowns to foot fetish parties and erotic hypnosis. Whenever I discover a new form of sex work — the weirder or more interesting the better — I try to experience it.

I’m staying, with my dog, Spot, in my van down by the river next to Possum, who lives in a van that’s much bigger and nicer than mine. Possum drew me a map showing how to get to the two strip clubs he knows of: a big one, and a little one. Big strip clubs sometimes have things like rules and schedules and lots of competition and high house fees, which I don’t like. I decided to try the small one first.

The small one turned out to be a brothel with very little business, where I met some very beautiful, very southern women, including a 300-pound dancer named Hamhock who I wish I could introduce to every teenager worrying about their weight ever.

I was too fat for the big one, or the door guy was having a bad day.

I started to feel a little panic. That’s when the idea of topless housecleaning came to me — purely formed, rising sweetly out of my desperation — so I put up a Craigslist ad and here I am at Jim or John or whatever his name is’ house.

* * *

I do the kitchen first, like my friend Tania who actually grew up in a mansion and knows how to clean explained to me last night on the phone. I keep up a steady stream of flirting while I put his dishes in the dishwasher and move everything on the counter to one end so I can clean it. While I’m stacking his mail neatly I check out his name. Jim. The counter is dirty, covered in stains and puddles of dried-up food and glue and who knows what else. Scrubbing while bending over a counter in six-inch heels, back arched so that your ass sticks up pretty, is hard work. Especially while flirting the whole time with a man you hope is staring at your ass and not your sweaty face.

He asks about me, how I came to be a topless housecleaner. I don’t tell him that he’s my first, or that I’m broke, or that I live in a van. If you watch television you know what happens to broke homeless women: They give $20 blow jobs, not $100 counter scrubbings. Instead I make up a prissy story about finishing my Master’s degree and taking a year to drive around the country in an R.V. dancing. Of course I tried dancing here, I explain, but the clubs are just so dirty, and I’m way too classy to expose myself to such an environment. The crazy thing I’ve discovered is that the snobbier you seem, the more they will pay you.

Jim is amazingly empathetic about the nastiness of the local clubs. A classy woman like me obviously doesn’t belong in places like those. He follows me from kitchen to bathroom to bedroom to living room, staring while I wipe, mop, scrub and vacuum, all while trying to look like I’m not sweaty from doing this work in humid 90-degree weather. His story is interesting. All his time goes to his race-car business, which is like a dream, but lots of hard work. He bought this house two years ago, but hasn’t had the time or taste to furnish it yet, though he does find the time to indulge in the tradition of illicit hooch brewing down in the basement. Steely grey eyes and his young tough look contrast with his docile nature as he tamely follows me around his house. I’m beginning to think all men in the South must be gentlemen.

When I’m done cleaning I settle him on his couch, set my iPod to Depeche Mode, and tell him that he gets one free lap dance with his housecleaning and after that they are twenty dollars, just like in the club. He opens his wallet and peels off another hundred, right away, and tells me to just dance until that runs out.

“No touching,” I remind him as the song starts and I move in front of him. Soon I’m crawling all over him, undulating, brushing my ass across his hard penis through his jeans. He is begging me to let him touch me, and I’m reminding him that I’m not that kind of girl, although I make sure to sound a little confused.

“Come on,” he says, getting his wallet out. “What about for another hundred?”

I pretend to think hard, then: “Okay.” I take his hands and guide them over my body. “You can touch here — my ass, my thighs, my stomach, but no titties or pussy.”

“Two hundred?” he pulls two crisp $100 bills out of his wallet.

It’s not really a question for me. I’ve given this much contact for thirty dollars a song. I pretend to think long and hard, though. If I let on that I have no principles, I can’t pretend to sell them.

“Okay,” I finally say, pushing the bills down my stockings, “but keep your hands off the kitty! That is not for sale!”

He has gentle, well-practiced hands that he swirls around my nipples and brushes softly over my ass. I arch my back and gasp in pretend ecstasy. Soon he wants more again — a hand job, a hundred dollars.

I insist that I’m not that kind of dancer while I consider this through to its logical conclusion. A couple hundred more for a hand job, a couple hundred more for a blow job, a lot more for sex. It could be a grand, easily. But do I want to have sex with this guy? The thing is, I’m a lesbian. The other thing is, sometimes I think I could be bisexual, and every year or two I have a man sex experiment. I can get into men, and right now on this guy’s lap, I’m turned on.

My phone rings again. It’s Possum. “It’s been an hour,” he says, “are you okay in there?”

“Yeah,” I giggle, “I’m having a great time. I’ll be just another fifteen minutes or so.”

Awright.” He hangs up.

“Will you touch it?” Jim asks.

Do I look like that kind of girl? I’m a very classy stripper, I remind him.

“Oh, of course, of course. I’m sorry,” he says. “I hope you’re not offended.”

“No…” I cock my head. “Actually… I’ve always kind of wondered what it would be like to do something like that for money.”

“Well, here’s your chance to find out.”

“Hmm…I dunno. I couldn’t. Well…how much?”

“A hundred?”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t.”

“Two hundred?” He’s got his wallet out, two crisp hundreds in his hand.

“Okay.” I grab them and shove them into my stocking. In my mind I’m counting and calculating miles. This makes 600, or is it 800? That’s, like, 5,000 miles of gas money! Or 2,000 miles and a month or two of groceries and stuff while I explore desert canyons and sky islands. What more could a girl need?

