Rebirth of the Cosmos

After three decades of management battles and false starts, a storied New York sports franchise prepares to finally step back onto the soccer field.

On a warm summer’s day in 1981, 10-year old Giovanni Savarese sat on a New Jersey-bound bus, gazing out of the window as the New York skyline slid by in the distance. The boy from Venezuela, who didn’t speak a word of English, had spent the past few days at a soccer camp, honing his skills with hundreds of other children. Now he was about to get his first taste for professional soccer. The home team, the New York Cosmos, had arranged the summer camp, and now he was finally getting the chance to watch the then-world famous team in action. Savarese watched in awe as the gigantic spirals of Giants Stadium came closer and closer.

“It was incredible. The environment, the energy, the whole thing,” Savarese remembers. For the next 90 minutes, the pulse of Giants Stadium engulfed him, as tens of thousands of fans cheered the Cosmos while the close summer’s sun beat down upon them. Savarese was inspired, watching the Cosmos come from two goals down to tie and eventually win in a shootout.

Savarese was in New York to attend the Pelé Soccer Camp—named after the Cosmos’ most famous player, who he was lucky enough to meet. The youngster returned to Venezuela with a photograph—a spiky-haired young boy, clad in soccer camp training gear, with a scallywag’s smile; the greatest soccer player of all time’s arm across his shoulders. Savarese, determined to become a professional soccer player one day, hung copies of that picture in each set of grandparents’ houses to remind him of the trip.

The team Savarese supported that day was America’s most successful club team of all-time, once fielding several of the world’s greats. While they are no longer the beacon of American club soccer, at that time, they were known around the world.

“In my time, there was no Internet and the kind of things kids have today,” says Savarese in a warm Italian accent, inherited from his ancestors. “Nevertheless, growing up in Venezuela, I knew what the Cosmos was, who they were—they were famous everywhere.”

Fast forward two decades to the spring of 2013 and Savarese, broad-shouldered, with a shaven head, piercing eyes, and calm demeanor, is still constantly thinking all things Cosmos. Sitting behind his desk in a SoHo office, Savarese sees Cosmos directly in front of him: jerseys, photographs, trophies, footage of goals playing on loop.

The modern-day New York Cosmos practicing on Long Island. (Photos by Brad Horrigan)
The modern-day New York Cosmos practicing on Long Island. (Photos by Brad Horrigan)

At 42, a career as a professional soccer player now behind him, Giovanni Savarese is the new head coach of the New York Cosmos–a team that had not played competitive soccer for nearly thirty years. “Life has a funny way of doing things,” he jokes, leaning back in his padded leather office chair.

For almost three decades, the New York Cosmos have existed purely as a brand, an entity, but had not fielded any players. They last played a competitive match in 1984, yet outside his office, in an open-plan space with a Cosmos logo emblazoned on an exposed brick wall, Savarese gazed at social media managers and marketing experts tapping away at keyboards, trying to keep the Cosmos in the public eye.

On August 3, 2013, that will all change. The New York Cosmos, based on Long Island, will once again take to the field as a competitive team. Though Savarese was the man responsible for signing a fresh group of players, that was just a small part of the Cosmos’ almost-30-year struggle to match a world-renowned name with an actual soccer team once more.

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In 1967, a year before the North American Soccer League (NASL) began, there were just 100,000 people playing soccer in the United States. This figure was a drop in the ocean compared to the millions playing football and baseball at the time. The NASL’s first few years were known for half-empty stadiums and teams assembled of part-timers, students and foreigners. Viewers joked that CBS’ coverage, with its slogan “Just for Kicks!” should have been dubbed “Just for commercials.” Referees were encouraged to call fouls to allow for advertisements, goals were missed, and Americans, quite simply, just didn’t tune in to games broadcast during the mid-Sunday afternoon timeslot.

One such team caught up in this whirlpool of failure was the New York Cosmos. Owned by Warner Communications, the Cosmos, who played their first three seasons in Yankee Stadium and then Long Island’s James H. Shuart Stadium at Hofstra University– finished at the bottom of their conference in the 1975 season, by then playing in front of just 4,000 fans on average, in a disintegrating Downing Stadium on Randall’s Island. Given the diverse, immigrant-heavy makeup of New York’s population, the Cosmos made people question just how successful soccer in America could ever be. If the game couldn’t make it in New York, the most cosmopolitan, international city in the U.S., where was it going to make it?

Cosmos players Henry Lopez, left, and Paulo Mendes, battle for possession of the ball in training.
Cosmos players Henry Lopez, left, and Paulo Mendes, battle for possession of the ball in training.

That question was answered on June 15, 1975, when the arrival of one man created a seismic shift in the perception of soccer nationwide. That man was Edison Arantes do Nascimento—better known as “Pelé.”

The Cosmos were fortunate enough to have the financial backing of Time Warner chief executive officer Steve Ross. They also employed a persistent general manager by the name of Clive Toye, who had tracked Pelé around the globe since the 1970 World Cup, when he cemented his place as the biggest sporting star on the planet. When the Brazilian retired from his boyhood club, Santos, in 1974, Toye and the rest of the Warner staff jumped at the opportunity. The NASL’s structure was based upon a franchise system, so, unlike in Europe—where teams had been built up over decades, spread out amongst towns and cities, backed by communal followings—anyone who had the money and a stadium to play in could essentially buy a slot in the league and plonk a team there. Once accepted, owners were free to spend as much money as they liked assembling a team; and there were no salary restrictions as there are in leagues like the NFL today.

Pelé agreed to a whopping deal, reportedly worth $4.7 million, which he would be paid over three years. (The highest paid sportsman in America at the time was Henry “Hank” Aaron, earning $200,000 annually.) The deal included sponsorship as well, meaning Warner owned everything, from Pelé-branded boots to Pelé-branded cologne.

“You can say now to the world that soccer has finally arrived in the United States,” said the three-time World Cup winner after he touched down on U.S. soil.

Five days after signing in front of 300-plus journalists gathered at the 21 Club, Pelé made his Cosmos debut. The effect was immediate. Cosmos tickets had previously been handed out with Burger King vouchers; now, at a Downing Stadium where the field had been painted green to look more appealing to the CBS cameras, more than 22,000 enthusiastic and intrigued supporters packed the stands, with an estimated 50,000 left waiting outside. An audience of more than 10 million tuned in on TV—missing both Pelé’s goal and assist during commercial breaks.

Over the next three seasons Ross and Warner used Brazil’s favorite son to brand the game of soccer across the country. Pelé mesmerized fans and players alike with a standard of soccer they had never before seen. Whether Pelé still possessed the swift, mercurial skills of his prime was up for debate; but when compared to the likes of the part-time teachers and scattering of former European club players he was playing with and against, the Brazilian’s control of the ball seemed not only from another world—it was from another universe. “The biggest challenge for us,” said the Cosmos’ then-captain Werner Roth, “was not stopping and watching him play.”