I slide down between his legs and he unzips his jeans eagerly. It is small, with a nice curve and for a second I love it and want to fuck him. Smiling, I bring my face close, admiring it like I’m about to lick it. He gasps and wiggles a little, and I take his cock in my hand. It’s already throbbing, and I just run my hand up it lightly, swirl some of the pre-cum back down it, run my fingers over the whole thing. He moans and half thrusts his hips. I love this. When I finally grab his cock, two-handed, and give it a couple strong, twisting strokes, he explodes right away. Perfect.

“Oh my god,” he says.

I giggle. “No, goddess.”

“Oh my goddess.” He smiles.

“Stay right there, I’m going to get you a washcloth.” I run to the bathroom.

While he cleans up, I pull my jeans and tank top back on over my fishnets and thong. I’m ecstatic and high from the rush of going from six dollars to 800 dollars in an hour with my hustling skills, but I know I won’t have really pulled it off until I’m in the van, driving away. I make myself look totally calm while I throw my iPod and cleaning stuff in the bag I came with, give him a goodbye hug, and tell him he should really call me again to clean the rest of the house.

I don’t start laughing until I’m in the van and Possum is driving us away. Then I fold over in my seat, laughing and clapping my hands with excitement.

“Possum,” I exclaim, “I love having a vagina!

Leaning back, I push my hips up to pull my jeans down and start fishing the hundreds out of my fishnets.

Possum looks over at me with my legs up on the bed, pulling eight $100 bills out of my thigh highs. “Holy shit,” he says, “I do believe I wish I had a vagina too.”

Checking “topless housecleaning” off my to-try list of sex-work gigs makes me enough money to get back on the road. The next day Spot and I get in the van and drive across the country until I find a beautiful desert-sky island in northern Arizona. I stay for a couple weeks, playing in a creek and tracking coyote, before I get low on money again and start over.

* * *

Tara Burns is the author of the Whore Diaries series. She lives in a little cabin in a big boreal forest and she is working on a memoir. Follow her @THEecowhore

The Day My Therapist Dared Me to Have Sex With Her

My analyst and I grew more intimately connected each week of treatment...but I never saw this indecent proposal coming.

It’s the waning moments of my fourth session with a new therapist. I’m holding back — and she knows it. My entire body feels tense, not ideal for the setting. I try to relax, but the plush leather couch crumples under me when I shift, making the movements extraordinary. I’ve barely looked into my therapist’s blue eyes at all, and yet I think the hour has gone very well. Of course it has. On the surface, when the patient has been highly selective of the discussion topics, therapy always resembles a friendly get-together.

“Well,” my therapist, Lori, says, the millisecond after I become certain our time is up and I might be in the clear. “I don’t think I should let you go until we’ve at least touched on what was put out there at the end of last week’s session.”

I so supremely wanted this not to come up. My eyelids tighten, my mouth puckers to the left, and my head tilts, as though I’m asking her to clarify.

“When you said you’re attracted to me,” she continues.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That.”

Back in session three Lori was trying to build my self-esteem, the lack of which is one of the reasons I’m in treatment. Within the confines of my family, I’ve always been the biggest target of ridicule. We all throw verbal darts around as though we’re engaged in a massive, drunken tournament at a bar, but the most poisonous ones seem to hit me the most often, admittedly somewhat a consequence of my own sensitivity. I’ve been told it was historically all part of an effort to toughen me up, but instead I was filled with towering doubts about my own worth. And since 2012, when I gave up a stable, tenured teaching career for the wildly inconsistent life of a freelance writer, I’ve had great difficulty trusting my own instincts and capabilities. I told Lori that I wish I was better at dealing with life’s daily struggles instead of constantly wondering if I’ll be able to wade through the thick.

She quickly and convincingly pointed out that I work rather hard and am, ultimately, paying my bills on time, that I have friends, an appreciation for arts and culture, and so on. In short, I am, in fact, strong, responsible and “pretty good at life.”

Then Lori heightened the discussion a bit. “I also feel that it is your sensitivity that makes you a great catch out there in the dating world,” she said, to which I involuntarily smiled, blushed and quickly buried my chin in my chest. I was too insecure and too single to handle such a compliment from a beautiful woman.

“Why are you reacting that way?” Lori asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, only half looking up.

“Is it because you’re attracted to me?”

I laughed a little, uncomfortably. “How did you know?”

She gently explained she could tell the day I walked into her office for the first time, after I flashed a bright smile and casually asked where she was from.

Now, a week after dropping that bomb, Lori asks, “So, why haven’t we talked about it?”

“I was hoping to avoid it, I suppose.” I tell her the whole notion of having the hots for a therapist is such a sizable cliché that I was embarrassed to admit it. “For Christ’s sake,” I say, throwing my hands up, “Tony Soprano even fell in love with his therapist.”

Lori snorts, rolls her eyes. “I knew you were going to say that.”

I smile, shake my head and look around the room, denying acceptance of my own ridiculous reality.

“It’s OK,” Lori says, grinning. “We can talk about this in here.”

I look again at her stark blue eyes, prevalent under dark brown bangs, the rest of her hair reaching the top of her chest, which is hugged nicely by a fitted white tee under an open button-down. She jogs often, I’d come to find out, which explains her petite figure and ability to probably pull off just about any outfit of her choosing.

I still can’t speak, so she takes over.

“Do you think you’re the first client that’s been attracted to their therapist?” she asks rhetorically. “I’ve had other clients openly discuss their feelings, even their sexual fantasies involving me.”

“What?” I cackle, beginning to feel as though I’ve moseyed onto the set of a porno.

“It’s true,” she says, acknowledging her desk. “What’s yours? Do you bend me over and take me from behind?”

Nailed it.

“If that’s what you’re thinking, it’s OK,” she goes on, earnestly, explaining that she’s discussed sexual scenarios with her clients before so as to “normalize” the behavior and not have them feel their own thoughts are unnatural. By showing the patient a level of acceptance, she hopes to facilitate a more comfortable atmosphere for “the work” — her painfully accurate pseudonym for psychotherapy.

I take a second to let the red flow out of my face, and ponder what she said. I’m a little unsure about this whole technique, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. So I go home, incredibly turned on and completely unashamed.

* * *

One of the great breakthroughs I’ve had in the thirteen months since I began seeing Lori (who agreed to participate in this article, but requested that her full name not be published) is a new ability to accept the existence of dualities in life. For instance, I’ve always had a tremendous sense of pride that, if it doesn’t straddle the line of arrogance, certainly dives into that hemisphere from time to time. I’m great at seeing flaws in others and propping myself up above them by smugly observing my character strengths. I’ve never liked that about myself, but the harder concept to grasp is the fact that I can be so egotistical while also stricken with such vast quantities of insecurity.

In treatment I came to realize that all people have contradictions to their personalities. There’s the insanely smart guy who can’t remotely begin to navigate a common social situation, the charitable girl who devotes all her time to helping strangers, but won’t confront issues in her own personal relationships. In my case, my extreme sensitivity can make me feel fabulous about the aspects of myself that I somehow know are good (my artistic tastes) and cause deep hatred of those traits I happen to loathe (the thirty pounds I could stand to lose).

My next session with Lori is productive. We speak about relationships I’ve formed with friends and lovers, and how my family may have informed those interactions. One constant is that I put crudely high expectations on others, mirroring those thrown upon me as a kid. I’m angered when people don’t meet those expectations, and absolutely devastated when I don’t reach them. Lori points out that it must be “exhausting trying to be so perfect all the time.” I am much more comfortable than I was the week prior, and can feel myself being more candid. I’m relieved that the whole being-attracted-to-my-therapist thing doesn’t come up.

Then, a week later, Lori mentions it, and I become tense again.

“I thought I’d be able to move past it,” I say, adding, “We aired it out, and it’s fine.”

As definitive as I’m trying to sound, Lori is just as defiant.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” she begins, “but I think you owe yourself some kudos. This kind of therapy,” she shares, “isn’t something just anyone can take on.” Such honest discussion doesn’t simply happen, it takes tremendous guts, and Lori can see that I am dealing with it relatively well, so I should praise my own efforts.

“Shit, we both should be proud of ourselves,” she says. “It’s not easy on the therapist either, you know.”

“Why not?”

“Because talking openly about sex is risky at any time, much less with a client.” She explains that therapists are warned any semblance of intimacy can be easily misconstrued. “We learn in our training to not personally disclose, for example,” she says, but adds that, occasionally, transparency can be helpful.

“Still, with you,” she continues, “until I raised the question, I didn’t know for sure that you would go with it; for all I knew you’d run out of here and never come back to risk being so uncomfortable again.”

She’s building my confidence more, and I’m learning that I play a much bigger role in how my life is conducted than I often realize. My treatment wouldn’t be happening if I weren’t enabling it.

Then she says, “And don’t think it’s not nice for me to hear that a guy like you thinks I’m beautiful.”

Crippled by the eroticism of the moment, and combined with the prevailing notion that no woman this stunning could ever be romantically interested in me, I flounder through words that resemble, “Wait…what?”

“If we were somehow at a bar together, and you came over and talked to me,” she says, then flips her palms up innocently, “who knows?”

I laugh again and tell her there’d be almost no chance of me approaching her because I’d never feel like I had a shot in hell.

“Well, that’s not the circumstances we’re in,” she says. “But you might. Who knows?”

I’m confused — Is she really attracted to me or is this some psychotherapeutic ruse? I’m frustrated — I told her I didn’t really want to talk about it. Shouldn’t she be more sensitive to my wants here? I’m angry — Is she getting an ego boost out of this? Most of all, I don’t know what the next step is — Am I about to experience the hottest thing that’s ever happened to a straight male since the vagina was invented?

There were two ways to find out:

1) Discontinue the therapy, wait for her outside her office every day, follow her to a hypothetical happy hour and ask her out, or

2) Keep going to therapy.

* * *

A week later, I’m physically in the meeting room with Lori, but mentally I haven’t left the recesses of my mind.

“Where are you today?” she asks, probably noticing my eyes roving around the room.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you still grappling with the sexual tension between us?”

Here we go again.

“Yes,” I say, with a bit of an edge in my voice, “and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Lori, ever intently, peers into my eyes, wrinkles her mouth and slightly shakes her head.

“Do you want to have sex with me?” she asks.

We both know the answer to that question. All I can do is stare back.

“Let’s have sex,” she announces. “Right here, right now.”

“What?” I respond, flustered.

“Let’s go!” she says a little louder, opening up her arms and looking around as if to say the office is now our playground, and, oh, the rollicking fun we’d have mixing bodily fluids.

“No,” I tell her, “You don’t mean that.”

“What if I do?” she shoots back. “Would you have sex with me, now, in this office?”