Edison Arantes do Nascimento, better known as Pelé, signing his contract with the New York Cosmos (Photo courtesy of the New York Cosmos)
Edison Arantes do Nascimento, better known as Pelé, signing his contract with the New York Cosmos (Photo courtesy of the New York Cosmos)

By Pelé’s final season, the perception of the NASL had been completely transformed. By 1977 the Cosmos were also fielding other glamorous names, such as Franz Beckenbauer, a 1974 World Cup winner with Germany (on an $2.8 million, four-year deal), Carlos Alberto of Brazil, and Giorgio Chinaglia, of Italy. Five staff members struggling to cope with media requests and ticket sales became 50; press conferences moved from the locker room to the 21 Club or the Plaza Hotel; help-yourself buffets and bottles of soda were replaced by caviar, smoked salmon and Champagne; and games moved from Downing Stadium to Giants Stadium, where 77,000 fans, plastered in Cosmos merchandise, flocked to watch the coolest team on the planet. There were even stars among the fans. “Sometimes, in the dressing room, I think I’m in Hollywood,” Beckenbauer, famously said. The Rolling Stones, Andy Warhol, Robert Redford and Henry Kissinger all came to see Ross’ team, which was now so well-known that sports journalists only had to mutter four words to get into the trendiest parties at Studio 54: “I’m with the Cosmos.”

As for soccer in America, the Cosmos aura meant the fan base grew throughout the country, as more and more people headed to stadiums to see Pelé and co.’s roadshow. By 1977, the average attendance at NASL games had tripled. During the 1976 season, Pelé, sidelined by an injury, would still travel to games to wave to onlookers who’d come out to see the star. Soccer camps across the country also boomed, attracting youngsters to the game. (Female participation grew particularly sharply, increasing fourfold from 10,000, in 1976 to 41,000, in 1980.)

Soccer finally offered a viable alternative for the traditional American sports of basketball, baseball and football—the Cosmos, who won their second NASL title in 1977, even rivaled the Giants and the Yankees for the back pages of New York’s newspapers.

But the Pelé odyssey had to end sometime. And on Oct. 1, 1977, the Brazilian made his final appearance for the Cosmos, in an exhibition match against his former club Santos. As the rain fell down , “even the sky was crying,” one Brazilian journalist wrote. The man who was the Cosmos was carted off the pitch atop of shoulders, swarmed by well-wishers.

Though an essential part of the Cosmos exited that year, another man entered behind the scenes. That man was an Italian by the name of Peppe Pinton.

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Pinton joined the Cosmos as its general manager in 1977, replacing Clive Toye. A short man, with a thin face, narrow-rimmed glasses and a moustache, he had previously been involved with the club as the manager of one of its star players, Giorgio Chinaglia, whose affairs he continued to oversee. Chinaglia was a burly, outspoken striker–his immense talent matched only by his ego. Because of this persona, many involved in the club saw Pinton as Chinaglia’s lapdog: players said they once saw Pinton carrying a TV through a hotel to Chinaglia’s room late into the night. “My television wasn’t working and I wanted to watch television. He had a good television, I had a bad one; he had to give me the television, what’s the big deal?” Chinaglia later joked in the Cosmos documentary Once in a Lifetime. True or not, Pinton went about his business quietly.

Following Pelé’s departure, it was up to the Cosmos’ remaining stars, like Chinaglia, to hang around and keep soccer progressing. Over the next few years, NASL teams still attracted huge crowds.

“You can say now to the world that soccer has finally arrived in the United States”

But the Cosmos were losing money, all those ticket sales never made up for the exorbitant salaries. Steve Ross joked at one board meeting, in 1977, that the Cosmos was costing Warner around two cents a share. Some around the table laughed at how insignificant two cents a share sounded. But in reality, two cents a share equated the company’s value dropping by $5 million.

These losses were made easier to stomach, though, by the success of Warner’s video games consoles. (Space Invaders’ profits alone rose from $6 million in 1979 to $70 million in 1980.) Then, in 1979 the league signed a promising television deal with ABC, with the promise of nine live games over the next two seasons, including the Soccer Bowl, the league’s showpiece match.

“Television was crucial,” Phil Woosnam, manager of the NASL, later said to Gavin Newsham for his book on the Cosmos, Once in a Lifetime. “It had always been the thorn in our side and when we finally signed a deal with ABC it looked like we were getting somewhere.” But it soon became clear (again) that nobody wanted to spend their weekend afternoons watching soccer on TV. Viewership sat at just two million homes across America, a terrible showing considering this was during the network-only era. Poor ratings were accompanied by the league’s all-too-rapid expansion, as the NASL bosses added team after team, in some of America’s smallest and most unmarketable locations—from Team Hawaii to the Caribous of Colarado—to anyone willing to pay the $100,000 entry fee. Many of these owners were not “soccer people,” and, after trying to follow the Cosmos model of paying excessive fees for aging stars, they looked to get out of the soccer business as soon as their team’s popularity and financial stability started to decline.

The cash-starved bosses were left with a choice: pass their brands on to others willing to pay the league’s entry fee, or simply let their teams fold. By 1981, the NASL’s showpiece, the Soccer Bowl, had been downgraded to a tape delay broadcast in favor of a repeat of Love Boat. Attendances fell and all franchises quickly became unprofitable.

Steve Ross, CEO of Time Warner and owner of the Cosmos  (Photo courtesy of the New York Cosmos)
Steve Ross, CEO of Time Warner and owner of the Cosmos  (Photo courtesy of the New York Cosmos)

While the Cosmos won the NASL championship in 1978, ‘80 and ’82, they were failing financially. Behind the scenes, Steve Ross was hit extremely hard by the video game crash of 1983. Sales of home consoles plummeted by 97 percent over the next two years—an oversaturated market with hundreds of mostly low-quality games meant many consumers lost confidence. Ross was forced to sell off parts of his Warner conglomeration, including the controlling stake in the failing Cosmos.

Ross transferred control of the Cosmos to Giorgio Chinaglia, by then his favorite player and the club’s record scorer. Chinaglia obtained 60 percent of the Cosmos in exchange for $1.5 million in “working capital”– but, amidst all the league’s failings, he and Pinton could not make things work. (Chinaglia had also purchased his failing hometown club, Lazio, in Italy, losing millions there, too.)

By 1984, there were just nine NASL teams still active, and with no TV deals to subsidize their financial failings, more and more teams continued to go under. Without TV money, Pinton estimated the Cosmos needed 20,000-plus fans to meet the $60,000 operating costs of Giants Stadium for each game–but they were attracting fewer than 13,000. On March 13, 1985, the New York Cosmos could not a submit letter of credit to meet the $150,000 NASL entry fee and were subsequently expelled from the league. A day later there were only two teams registered for the start of the 1985 season and the NASL folded altogether.

At the amateur level, soccer was more popular than it have ever been in America. College soccer, hardly considered a sport before the NASL, was now played in more colleges than football. And across the country, four million people were now playing the “beautiful game”–(40 times more than in 1967).