“Of course not.”

“Why ‘of course not’? How do I know for sure that you won’t take me if I offer myself to you?”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s what I thought,” she says, and tension in the room decomposes. “Mike, I don’t feel that you would do something that you think is truly not in our best interest, which is exactly why I just gave you the choice.”

Her offer was a lesson in empowerment, helping me prove that I have an innate ability to make the right choices, even if I’d so desperately prefer to make the wrong one.

I see what she means. I’m awfully proud of myself, and it’s OK to be in this instance. I’m gaining trust in myself, and confidence to boot. But, as the dualities of life dictate, I’m successfully doing “the work” with a daring therapist, while at the same time not entirely convinced she isn’t in need of an ethical scrubbing.

* * *

I don’t have another session with Lori for nearly three months, because she took a personal leave from her place of employment. When our sessions finally resumed, I could not wait to tell her about my budding relationship with Shauna.

Ten minutes into my first date with Shauna — right about the time she got up from her bar stool and said she was “going to the can” — I knew she would, at the very least, be someone I was going to invest significant time in. She was as easy to talk to as any girl I’d ever been with, and I found myself at ease. Plans happened magically without anxiety-inducing, twenty-four-hour waits between texts. Her quick wit kept me entertained, and I could tell by the way she so seriously spoke about dancing, her chosen profession, that she is passionate about the art form and mighty talented too. Shauna is beautiful, with flawless hazel eyes and straight dark hair, spunky bangs and a bob that matches her always-upbeat character. She is a snazzy dresser and enjoys a glass of whiskey with a side of fried pickles and good conversation as much as I do.

Things escalated quickly, but very comfortably, and since we’d both been in our fair share of relationships, we knew the true power of honesty and openness. So upon the precipice of my return to therapy I told Shauna about Lori, and admitted to having mixed feelings about what I was getting back into. I told her I was at least moderately uncertain if my mental health was Lori’s number-one concern since she always seemed to find the time to mention my attraction to her.

The first two sessions of my therapeutic reboot had gone great. Lori appeared genuinely thrilled that I was dating Shauna and could see how happy I was. I wasn’t overwhelmed with sexual tension in the new meeting room, though it wasn’t actually spoken about, and in the back of my mind I knew it was just a matter of time before it would start to affect my ability to disclose my thoughts to Lori again.

Then, while attempting to ingratiate myself with my new girlfriend’s cat by spooning food onto his tiny dish on the kitchen floor, I hear my phone ding from inside the living room.

“You got a text, babe,” Shauna says. “It’s from Lori.”

“‘I’m so impressed with you and the work you’re doing…’” Shauna reads off my phone from inside the living room, inquisitively, and not happily. I stuff the cat food back into the Tupperware and toss it into the refrigerator. I make my way into the living room, angry at myself for not changing the settings on my new iPhone to disallow text previews on the locked screen. Shauna’s walking too, and we meet near the kitchen door. “What’s this?” she says, holding up the phone. “Your therapist texts you?”

I take the phone from Shauna and say the most obvious, cliché-sounding thing: “It’s not what it seems.”

As I text back a curt “thanks,” Shauna tells me she’s going to ask her sister, a therapist herself, if it’s OK to text patients.

“Don’t do that.” I say, a little more emphatically. “I promise, this is nothing to be worried about. We’re not doing anything wrong.” I explain that Lori’s just trying to build my self-esteem.

“The only reason I’m even bringing this up is because you said you weren’t sure about her in the first place,” Shauna reminds me. I can tell she regrets looking at my phone without my permission, but I completely understand her feelings.

At my next session I tell Lori that Shauna saw her text and wasn’t thrilled about it.

“She probably feels cheated on to some degree,” Lori says. “A relationship between a therapist and a patient can oftentimes seem much more intimate than the one between a romantic couple.”

Lori goes on to point out that the reason she feels we can exchange texts, blurring the lines between patient/doctor boundaries — a hot topic in the psychotherapy world these days — is because she trusts that I’ll respect her space and privacy. “You’ve proven that much to me,” she says.

On my walk home, instead of being angry at Lori, I understand her thinking behind the text. But I’m also nervous about how Lori and Shauna can ever coexist in my life.

Isn’t therapy supposed to ameliorate my anxiety?

* * *

A week later, Lori begins our session by handing me a printout explaining the psychotherapeutic term “erotic transference” written by Raymond Lloyd Richmond, PhD. It says that erotic transference is the patient’s sense that love is being exchanged between him or herself and the therapist — the exact sensation I was experiencing with Lori, of which she was astutely aware.

According to Richmond, one of the primary reasons people seek therapy is because “something was lacking in their childhood family life,” perhaps “unconditional nurturing guidance and protection.” Upon feeling “noticed” and “understood” by a qualified therapist, sometimes a patient can be “intoxicated” by their therapist’s approval of them. A patient may in turn contemplate that a love is blossoming between them, and, in fact, it sort of is.

From an ethical standpoint, Richmond argues all therapists are “bound” to love their patients, for therapists are committed to willing “the good of all clients by ensuring that all actions within psychotherapy serve the client’s need to overcome the symptoms” which brought them into treatment. This takes genuine care and acceptance on their part. However, a patient can easily confuse the love they feel with simple “desire.” They’re not quite in love with their therapist, so much as they yearn for acceptance from someone, and in those sessions they just happen to be receiving it from their doctor.

Lori tells me that, all along, she has been “working with what I gave her” and that because I flirted with her a bit, she used that to her advantage in the treatment. In employing countertransference — indicating that she had feelings for me — she was keeping me from feeling rejected and despising my own thoughts and urges.

“There’s two people alone in a room together, and if they’re two attractive people, why wouldn’t they be attracted to each other?” says Dr. Galit Atlas. A psychoanalyst who’s had her own private practice for fifteen years, Dr. Atlas has an upcoming book titled The Enigma of Desire: Sex, Longing and Belonging in Psychoanalysis, and I sought her as an independent source for this essay to help me understand Lori’s therapeutic strategies.

Dr. Atlas explains that there are certain boundaries that cannot be crossed between therapist and patient under any circumstances — like having sex with them, obviously. But many other relationship borders can be mapped out depending on the comfort level of the therapist, as long as they stay within the scope of the profession’s ethics, which complicates the discussion surrounding erotic transference.

“As a therapist, I have a role,” Dr. Atlas says. “My role is to protect you.” She says it is incumbent on the therapist to not exploit the patient for the therapist’s own good, but admits that the presence of erotic transference in therapy brings about many challenges. “[Attraction] is part of the human condition,” she observes. In therapy, “the question then is: What do you do with that? Do you deny it? Do you talk about it? How do you talk about it without seducing the patient and with keeping your professional ability to think and to reflect?”

I ask her about the benefits of exploring intimacy in therapy, and Dr. Atlas quickly points out that emotional intimacy — though not necessarily that of the sexual brand — is almost inevitable and required. “An intimate relationship with a therapist can [be] a reparative experience — repairing childhood wounds — but mostly it’s about helping the patient to experience and tolerate emotional intimacy, analyzing the client’s anxieties about being vulnerable and every mechanism one uses in order to avoid being exposed.”

Dr. Atlas says this topic speaks to every facet of the therapeutic relationship, regardless of gender or even sexual orientation, because intimacy reveals emotional baggage that both the patient and therapist carry with them into the session. But this isn’t a symmetrical relationship, and the therapist is the one who holds the responsibility.

“Freud said that a healthy person should be able to work and to love,” she says. “In some ways therapy practices both, and in order to change the patient will have to be known by the therapist. That is intimacy. In order to be able to be vulnerable, both parties have to feel safe.”

After I briefly explain all that has gone on between me and Lori, Dr. Atlas steadfastly says she does not want to judge too harshly why and how everything came to pass in my therapy. “I don’t know your therapist, and I don’t know your history,” she says. But she offers that I should “explore the possibility” that I might have created and admitted my sexual adoration of Lori because one of my fears is to be ignored, not noticed.

Then I offer: “Maybe this essay is being written for the same reason.”

“Exactly.”

Maybe I wanted to interview Lori about erotic transference in my therapy sessions for that same reason as well…to stand out as the most amazingly understanding patient ever.

* * *

“I want to be very clear that this was never about feeding my own ego,” Lori says about her approach to my treatment. “We were always doing this in your best interest.”

I’m in Lori’s office, a tape recorder rolling and a pad and pen in my hands.

“I felt I was doing a disservice to you if I didn’t ‘out’ what I felt was weighing on us, which, honestly, felt like a heavy secret,” she says, pointing out that she discussed my therapeutic process for many hours in her required supervision meetings.

In order for Lori to advance in her field as a social worker, she has to attend 3,000 conference hours with another professional to go over casework — kind of like therapy quality control.

We talk about all of this during one of my scheduled sessions, for the entire hour — and go over by a few minutes, too.

Lori says that when she began her career as a social worker, she decided she wasn’t going to shy away from any subjects. “It’s typical for a client to [have] a habitual desire to sweep things under the rug,” she observes, especially about taboo topics. It can become a cycle of behavior that Lori seeks to break.

I refer back to the time when, unprovoked, she brought up my attraction to her.

She says she mentioned it to avoid what therapists call “door-knobbing,” which is when a patient will purposely mention some huge reveal right at the end of a session so as to sidestep a lengthy conversation about it.

“My only question for you is, was I wrong for bringing it up?” she asks. “Only you can answer that.”

Lori’s great at forcing me to reflect.

“I guess when I said I was over it and could move on, that was an example of my strict black-and-white thinking,” I say, throwing back some language she’s used often to describe my challenge in accepting dualities. In my mind, I was either attracted to her and shouldn’t see her anymore, or I wasn’t attracted to her and could still have her be my therapist. There was no in between.

I realize now that she wasn’t wrong for mentioning my feelings for her, even when I didn’t want her to. Lori noticed that I was frustrated with myself and wanted me to know that an attraction to a therapist is so normal and happens so frequently that there are technical terms for it.

I turn my attention towards the presence of countertransference in our session. I’m trying to come up with an actual question here, but, really, I just want her to confirm her feelings for me are real. So I say, referring to her feelings, with a great degree of difficulty, “It’s funny that they seem genuine to this day.”

“They are genuine,” Lori says, adding a moment later: “I think it might be a good idea if we explore why our discussing it suggests a lack of authenticity.”

“It doesn’t, necessarily,” I begin, then stammer through a few sentences, worried I might offend her by implying she’s been dishonest. I finally settle on, “I guess it comes back to my self-esteem issues. Why would a beautiful woman think I’m attractive?”