As for the Cosmos, they had won five NASL titles but not made a penny in their 14 years. A year before the NASL folded, in 1984, Chinaglia had handed back his “working capital” stake to Steve Ross, who then passed the Cosmos ownership on to Pinton, asking him to preserve the legacy of the brand…or so it is believed. Others, such as Clive Toye, claimed in numerous interviews both during and after the Cosmos’ demise that Chinaglia never even owned the brand, and Pinton just happened to be the last member of staff standing.

“The Cosmos did not just fall into my lap,” said Pinton in a recent interview. “I had been with the organization for many years…I obtained it from Warner Communications. Chinaglia had no part in my transaction. I was his manager—people just put the two together.” (A disinterested Chinaglia, for his part, would confess years later that he didn’t really care who owned the brand.)

But ownership disputes aside, by 1985, Peppe Pinton was boss. With the team no longer playing, Pinton literally moved all things Cosmos—the trophies, the memorabilia, the merchandise, the 1,300 hours of game footage—into New Jersey-based storage, where they would gather dust for the next several decades.

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Pinton now runs an Italian restaurant in upstate New York called Il Portico, which he opened in 1989. But even before that, in the years immediately following the Cosmos’ exit from professional soccer, Pinton continued to run the Cosmos as a brand, using the tools he still had at his disposal: marketing video footage, the logo, and youth camps like the one attended by Giovanni Savarese. “We were fortunate enough to still have a brand name—‘The Cosmos’—and that was my passion, my love, and that was what I intended to do,” says Pinton.

Pinton operated the Cosmos out of an office in Orangeburg, New York, 20 miles north of the city; the trophies were stored in a mahogany cabinet as a reminder of past glory. “I protected the company assets,” says Pinton assertively. He claims to have spent around $5,000 a month keeping the Cosmos alive—on storage, staff, and office space—not making a penny for himself. (Pinton refused to give exact figures.)

By 1993, the Cosmos name was essentially just associated with youth soccer summer camps at Ramapo College, although Pinton continued to charge anyone and everyone who wished to use the Cosmos’ footage, logo or name. “The way to protect your trademark,” he said, “is to police around the world through various sources, maintaining the registrations, and to prove you are actively involved as a business.” Pinton estimates that he spent between $800,000 and $900,000 in legal battles against those wrongfully slapping “Cosmos” on items while he owned the brand.

During this time, soccer in the U.S. was on hiatus, and no one else really wanted ownership of the Cosmos brand. That changed in 1994, when the World Cup came to America and interest in soccer as a professional sport exploded once more. A new professional league, Major League Soccer, was established. Pinton entered into discussions with the league for the sale of the entity he had run for more than a decade. “He owned the brand and he was looking to sell that brand at some point,” says Daniel Courtemanche, executive vice president of communications for the MLS. “He had a price point that he wanted to sell it at and ultimately we passed on that price point.”

Pinton says he in fact turned down multiple approaches to buy the name, including from the Wilpons, the owners of the Mets; the owners of the New York and Philadelphia-based soccer franchises, who were willing to change their names; Andrew Murstein, owner of the taxi company Medallion; and even Clive Toye. Pinton believed such potential owners were not willing to honor the tradition of the brand. He wanted a buyer who could return the Cosmos to their former glories, as the leading team in U.S. club soccer—not someone who only had the financial resources to create an also-ran club, or an individual only interested in the name purely to sell Cosmos-branded merchandise. “The fact that the Cosmos was not showcased with the new league was not a defeat–it was a victory for the Cosmos, because the Cosmos could maintain its dignity,” he said.

From 1996 onwards, Pinton continued to run Cosmos soccer summer camps, sue illegal users of the Cosmos brand, and reject offers from interested buyers. But on a midsummer’s evening, in 2009, Pinton felt that he had finally found the right man to carry on the Cosmos legacy. Sitting opposite him, in his upstate restaurant, with its cream walls, crisp white tablecloths, and large windows that illuminate the compact room, was an English businessman by the name of Paul Kemsley.

“We were fortunate enough to still have a brand name—‘The Cosmos’—and that was my passion, my love, and that was what I intended to do,” says Pinton.

Kemsley, or “PK” as he is known to friends, is a tough-talking, Rottweiler of a businessman, with a Cockney accent. He was in his early 40s at the time, slightly rotund, and usually sporting a hint of five-o’clock shadow. Kemsley made his millions in property development and in his prime was featured on the UK’s version of The Apprentice, interrogating would-be businessmen and women over their resumes. In 2001 he became a director with the Tottenham Spurs of the English Premier League Tottenham, and was widely praised for helping them reach a steady financial decision. But during the financial crisis of 2009, the Londoner’s company, Rock, (which had an estimated worth of $700 million) went into liquidation and he started to look for fresh opportunities elsewhere.

Kemsley’s people started chatting with Pinton’s people; and on that midsummer’s night—as Sassicaia flowed and oysters were served—Peppe Pinton heard Kemsley’s vision for the New York Cosmos firsthand.

“I had an individual that convinced me that he wanted it more than me; someone who had absolutely no upbringing with the Cosmos, but had acquired a knowledge over the years,” Pinton said. “It was someone who said ‘I’m going to take it from where you are, take all your energy, all your love, all your passion, all the relentless hours, and take it to the next level.’ To a level that I could not have gone.” Kemsley, Pinton thought, would return the New York Cosmos to the forefront of U.S. club soccer and make them a serious force once more. He also appeared to have the money to do so.

When the meal was over, the restaurant’s owner rose to his feet and shook Kemsley’s hand–the deal was done. Pinton immediately spoke to Kemsley’s wife on the phone, congratulating her on the vision her husband had laid out for his beloved team. Pinton was convinced Kemsley was the man who could make the New York Cosmos, once the Rolling Stones of soccer, an actual soccer team once more.

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Rumors started circulating in the British press in late 2009 that the Cosmos were back. Kemsley, they said, had a grand vision for this once-grand team. But it wasn’t until August 2010 that Pelé, rehired as the Cosmos’ honorary president, officially announced the team was preparing to take to the field once again. By this time, the ownership model was made up of three key players: Kemsley, who owned the majority of the brand; Terry Byrne, David Beckham’s former personal manager; and Anomaly, a British marketing company that agreed to exchange their expertise for a small stake in the club. The group started out with a vision of building the club from the ground up: purchasing academies as well as harvesting local talent on both coasts. This would be combined with community events and large-scale marketing to get the Cosmos back in the public eye.

By the beginning of 2011, Kemsley had moved into a five-bedroom apartment on the 75th floor of the Time Warner Center, reportedly renting at $57,500 a month, and a trendy office was set up in SoHo. The Cosmos had already completed part 1 of their plan, sponsoring two academies in New York and L.A. They also purchased the rights to a local soccer event called the “Copa,” essentially a World Cup for the amateurs of New York City, with locals represent their home nations, and renamed it “the Cosmos Copa.” Carl Johnson, CEO and one of the founders of Anomaly, said the first intention was to focus on New York’s cultural mix and how soccer is embedded into its communities.

After signing a deal with the British manufacturer Umbro, Kevin Lyons, a fashion designer, Cosmos-of-old fan and Anomaly’s design director, got to work on designing a new kit for club. Capitalizing on retro nostalgia, Lyons created a new jersey extremely similar to the one worn by Pelé in his last-ever professional match. “The kit was always meant to be worn on the field, but the kids could also wear it as fashionable streetwear, too,” he said. “The idea was novel: we were a cultural entity that wanted to create fervor and then the team would come.”