Lying in bed with Shauna a few months into our relationship, I ask her what she thought about me the moment she first saw me. I’m fishing for a compliment. But we met on Tinder and I just hope that seeing me in person wasn’t some kind of letdown for her after swiping right on my hand-picked glamour shots. Obviously she isn’t going to say something so awful after having committed to me for so long. It’s a slam-dunk ego boost.

She says she liked the fact that I was wearing a blazer and a tie on a first date. She adds that I was a little shorter than she anticipated, but was content with the two of us at least being the same exact height.

“What did you think when you first saw me?” she asks, turning it around, naturally.

Staying committed to my honesty-at-all-costs policy, I say, “I thought you were really beautiful, but not to the point where I was intimidated by you, which was very important because if I was, you would have gotten a very unconfident version of me, and we probably wouldn’t have hit it off as well as we did.”

Shauna thinks about that for a second, and eventually nods “OK.”

I explain that my insecurity could often get the better of me in dating situations. It was easy to convince myself that I’d be rejected by the girl I was with, especially if I thought she was out of my league. I would then slip into a nervous and reserved state that isn’t at all reflective of my true self.

I’m essentially saying that I was so thrilled to not find Shauna so extraordinarily pretty that I couldn’t accept her being on a date with me. That thought made so much sense at the time I said it, but I’ve since come to realize it is as ridiculous as it is insulting. After ten months of being with Shauna, I’m still completely floored by her, on every level, including a physical one. It gives me great pride to walk into a room with her, and I don’t imagine that changing. Therefore, she actually did meet a confident “version of me.” The way people look doesn’t drastically change in ten months but a person’s perception of self can. It seems my emotional workouts in erotic transference were just beginning to produce results.

* * *

“People fuck up,” Lori informs me during one winter session. “Therapists have slept with clients before, just like politicians have had sex with their interns. But, so you have a full understanding of how this works, we can date.” She explains the parameters as outlined in the social worker’s code of ethics. One of the many stipulations is that we wouldn’t be able to see each other, under any circumstances, for at least two years before dating. She tells me she loves her job, and there’s no way she would ever sacrifice my safety or her career for anything, so she would strictly follow all the dictated rules. “If you truly want to date me, there is the option. But it’s ultimately up to you.”

I know what she’s doing here — putting the onus on me, just like last year when she said we could have sex. The difference this time is the answer I want to give is on par with all of my involuntary urges.

“I don’t want to stop the work we’re doing,” I say. “At this point, it’s far too valuable to me, and, really, I know very little about you.” She’s beautiful, exercises, is smart, funny, professional, enjoys good TV…and that’s about it. Aside from whether or not we’d even both be single in two years, and if we’d be in the correct mind frame to explore a relationship, there are several other things I’m considering here: Would Lori and I really be compatible in every way? Would she ever see me as a lover, a partner, an equal, and not a patient? Could I ever reveal a detail about myself, or even just a shitty day of work, without wondering if she was picking it apart and analyzing it?

Frankly, all those questions could be answered in the positive. But, even if I wasn’t in a happy relationship — Shauna makes this choice much easier, for sure — I wouldn’t go that route. I’d be out a therapist.

* * *

It’s a beautiful spring night in New York and only sidewalk seating will do. Shauna and I are out to dinner at a restaurant near her Queens apartment, and we’re both in good spirits. The weather and the alcohol consumption are partly to blame for that, but, on cue with the season’s change, I feel I’ve turned an emotional corner. Work payments that were past due are finally finding their way into my bank account. As it turns out, my short-term money troubles were not an indication that I had no business being a writer, or that my life changeup was as irresponsible as unprotected sex at fourteen years old.

I’d told Lori as much that afternoon. I took a mental step back from my current situation and realized that in spite of my recent hardships, I was succeeding. I summarize my session for Shauna, who nods in agreement, lovingly pointing out that she’s had the same challenging freelancer experiences as a dancer.

“You’re doing great, babe,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Thank you. That means a lot,” I respond. “I guess if I’m going to be a writer I just have to accept all this and have faith in myself. The way Lori put it was, ‘You just have to go all-in.’”

“Good,” Shauna says. “You should listen to the women in your life.”

* * *

Liked this story? Our editors did too, voting it one of our 20 best untold tales!

See the complete list of Editors’ Picks here. 

* *

Michael Stahl is a freelance writer, journalist and editor living in Astoria, New York. He serves as a Narratively features editor as well. Follow him on Twitter @MichaelRStahl.

Casey Roonan is a cartoonist and cat person from Connecticut. Follow Casey on Instagram: @caseyroonan

I’m Married. I’m a Woman. I’m Addicted to Porn.

Countless couples have tackled the taboo subject of racy videos and illicit orgasms. What happens when it’s the woman who can’t stop watching?

This story features explicit situations that may not be suitable for all audiences.

It’s past two a.m. and my husband’s breathing has become long and even. An opportunity presents itself. I slip my right hand down my pajama pants and move slowly, careful not to bump my elbow into his side rib, or bring my hips into it. Too much movement or sound will wake him, and to be found out for something like this is not just embarrassing but potentially destructive. He’ll think he doesn’t satisfy me, and men do not like feeling inadequate, especially when it comes to matters of the bedroom. Or maybe he’ll feel sorry for me. And who wants to fuck someone they pity?

Even worse, maybe he’ll finally say the words I’ve been waiting for him to say since I first told him that I am a sex addict. That he’s bored with it. He’s disgusted. He’s had enough.

I lift my wrist away from my body. I’m careful to keep my breath from becoming a pant, even as my pulse quickens, but this takes much concentration. The body desires the convulsion the mind denies. There is no letting go here though. This orgasm is a controlled, measured, calculated experience.

I have masturbated in this way next to the sleeping bodies of all my serious, committed partners who came before my husband. In some cases, as expected, it was because I wanted more sex than they could give me. I’ve been called “insatiable” and “demanding” one too many times. But this has not always been the story. Yes, I have an incredibly high sex drive, but even in relationships where I have great sex multiple times a week my nighttime stealth for self-pleasure has persisted.

My college boyfriend, burgundy haired and tattooed, had the high sex drive typical of most nineteen-year-old males. We fucked all the time, but even still, I wanted more, something only I could give me. One afternoon, after he’d fallen into a deep post-sex slumber, I serviced myself with my second, third, and fourth orgasm beside him. That was the first time I’d experienced such a level of both secrecy and shame.

I made a promise to my husband and to myself, long before we were even wed, to be austerely honest. He knows I’ve been a compulsive masturbator since I was twelve years old. He knows about my extensive fluency in the hardcore categories of various porn sites. He knows about the bad habit I used to have of hooking up with not-so-nice men because they were available and I was bored — and that I rarely used protection with any of them. And that I believed, for a really long time, that my addiction made me a broken person, a disgusting person, a person unworthy of love. I told him these things from the start because I met him at a time in my life where I was ready and open for change. Because I liked him so much that I wanted to love him. Because I knew that the only way to love him, and be loved by him, was to be myself.

* * *

“What’s your favorite porn scene?”

The man who will become my husband in less than a year asks me this question as he lies naked and vulnerable beside me. We’ve just had sex and although I am naked too, it isn’t until this moment that I feel just as vulnerable as him. While it might seem absurd to some, I know immediately this is a moment of great significance for us. It is an opportunity to finally do things differently.

The possibilities run through my head.

I can describe something vanilla: This one where a busty blonde gets banged by her personal trainer. Or perhaps something a little more racy: These two hot teens swap their math teacher’s cum after he made them stay late in the classroom. Chances are he’ll get hard again and we’ll end up abandoning the conversation for a second round. These are harmless answers. Expected answers.

They’re also lies.

The possibility of revealing the actual truth not only makes me nervous, but also physically sick. I feel a constriction in the back of my throat, a flutter in my belly, a tremble in my extremities. After all, we’ve only been dating a couple of months and he doesn’t love me yet. If I tell him, will he ever?

“Why do you ask?” I reach for the sheet, damp with sweat, a tangle of 300-thread-count cotton across our limbs, and yank it up to cover my breasts.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Curiosity?” He turns over on his side and props his head up on his left hand. His green eyes are wide with wonder.

“Seems like a weird question.” I tuck the sheet into my armpits and scoot my body a little to the left so we’re no longer touching. The tone of my voice has become defensive and he can tell.

“It’s just that I usually pick the porn,” he explains. “Do you like what I choose?”

I see what he’s doing. He’s trying to be considerate since we just had sex while staring at the laptop screen after searching terms of his choosing: Latina, real tits, blow job, threesome.

Maybe he feels guilty for getting off to them instead of me, even though I’m the one who suggested we watch porn in the first place. Even though I’m always the one who suggests we watch porn while we have sex.

“Yeah, sure.” I look up at the ceiling. “They’re fine.”

“Are you sure?”

I wish he’d stop prying, but I realize something else is happening here. Not only is he trying to be considerate; he’s also trying to get to know me. The past couple of months has allowed us to cover most of the basics — what ended each of our most recent relationships, what our parents are like, what we hope to do with our lives in the next few years — but there’s still a longing for something deeper, and I can’t think of anything deeper than knowing a person’s favorite porn scene.

It can speak volumes. For one scene to stand out amongst the rest, when so many others are available, there has to be something below the surface. What maintains its appeal? What keeps a person returning in the deep, dark recesses of a lonely night? Perhaps the answers to these questions are a great source of shame. I never thought of revealing such answers to anybody, and especially not somebody like him, somebody I could really like. It seems far too risky, preposterous even.

It also seems necessary. Too many of my past relationships were doomed by my inability to tell the whole truth, to fully be myself. Now I have the opportunity to go there, and to say to a person, “This is who I am. Do you accept me?”

“Well, there’s this one gang bang,” I start, looking over at his face to see a reaction of surprise and interest register at once.

“Go on.”

I take a deep breath and proceed to tell him, first slowly, then progressively faster about the scene. Like a busted dam, I can hardly hold back the rush of descriptors fumbling from my mouth: “Two women in a warehouse. One dangling from a harness. The other just below her. Both are waiting to take on fifty horny men…” and on and on.

I watch his face the whole time, not pausing when his smile becomes a frown and his eyes squint as if it hurts to look at me.

“Afterward, the women exit the warehouse through a back door while the men applaud.”

For a long moment after I’ve finished talking, there is silence between us, but there is also a sense of relief on my part. I have revealed something so dark, so upsetting, so impacted in shame, and he hasn’t immediately disappeared. He is still here beside me, propped up on his left hand, naked and vulnerable, and so am I. He sees me and I see him seeing me and we are in new territory.