Lyons had a vision of a New York soccer brand that would succeed in the fashion markets of Asia and Europe, just at Yankee caps are worn around the world. Kemsley, in his flashy new Prada espadrilles, hosted an evening at the Openhouse Gallery in Nolita, blaring out ’80s classics such as Eddy Grant’s “Electric Avenue” while grainy footage of the original Cosmos’ played on a projector. The “Umbro x NY Cosmos Spring/Summer ’11 Collection” was launched, later accompanied by Times Square billboards and pop-up shops around the city. “We hope you get it… It’s going to be huge,” Kemsley declared.

New York Cosmos head coach, Giovanni Savarese, speaking to members of the media
New York Cosmos head coach, Giovanni Savarese, speaking to members of the media

“It was an expression of vision and ambition,” says Carl Johnson. “The ambition from the outset was that this can be the largest name in soccer in the U.S. It can be, and probably will be.”

A month after the clothing launch, the latest group of Cosmos ambassadors, Pelé included, headed to Asia to promote the club’s rebirth. As they hopped between Singapore and Hong Kong—an excitable Kemsley would describe the prospect of meeting the Singaporean president as “sick”—the former players attended signing sessions, Q-and-As and soccer games, all in the hope of boosting brand Cosmos in the Asian market. Soon, soccer fans across the world were indeed wearing Cosmos-stamped clothing: jerseys, hats and jackets started popping up everywhere; from bars in Sydney to the financial district of London—all without an actual team.

Finally, in August 2011, an exhibition Cosmos team played a game against Manchester United at Old Trafford. With the stands packed, Pinton and Kemsley watched on as a squad featuring World Cup winners, players from top leagues from around the world, and American youth talent donned the popular Cosmos jerseys, losing 6-0 in the process. The final score hardly dampened their enthusiasm. “It was like a dream,” said Pinton. “You close in 1985, you walk out of the stadium and you wake up in the stadium of dreams, Manchester United’s, with the brand you kept alive for many years.”

This, though, was only a quasi-Cosmos team—they were still not a competitive outfit—and soon after the Manchester United game, things started to unravel off the field. That month, the Cosmos Academy in L.A. disbanded, $210,000 in debt.

Costs of running the club were mounting up—payments to Pelé, billboard advertising, tours, public events, the now-15-plus staff members. “There was not a sufficient focus on revenue in; rather than just looking at what was being spent,” says Johnson.

The Cosmos merchandise that Johnson’s company had helped secure was one of just a few forms of “revenue in.” And weeks after the Manchester United match, Anomaly pulled out, forfeiting their ownership stake in order to focus on other projects.

According to Johnson, instead of looking for alternative ways to generate money, Kemsley searched for cash to keep the club afloat, turning to an investment group called Cosmos Ventures, and reportedly selling a 50-percent stake for the money he desperately needed.

The bigger problem was that the Cosmos still had no way of joining the top tier of American soccer once again. The MLS entry fee was over $100 million—a level of investment that could not find—and with no actual soccer to attract fans, the club continued to hemorrhage money. By October 2011, Kemsley’s investment had dried up, and when he asked Cosmos Ventures for more funding the answer was a simple “no,” according to current sources at the club. The group activated a buyout clause in their dealings with Kemsley, taking complete control of the club, and on Oct. 26, 2011, Kemsley resigned as chairman. He declared bankruptcy the following year, with the team still never having played a competitive match. (Numerous attempts to contact Paul Kemsley were unsuccessful.)

“I believed in the entity, I believed in the process, I believed in the concept, I believed in who I was dealing with,” says Pinton. “Was I right? Yes. Why? Because even though he’s not here, the Cosmos is still here.”

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Today, very little is clear about the New York Cosmos’ actual ownership structure; the club would disclose only that there are multiple investors with an interest in the Cosmos’ fortunes. English businessman Seamus O’Brien, who founded the World Sport Group, Asia’s leading sports marketing, event management and media company, is the club’s chairman and current figurehead. (When asked, some sources at the club claim O’Brien is a sole owner; others mention a fifty-fifty split with a Saudi Arabian sports marketing group called Sela Sports.)

But ownership structure aside, unlike the previous hierarchy, O’Brien has made it clear he has one simple objective in mind: associating the name Cosmos with an actual soccer team.

Kyle Reynish, New York Cosmos' goalkeeper, during practice (photos by Brad Horrigan)
Kyle Reynish, New York Cosmos’ goalkeeper, during practice (photos by Brad Horrigan)

In July 2012, not long after his tenure began, O’Brien announced that the team (or brand, as things stood) planned to do just that. The club opted to rejoined the NASL, which, having folded in 1985 along with the original Cosmos, was reformed in 2009 as the second tier of American soccer. The league, which is unassociated with MLS, is made up of eight teams. The NASL drew an average attendance of 3,810 in 2012, significantly smaller than the MLS’s 18,807. But with an entry fee at just over $1 million, it was a far more attainable option than that of the MLS’ $100 million-plus entry fee, too.

“We won’t say anything we’re not going to deliver on,” O’Brien told Sports Illustrated, in what appeared to be a dig at the previous ownership. “You’re not going to get hyperbole and big, grandiose lunatic statements that might have been the mantra of the past.”

“Like any other fan, I read that article, and thought, that’s exactly the direction this club in particular needs to go,” said Erik Stover, a laid back, dress-down-Friday kind of executive with a shaven head and warm smile. Stover formerly oversaw the rise of the New York area’s other soccer franchise, MLS’ Red Bulls. He helped plan their move into a $200 million stadium and secured the signing of one of the current generation’s greatest players, Thierry Henry. Now, though, Stover has an office next to Savarese’s. He was appointed the Cosmos’ COO in November 2012, the same month Savarese became head coach. Slowly, Stover and Savarese helped to put together the pieces, both on and of the field, necessary for the Cosmos to become a competitive soccer team. “Now all those big things that seemed so daunting, and would never happen, are actually happening every day,” said Stover, an assured nod of his head in time with the final two words.

The New York Cosmos will play their home games at Hofstra's stadium.
The New York Cosmos will play their home games at Hofstra’s stadium.

By early 2013, the Cosmos had found a stadium: the same place they played during the 1972 and 1973 seasons, at Long Island’s James H. Shuart Stadium at Hofstra University. Over the months that followed, the Cosmos slowly and discreetly started putting together the pieces that would enable them to become an NASL club, adding players, recruiting staff, and hosting fan events, peppered with the odd appearance from Pelé.

Just a year after O’Brien first announced the brand’s intentions to play as an NASL team, the makeup of the New York Cosmos is almost unrecognizable to the entity O’Brien inherited. They set up training camp at Mitchell Field in Nassau County, along with a ticketing office at the complex to begin engaging the Long Island community. They have also released a plan for a $400 million stadium in nearby Belmont Park, to include a mixed-use development, shopping areas, and playing fields. Their first competitive game in nearly three decades will take place August 3rd.

The team has arranged a new kit deal, and inked deals with Nike as a manufacturer and Fly Emirates as a sponsor. They have begun to recruit season ticket holders. The New York Cosmos finally has a complete roster, too, a cosmopolitan mix of former MLS players; representatives from Asia, Europe and South America; and American players, including the club’s captain, Carlos Mendes, a New York local who grew up a few minutes away, in Mineola, Long Island.

Club officials are confident they can not only challenge for the NASL title, but also prove they are the best team in the country by winning the U.S. Open Cup, which enters lower-league teams into the same knockout competition as MLS outfits. With players coming from such a wide variety of backgrounds, though, it is difficult to predict how well these players will gel during the Cosmos’ first season.

The Cosmos’ rebirth was somewhat overshadowed by the recent move by English soccer powerhouse Manchester City and the New York Yankees to team up as co-owners of a second New York team set to join the MLS in 2015. Stover says the team welcomes this challenge, and right now are purely focused on raising the profile of the NASL.

“As long as we do it right—we run a proper soccer club, have good connections to our supporters—the other stuff will take care of itself,” said Stover. “We’re not really thinking about lifestyle gear, it’s not about that for us. We understand we have a long way to go…but for us, we ultimately want to win silverware, we want to win championships, we want to compete at the highest level, and we want people in this country, or, for that matter, around the world, to say ‘that’s the best soccer club in the United States.’”

*    *    *

“Just play your natural game,” Giovanni Savarese said reassuringly to around 100 youngsters standing in front of him on a windy May evening in the West Village. “And just have fun.”

As the sun set on Pier 40, a sporting complex hit by the breeze from the Hudson River, Savarese and other Cosmos coaching staff watched over the last of five open tryout sessions the club was holding—one in each borough of New York. The concept was simple: anyone could apply, and one player from each borough would be selected to attend preseason training with the Cosmos.

Cleats in hand, Sean Salgueiro, 10, watches the Cosmos train.
Cleats in hand, Sean Salgueiro, 10, watches the Cosmos train.

“We feel strongly that if you are asking people to see you, you need to go and see them first,” said Savarese, explaining the team’s grassroots strategy. The tryouts attracted everyone from an unfit 62-year old who had sat in the stands during the 1970s, dreaming of playing alongside Pelé and Chinaglia, to 16-year olds who perhaps had never even heard of the original Cosmos, let alone been alive to witness them in their heyday. Players from Germany passed to those from England; Dominican kids from Washington Heights passed to Mexican-Americans from Queens.

When the tryouts came to an end, Savarese brought everyone in to thank them for their participation. He showed his appreciation to those who did not make it, and assured them to never to give up on their dreams of becoming soccer players.

A 10-year old boy from Venezuela left New York with such a dream more than 30 years ago. “You are all part of the Cosmos family now,” Savarese said.

*    *    *

Jack Williams is a New York-based journalist, originating from Wales in the UK. A recent graduate of Columbia’s Graduate School of Journalism, he has written sports features for the likes of The New York Daily News and The New York Times.Twitter: @itsjackwilliams

Brad Horrigan, a contributing editor at Narratively, is a photojournalist and multimedia storyteller based in Queens.

Meet the Merciless Champ of Congo’s Mystical Wrestling League

Even as he approaches old age and his sport falls into decline, this intestines-eating, sorcery-conjuring “Man of Great Power” still dominates the ring.

With a slow and assured swagger that defies his aging body, Edingwe Moto na Ngenge, the most decorated Congolese wrestler of all time, steps into the ring. At about six-foot-six and more than 220 pounds, with a prominent brow, deep-set eyes, a mohawk and a large dragon tattoo across the left side of his chest, he cuts an imposing figure. Edingwe, whose moniker, Moto na Ngenge, translates to Man of Great Power, struts back and forth across the ring with his shoulders thrown back, stamping his feet and contorting his face into grotesque expressions, toying with his opponent and whipping his loyal fans into a frenzy.

It’s January 2016 in Kinshasa, the pulsating capital city in the far west of the vast and volatile Democratic Republic of Congo. Just a year earlier, the radio-trottoir, or pavement radio, as the city’s incessant gossip mill is known, spread word that Edingwe was near death’s door, broke and unable to cover the hefty cost of his prolonged hospital stay, finally turning to God in a last-ditch effort to be saved.

Now, with thousands of spectators filling the lower-level stands of the Tata Raphaël stadium and local television crews set up around the wrestling ring erected in the middle of the soccer field, Edingwe’s got something to prove.

However, it’s his challenger, Mal à l’aise, which translates to Ill at Ease, who attacks first. He takes a dead snake from his trainer at the edge of the ring, wraps it around his neck for a moment, then holds it tight with one hand close to its head and the other at the end of its tail, thrusting it repeatedly and exaggeratedly in the direction of Edingwe. The great champion is momentarily stunned by this act of sorcery, and with his eyes wide in surprise he becomes rooted to the spot, rocking back and forth like a tall tree in the wind.

But Edingwe soon grows tired of this impetuous display, breaks the spell, and with a swift extension of his right arm and a raised, open palm, calls on the spirits of his ancestors. The magical powers they have so long bestowed on him send Mal à l’aise tumbling backward onto the mat, where he lies paralyzed. Edingwe kneels beside his hapless opponent, grasps at his midriff and appears to extract his intestines like long pieces of pink elastic. He holds them aloft and then lowers them into his gaping mouth; as he eats them, blood pours from the corners of his lips onto his chest. A government minister sitting near the ring faints. Mal à l’aise, also unconscious, is covered and carried away.

Edingwe is swiftly escorted from the arena by his entourage before his opponent’s angry supporters seek revenge for such a merciless performance. After just a few minutes, it’s all over.

* * *

The unique and wildly popular Congolese variety of wrestling, which bears some similarities to American professional wrestling, took off in the late 1960s and early ’70s. Around this time, a handsome young man named Kele Kele Lituka became Congo’s first professional wrestler and a household name, defeating European champion Claude Leron and celebrated American wrestler El Greco.

Lituka beat his Western opponents by drawing on wrestling techniques that in fact long preceded the influence of the American school. He incorporated elements of a traditional Congolese fighting style called libanda, which is said to have traveled to Brazil with slaves from the ancient Kingdom of Kongo centuries earlier and served as the genesis for the Brazilian martial art of capoeira. (While elements of the matches are clearly played up for dramatic effect, organizers here, like their American counterparts for a time, have long insisted that nothing is staged.)

Edingwe holds aloft what are ostensibly the intestines of his opponent at the Tata Raphael Stadium in Kinshasa in January 2016. (Photo courtesy Edingwe)

“Since the early days of urbanization, there have been public fights in Kinshasa,” says Katrien Pype, Ph.D., a professor of African cultural anthropology at the University of Birmingham in the United Kingdom and at KU Leuven University in Belgium. In the 1950s, when this sizable swath of Central Africa was still a Belgian colony, a style of fighting called mukumbusu emerged. Inspired by the movements of gorillas and incorporating both foreign and African fighting styles, mukumbusu was a “reaction to the other martial arts that were brought in by the colonialists,” Pype says.