But then he says, “I kind of wish I hadn’t asked.” It’s all I need to hear to send me into tears. Not just tiny, embarrassed sobs, but humiliated wails. I have myself a tantrum. He is confused now as he pulls me close to him, laughing nervously at my abrupt shift in disposition. I try to pull the sheet completely over my head, but he pulls it back down and covers my face with apologetic kisses. He can’t possibly understand why I’m crying. He can’t possibly know what I’ve just revealed to him. “What’s going on? Baby, what’s wrong?”

And so I tell him.

* * *

Addiction to porn and masturbation is often grouped under general sex addiction because they all have to do with escape via titillation, pursuit and orgasm, but I’ve always felt more pathetic about my predilections. Going out and fucking — even someone you don’t really like — is wild, dangerous, but essentially social and shared. Though I had periods of promiscuity throughout my twenties, my biggest issue has always been with what I do alone.

There’s something so sad and humiliating in imagining a person locked away in a dark room, hot laptop balanced on chest, turning the volume down low, scrolling, scrolling, choosing, watching, escaping, coming.

And then realizing that person is me.

But my proclivity for solo pleasure has strong, stubborn roots. I lost my virginity to a water faucet when I was twelve years old. I have Adam Corolla and Dr. Drew to thank for this life-shaking experience; it was their late-night radio show “Loveline” on L.A.’s KROQ that served as my primary means of sex ed during my pre-teen years. This technique is one of the many things I learned, but I had a whole other kind of education going on, which had long filled my head with other ideas — sex is something that happens between a man and woman who love each other; masturbation is a sin. You know, your typical run-of-the-mill Catholic guilt stuff.

Just as oppressive as the Catholic guilt was my femininity. Girls weren’t talking about masturbation and sex. I had no company with whom to share my new activities and interests. And so this silence morphed into shame. I became a pervert, a loser, a sinner.

I tried to stop myself from taking long baths, from late-night undercover activities, from being alone too long, but the more I obsessed about stopping, the more I could not. I joined shame, secrecy and pleasure in a daily orgy, whether I was tired, bored, angry or sad. Whether I was single or coupled, it didn’t matter. Getting off required all of these components and I needed new, more extreme methods to stay engaged — more hours sucked away watching progressively harder porn like the warehouse video, complemented with dabbles in strip clubs, peep shows and shady massage parlors. It became impossible to get off during sex without fantasy, my body over-stimulated to numbness. I was irritable unless I was fucking or masturbating or planning to do either of these things. Life revolved around orgasm to the detriment of any kind of real progress in my professional or social existence.

I was out of control.

* * *

Little did I know that describing my favorite porn scene would be the first of many future admissions that would help peel back, layer by layer, a long and exhausting history of self loathing. My future husband and I quickly learned that watching porn during sex wasn’t a harmless kink for us; it was a method I’d long used to remain disconnected from my partners. It took much discipline and patience for us to expel it from our relationship altogether, though every now and then we slip up.

Talking about my habits led me to examine them, which ultimately led to my desire for change. Holding a secret for too long is like being unable to take a full breath. I didn’t want to feel this way anymore. I needed to share — often and fully — what had for too long been silenced in order to reclaim who I was underneath my addiction. I needed to breathe again.

I found relief in Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meetings, seeing a therapist I trusted, attending personal development courses like the Hoffman Process and writing about my journey. I’ve managed to move away from porn for the most part, but when it comes to this addiction — to something I don’t have to seek out or purchase — control is like a wayward horse and my ass is always slipping off the saddle.

I constantly struggle with whether or not I should give up porn completely, but until I find a way to have some moderation with it, I avoid it as best I can. I wish I could just watch it occasionally, as some sort of supplement to my active sex life, but the whole ritual of watching porn is tangled up in too many other negative emotions. Watching porn takes me back to being that little girl alone in her bedroom, feeling ashamed and helpless to stop it. I can’t just watch one clip without needing to watch another after that, and another, until hours have passed and I’m back to binging every night.

If my husband leaves me alone all day and idleness leads me to watching porn, it’s the first thing I confess upon his return. Sometimes I don’t even have to say it. He can tell by my downturned eyes and my noticeable exhaustion. He shakes his head and takes me in his arms as I make another promise to try to leave it alone. When I visited a peep show on a recent work trip out of town, he seemed more amused than upset about the whole thing.

Unfortunately, I have yet to be as generous. If I find he’s been watching porn without me, when I’ve struggled to abstain for a stretch of time, I react with what might seem like unjustified rage. This frustration is only rooted in envy.

* * *

Masturbating beside my husband while he sleeps is the last secret I’ve kept from him. Although I’m beginning to fear that it’s actually just the latest secret. My resistance in telling him only proves how fragile recovery is. This week it’s masturbation. But maybe next week it’s back to porn binging. Or obsessive scrolling through Craigslist personals. Or lying about my whereabouts. And so forth. Abstaining from these habits, when so readily available, without abstaining from sexual pleasure completely, or the shame I’ve long bound to it, is a challenge I face daily.

That’s why I need to tell my husband.

Not because I need his permission, his forgiveness or to offer him some act of contrition. But because I need him to see me. To witness. The act of telling the truth, especially about something that makes us ache, is often the only absolution we need.

* * *

Erica Garza is a writer from Los Angeles. Her essays have appeared in Salon, Substance, LA Observed, The Manifest Station and HelloGiggles. She is also a staff writer at Luna Luna Mag. Read more at ericagarza.com and follow her on Twitter @ericadgarza.

Iris Yan is a Brazilian-born Chinese cartoonist who completed a one-year certificate at The Center for Cartoon Studies in Vermont.