In the late 1970s, a young, cocksure fighter from a poor family in Kinshasa’s ramshackle Matete neighborhood stepped into the ring for the first time. A notorious brawler at school who sometimes even came to blows with his teachers, Edingwe, whose real name is Edmond Ngwe Mapima, had already shown promise in the boxing ring. He would quickly leave an indelible mark on Congolese wrestling, introducing the sport to the aspect of magic and sorcery, known locally as fétiche, with its practitioners referred to as féticheurs.

Fétiche is the foundation on which the Congolese manifestation of contemporary wrestling has been built. Tapping into local superstitions and the widespread Congolese belief in traditional magic, mysticism and the spirit world, Edingwe’s mastery of fétiche gave him an insurmountable advantage over his opponents. As Caroline Six wrote in a 2015 article in the French press: “The success of a wrestler in Congo is often not founded on strength, technique or style, but on his capacity to make people believe in his powers of sorcery.” Edingwe is the perfect embodiment of this claim.

Mobutu Sese Seko, the flamboyant, corrupt and ruthless dictator who ruled Congo — which he renamed Zaire — for more than 30 years until his death in 1997, was a great wrestling aficionado. He used the sport as a focal point for what Pype calls his “authenticity politics,” whereby he shunned and in some cases banned cultural practices deemed to be Western and instead promoted a new, African vision of Congolese national belonging.

“During Mobutu’s time, wrestling was promoted as the national sport. There was a lot of financial support and massive state-organized and sponsored events and tournaments,” Pype says. For the first time, Congolese wrestling was also widely televised across the country. This helped Edingwe become the sport’s greatest icon, equal parts feared and revered. But those days were long ago.

* * *

When it rains hard in Matete, as it does most days during Congo’s wet season, the labyrinthine streets and alleyways — many of which are unpaved and untraversable by car — quickly become fast-flowing red-brown rivulets carrying trash and human waste between the buildings. At such times, this overcrowded and notoriously crime-ridden area is unusually quiet; small groups of young boys huddle outside kiosks that sell cigarettes, soft drinks and basic household essentials, seeking shelter beneath the jagged metal overhangs that jut out over the front stoops. Otherwise, the streets are deserted.

Behind a large red metal gate opposite one such kiosk, Edingwe sits silently with a few friends and family members on pink plastic chairs, while a few laborers in tattered overalls work noisily to cover exposed rafters on the roof with sheets of metal. A light breeze gusts through the empty window frame beside them. One day, Edingwe, who says he does not know his age but is likely somewhere in his late 50s, hopes this building will serve as both a new house for his family and a fitting testament to his long and illustrious wrestling career. In his deep, slow drawl, the great champion says, “My only regret is that my parents died poor while I was still too young. I wish they had still been alive to see this when it is complete.”

Left: Edingwe suddenly transforms once he is dressed in his wrestling attire, striking macho poses for the camera at his home in Matete, Kinshasa. Right: Edingwe demonstrates some of the grotesque facial expressions that he uses in the ring to strike fear into his opponents and whip his adoring fans into a frenzy. (All photos by Christopher Clark)

Edingwe has not had a fight since his famous disembowelment of Mal à l’aise more than a year ago. A few days after the fight, a wildly sensationalist Congolese news site reported that, thanks to a quick visit to both the clinic and a local temple, Mal à l’aise had miraculously survived. However, he complained that he was still experiencing some discomfort in his stomach. 

The pavement radio is buzzing with news that despite Edingwe’s now infamous comeback, he is still barely scraping by financially, paying his bills by doing occasional work as an informant for the police in Matete, where he uses his magical powers to pinpoint the location of alleged criminals.

Local journalist Francis Mbala says that wrestling has been hit hard by the political impasse that engulfed the Congolese capital when beleaguered president Joseph Kabila failed to step down at the end of his two-term presidential limit in December 2016. The impasse has thrust the city, and the country, into a new period of uncertainty, crippling the local economy. Sporadic political protests have been met by an increasingly violent state response, leaving scores of protesters dead. Meanwhile, rebel militias have resurfaced in the long-afflicted Kivu provinces in the east of the country, while a bloody guerilla war between the army and anti-government rebels has claimed at least 3,000 lives — with gross human rights abuses alleged on both sides — and forced more than a million people to flee their homes.

“With the current political and economic crisis, there is a severe lack of sponsors for wrestling,” Mbala says. Official wrestling institutions and federations “almost don’t exist in Kinshasa anymore,” he adds, and big wrestling events have inevitably become much less frequent.

But Pype says that the trials and tribulations of Congolese wrestling precede the current political impasse. “During Mobutu’s time, wrestling was the national sport,” she reiterates, “but unfortunately for the wrestlers, the current government hasn’t recognized what the sport and its practitioners could mean to them and to the creation of national cohesion and unity. Mobutu invested a lot more in the promotion of Congolese culture in general.”

Pype insists that wrestling remains an important part of daily life for the Kinois, as Kinshasa’s residents are known, especially for young men in working-class neighborhoods like Matete. For many of these men, wrestlers represent an ideal body image — and they are also emblematic of the possibility of transcending one’s impoverished circumstances.

Edingwe has a more straightforward take on why he hasn’t had a fight in so long: He says that no one is currently up to the challenge. He is not announcing his retirement just yet, but he is already pinning great hope on his eldest son, a 33-year-old who lives and fights in Belgium — and is known as Little Edingwe.

“The powers that I inherited from my grandfather, who was also a wrestler, will gradually be transferred to my son,” Edingwe says. “God has not given these powers to anyone else, so this is what I am counting on. When my son is strong enough, I will stop fighting.”

Other champions of Edingwe’s era agree that the next generation of greats is yet to announce itself in Kinshasa. Mwimba Makiese, who goes by the nickname Texas, shares the sense that the increasing lack of financial incentives has played a role, pushing young working-class men into Kinshasa’s violent street-fighting scene — where they can at least achieve a level of localized fame and notoriety — rather than the official wrestling circuit.

Like Edingwe, Makiese, who claims to have won an impressive 646 out 650 matches in his career, is looking to retire soon, potentially adding to the vacuum. Makiese has long been the leading proponent in Congo of the so-called “classical” American style of wrestling. He has often publicly denounced fétiche wrestling, which he claims has fueled a growing negative narrative that dismisses wrestlers as “brigands.” Makiese is currently training two young wrestlers in the hope that they will fill his considerable shoes and continue to build on his legacy of “clean, technical wrestling,” as he calls it.

Widely known both for his success in the ring and for being the first albino wrestler in Congo, Makiese is also a renowned philanthropist, having created a foundation for Kinshasa’s routinely persecuted and ostracized albino population. Money that Makiese earned from wrestling helped build the foundation, but in recent years he has had to find other means of sustaining it. To that end, he now runs a small shop with his wife.

“Before, I could live solely from wrestling. I built my house with money from wrestling. I educated my kids with money from wrestling. Now, things have changed,” Makiese says. “But I’m like a chameleon — I’ll always find a way to adapt,” he adds.

Back in Matete, Edingwe seems less willing to adapt. Wrestling, after all, is his calling. He believes it was preordained. He believes that only he can save Congolese wrestling from the slump it is currently experiencing.

As if to show his readiness to shoulder this considerable burden, Edingwe goes to get his wrestling attire — high socks, lace-up boots and tight black spandex shorts — from the small main house behind the unfinished outbuilding. When he returns, the short walk seems to have put considerable strain on his body. He struggles to get up the single step back into the outbuilding and has to use the wall for support. He breathes heavily as he slowly and laboriously lowers himself back into his chair, where a young male relative helps him lace up his boots. It’s hard to imagine that just over a year ago, Edingwe was proudly strutting back and forth across the ring like a peacock, in front of his adoring fans, as he prepared to disembowel Mal à l’aise.

A young relative of Edingwe helps the champion wrestler, who appears to be in ill health, lace up his boots before he poses for pictures at his home in Matete, Kinshasa.

But as soon as he is dressed, Edingwe transforms. His back straightens, his shoulders rise; legs slightly akimbo, he throws a few slow-motion air punches left and then right across his body while contorting his face into grimaces, the veins in his neck bulging. 

Two of Edingwe’s daughters can’t help giggling at this spectacle. In a mock-aggressive tone, he commands them to come and stand beside him, where he loops an arm over each of their shoulders. The girls grow suddenly shy beside Edingwe’s enormous frame and will not meet his eyes. Imperceptible to them, a slight smile crosses their father’s lips.

For the briefest of moments, he is defeated.

Edingwe smiles down on two of his daughters at home in Matete, Kinshasa.

“Coming Out” as Face Blind

What it’s like to live with a disorder that means sometimes I can’t even recognize my own family members—and why I’m not keeping it a secret any longer.

When there was a familiar knock on our front door around eight at night on a Friday, I knew it was my dad. But then my mom, in her oversized cat sweater and baggy jeans, removed the door chain from its lock and opened the door, revealing a tall, slender bald man with no facial hair.

Who’s that?” I asked, in my blunt six-year-old way.

“It’s Daddy?” My mom’s voice sounded uncertain for a minute, but then she laughed. “He shaved his head!”

I had never seen my dad without his full, wavy dark brown locks before. They were unlike my mom’s pin-straight light brown long bob with face framing bangs. I looked him over. My dad was still wearing a long-sleeved red plaid shirt, blue jeans with a belt, and heavy black boots. He had a pair of sunglasses sticking out of his pocket.

“Pumpkin, I shaved my hair.” That was my dad’s voice and he always called me pumpkin, so I started laughing, equal parts nervous and relieved. “Are you excited to spend the weekend together?” It took me a few moments to warm up to the idea that this was my dad, but then I launched into a list of things I wanted to do with him for the next two days, and watching both my parents smile at me reassured me that everything would be okay. My parents didn’t notice that my panic was unusual at the time, because it’s common for young kids to learn about permanence when someone drastically changes their hair. But although the panic subsided in the moment, I knew the feeling was probably related to how unsettled I felt when I was looking for my mom at the grocery store or when a neighborhood kid waved at me from the playground.

When I was around seven or eight, we learned that I have mild prosopagnosia, also known as “face blindness.” Prosopagnosia appears to be different from other neurological memory problems because it doesn’t cause any other issues with memory and isn’t always caused by brain damage — as in my case, it can be developmental and genetic. I’ve had difficulty recognizing almost everyone in my life from time to time, whether it’s someone famous, like Harrison Ford or Taylor Swift, or someone I know intimately, like my best friend or my own dad.

My face blindness comes with a set of challenges, including the surge of panic I feel when I have to search for someone I know in a large crowd. There’s a deep social stigma attached to not recognizing someone that you’re supposed to know, so I’m often too afraid to admit that I struggle with this, which leaves me vulnerable every time I’m not positive whether or not I recognize someone. 

Brad Duchaine, an associate professor in the department of psychological and brain sciences at Dartmouth College who is on staff at the Prosopagnosia Research Centers, says that face blindness can cause social difficulty, particularly because people are often offended when you don’t recognize them. He adds, “It also causes workplace difficulties. If you fail to recognize your boss in the elevator, it’s not going to be good for your career.” When I worked in a mid-sized office with about 150 coworkers, daily interactions like mornings, meetings, and passing people when I stood up from my desk in our open office were hell. When I was preparing my ahi tuna salad at lunchtime in the kitchen, trying not to stare at the redhead man next to me, a flash of panic washed over me when he looked my way. Did I know him? He wasn’t in the small social media and publicity department with me; I’d already memorized the clothing, hair, body language, posture, and voices of everyone on our team. When in doubt, I never explicitly introduce myself or say, “Hey, it’s nice to meet you.” Instead, I opened with, “That looks delicious,” when he removed his croissant from the microwave, searching for signs that he recognized me on his face. Other people’s eyes lit up and their expressions became more trusting when they recognized me, even more so when we were intimately familiar, and I look for those cues during interactions where I can’t recognize someone.

I silently begged that I hadn’t said the wrong thing, that he wasn’t a complete stranger who would find my comment off-putting. I never knew how conversational to be with people if I couldn’t recognize them. Asking someone about their weekend felt reserved for coworkers I had interacted with more than a handful of times, but I often wasn’t aware when I’d crossed that threshold.

Thanks, I got it from South End Buttery down the street. If you haven’t been yet, you should check it out,” he said. Sounds like we haven’t talked before, but he knows I’m fairly new here, I thought, trying to push away my fear. He wouldn’t realize I didn’t recognize him if I didn’t make it obvious.

I know how hard it can be to be open about your differences, both inside and outside the workplace. So I’ve kept my face blindness a secret with the help of some adaptive strategies I keep up my sleeve for moments of awkward interaction, like carefully picking my opening lines, and memorizing hairstyles. Technology has saved me on a regular basis since social media became popular in the mid-2000s, and even more so with smartphones. Before I meet up with someone, especially if I’m likely not to recognize them because they don’t have a unique identifier (like a red beard, a wheelchair, pink hair, or a mohawk), I can study photos of them saved to my phone or posted to their Facebook. I can look for the kind of clothes they might be wearing, how their hair is currently styled, if they tend to smile without teeth.

Duchaine says that most prosopagnosics have alternate systems for recognition. Many study Facebook and photos, while some are even hoping facial recognition apps like the one developed for Google Glass will become widespread. A common tactic (which I also use) is making sure to arrive at a meeting spot before anyone else so we won’t be the one picking out a singular face. People also tend to specialize in particular features. “One guy I worked with focused on people’s jeans,” says Duchaine. “In the town he grew up in, everyone wore the same jeans every day.”

I often rely on hair as my main recognition cue, which is why I’ve mistaken other tall, bald men wearing sunglasses for my own father (never enough to actually say, “Hey, Dad!” to them, thankfully, but I’ve walked up to quite a few bald strangers), and why I didn’t recognize him when he first went bald.

Hair, clothing, and other cues are also central to how I identify myself. I don’t always instantly recognize myself in a passing mirror or a photo, particularly if I’m wearing gym clothing or I’m wearing my hair up, since those are so far removed from my daily look. During my senior year of high school, when I cut eight inches off my hair to donate to Locks of Love, and chopped the rest into a pixie cut, seeing myself in the mirror or a selfie actually made me do a double-take. I hadn’t realized that my signature face-framing hair and blunt bangs were how I recognized myself, and I couldn’t see my reflection as me without them. And more than that, my hair is central to my identity. My mom, who died when I was a kid, wore her hair the same way I do — and without that hairstyle, when I look in the mirror, I don’t see what other people are always saying: “You look just like your mom.” I can’t remember my mom’s face, because I don’t remember anyone’s, but I don’t want to lose the little details I do remember about her, like her refusal to wear makeup, her jean jacket, her oversized green Melrose firefighters’ T-shirt, or her blunt brown bangs hanging above her light blue eyes.

I disliked the change so much that I eventually bought a wig and extensions, and resolved to never change my hair again.

* * *

When I was an undergrad in college, I met the only other person who has ever admitted to me that they have face blindness. We were talking about horror movies when my friend, who spends more time during our regular movie marathons making mile-a-minute jokes than analyzing the plot, said, “I can’t watch movies with a lot of characters because I can’t tell anyone apart. The villain will come on screen and I’ll be like, ‘Who’s that?’ and everyone else will be like, ‘That’s the killer, Jon!’” He and I laughed for almost 15 minutes until we had tears streaming down our cheeks.

A few years later, I came across Holding Up the Universe, by Jennifer Niven, and Bone Gap, by Laura Ruby, both novels with prosopagnosic main characters. After reading Holding Up the Universe, I told my girlfriend — who has never heard the inner monologues of panic whenever we’re out at a mall and I lose track of her — how close to reality the protagonist’s daily life is, with the exception that his face blindness is more severe than mine.

Bone Gap was a book club pick at my workplace, and when a coworker brought up how interesting the condition was and that she’d never heard of it, I was itching to say, “Actually, I have it. I wouldn’t recognize any of you outside this office.” I was dying to tell someone that the reason I avoid office jobs with a large staff is how stressful it is trying to figure out if I’ve introduced myself to someone (unless it’s the one guy with a long black pony tail or the woman who wears printed hijabs). But as my coworkers talked about how hard it must be for someone to live with face blindness, I clammed up and kept my mouth shut, not wanting to cross the line from professional into too personal and risk alienating myself.

I sat alone at lunch for half of eighth grade after the school circulated that I was bisexual, and what I love most about my adult life is that it seems I’ve finally escaped that. Every time I’ve revealed something that makes me different — my queerness, the physical disability that I use a lavender cane for — people use it as grounds to harass and ostracize me, or turn me into a sideshow with deeply personal questions aimed at their own consumption and not my comfort. How do I have sex with my partner? What were some ways I was left out as a kid with a disability? Could I play with other kids on the playground? I know people would ask these kinds of questions about my face blindness; they would poke and prod it until they were satisfied. So I’ve always kept it to myself.

I hit my breaking point a couple of weeks ago when my cousin visited from Texas. We’re closely related, since her mom was my mom’s sister and her dad was my dad’s brother, and we look alike. But when she asked me to get dinner with her friends and her at Hooters, I panicked. I got to the restaurant right at seven, wondering: Was she inside yet? Would I see her if I walked around the restaurant, or would I be caught stopping at each individual table, studying its occupants as they awkwardly chowed down on chicken wings? I called her three times to no avail before finally asking my girlfriend if she could take a quick walk around inside, where she quickly spotted Nicole.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” I said to my cousin with a slight hard edge to my voice, looking around the noisy, packed restaurant. There was no way I would have spotted her in this crowd. I thought that I had plans for every contingency, like calling someone on the phone to discern their location — but I had failed. What if my girlfriend wasn’t there to check for Nicole for me? Would I have gotten in my car and driven home, hungry and missing out on a night of her company? Would I, as an adult, have gone to the wait staff and asked them to announce Nicole’s name over the loudspeaker like she was my five-year-old child, embarrassing myself in the process? “I’m not mad at you, but you should have at least told me you were here.”

“I’m so sorry, my phone is in my bag.” Nicole pulled it out to demonstrate and waved in the direction of her other friends at the table. “We were talking and I didn’t hear it ringing. It’s loud in here. You could have just come in and looked for me. I’ve been here since seven.” This wasn’t a big deal to her. She couldn’t see how frantic I felt at the thought of scanning faces to try and determine if I knew someone. That was how the world looked in my eyes, like a sea of blank faces, each ready to condemn me if I couldn’t distinguish them from what looked like an identical face next to theirs.

“You should have just texted me at least once to say, ‘I’m here.’” I was frustrated; not at Nicole, although I wished she’d had the forethought to realize it was past seven and check to see if I’d called her.

As we were moving to a bigger table to accommodate our late arrival, Nicole continued apologizing for not checking her phone. She shouldn’t apologize without knowing what the real problem was, I thought.

“I have face blindness,” I admitted to her, and this was the first she’d heard of it. My heart raced in my chest. I was still afraid she would ask me detailed personal questions or simply not believe me. I was also born without a sense of smell, and throughout my life, I’ve been met with immediate disbelief when I tell people; they think it’s impossible that I can taste and enjoy food but I can’t smell anything at all, whether it’s savory or disarming.

As I explained what face blindness is to my cousin, my heart stopped pumping so fast. She was asking polite follow-up questions because she wanted to understand, not to mock me or put me on trial for experiencing life differently. “I don’t think I would have found you in here unless you texted me to say, ‘I’m in the back of the restaurant, booth near the window.’” I recounted all the times I’d asked her where she was sitting if we were meeting in public, and she instantly remembered telling me exactly what table number she was sitting at so I could approach wait staff and be directed to her.

“I had no idea,” Nicole said. “I swear I’ll check my phone next time so you won’t have to worry.” She’ll never know what it feels like to wander through the tables and booths at a restaurant, searching for a familiar face and making eye contact with parties who want to remain undisturbed, but she’s willing to accept that I know that feeling.   

The next day, she wore a bright lime green skirt and printed shirt with swans on it when we met at the Boston seaport. “My phone is going to die,” she texted me thoughtfully, as she described her outfit in detail. “I’ll be at the docks around 6:30.”

Sure enough, as soon as I noticed a flash of lime green among the crowd, I screamed her name and she turned.

I had admitted my biggest weakness, and the world didn’t fall apart. My cousin accommodated me. She wore something noticeable and made sure to meet me somewhere visible. She didn’t prod me for a diagnosis or medical details, and it was obvious she believed me, even though our abilities differ.

Her lime green tennis skirt told me something I should have known years ago: It’s okay to “come out” as face blind. So what if I thought Daenerys from “Game of Thrones” and Legolas from “The Lord of the Rings” were the same character? That just gives me dozens of inside jokes with the people who know I have a facial recognition deficit, but love me anyway.

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.