Stop-and-Frisk’s Fiercest Foe

As New York’s minority communities fume over the controversial crime-fighting tactic known as stop-and-frisk, one camera-wielding ex-con makes it his mission to catch the cops in action.

He was racing like a madman somewhere on the edge of the Bronx, listening to a police radio and hoping to catch some cops on camera, when suddenly he got lucky. Two officers were approaching a young black man on Bruckner Boulevard, a location Jose LaSalle had marked on his map, which he uses to track citizen complaints of the NYPD routinely and unreasonably stopping and frisking people on the street. LaSalle and his crew, a troop of middle-aged Bronx residents and young female activists, got there within seconds, pulled out their phones and surrounded the officers with cameras. Baffled, the police backed away from the young man.

LaSalle’s gold tooth was gleaming in the lights of passing cars; he couldn’t hide his excitement. “Those were rookies,” he laughed as the officers walked away.

The badge on his vest reads “Cop Watcher,” and he never leaves home without his camera. At night, he works for New York City’s parks department, but by day LaSalle patrols some of the poorest and most violent areas of New York City, places like the South Bronx and Brownsville, Brooklyn, where the police make up to fifteen times as many stops as in New York City in general.

New York’s stop-and-frisk program, which enables officers to stop, question and frisk people on the basis of reasonable suspicion of illegal activity, expanded tremendously during the Bloomberg administration. The police defend the practice as a tool for getting guns off the street and keeping crime low in the city, but opponents call it racist and unconstitutional. While a back-and-forth legal battle continues to wind its way through the system, Jose LaSalle and his crew of cop watchers are monitoring the NYPD on their own.

“Basically, I am patrolling the police just like the Black Panther Party did in California in the 1960s,” says LaSalle. “I just traded the shotgun for a digital camera.”

Jose LaSalle in East Harlem. He uses his phone to film what he says are unreasonable stops by police.
Jose LaSalle in East Harlem. He uses his phone to film what he says are unreasonable stops by police.

At forty-three, his face is scarred from prison gang fights and his body is covered with tattoos, revealing a different and darker life. In his apartment in the Bronx, he still keeps the bullet that nearly killed him in a turf war over the corner of Lexington Avenue and 123rd Street back in the late 1980s. When he folds his left hand around his camera, the letters L-O-V-E emerge on the back of his fingers from an old faded tattoo, and on his chest, close to his heart, he keeps the ink contours of a woman who saved him from the drug world many years ago, but who now exists only in his memory.

I first met Jose LaSalle about a year ago. Originally from Puerto Rico, he grew up in East Harlem and told me he didn’t like talking to white people. “Can’t trust them,” he said. He finally gave in one day on the outskirts of East New York, relenting to my many months of stalking and, perhaps, a desire for company. “Come on my little white friend,” he said, and we began hitting the streets together: He constantly preaching about the evils of stop-and-frisk and always two steps ahead, as if he knew that the darkness hiding inside him would catch up if he paused.

“I miss my wifey,” he would say sometimes when we sat down for coffee or waited for the train. For a moment, he would segue into his own thoughts, but wherever he traveled in his mind, he never stayed long before distracting himself with one of his fiery speeches about the police, or pulling out an iPad to show off his video library of what he said were unreasonable stops and unlawful arrests. He was not only fighting the cops, I would learn. He was fighting himself, too. As we walked the streets of New York, Jose LaSalle unfolded his story.

*   *   *

When he was thirteen, his father died. New York was the richest city in the world, but East Harlem—”El Barrio”—where he was growing up, was one of America’s poorest and most devastated neighborhoods. Buildings were crumbling around him and entire blocks were abandoned. LaSalle used to dig for fruits and vegetables in the garbage and eat the parts that weren’t rotten. Other kids made fun of his tattered clothes and cheap shoes.

In 1985, three years after he lost his father, the world around him changed. Crack cocaine hit the streets, and president Ronald Reagan warned the nation of a smokable epidemic haunting America. Suddenly anyone could buy a gram of cocaine, cook it up with water and baking soda on the stove and double their money in the rising underground economy. Eager crack entrepreneurs occupied the corners of East Harlem, and a scramble for street control began. Gunshots rang out almost every night and parents made their babies sleep in bathtubs to avoid stray bullets as the violent crime rate soared.

On every corner of El Barrio, crews of young men shouted out the brand names and colors of the vial tops indicating the quality of the drug—blue tops, red tops, pink tops.

LaSalle began selling black, green and purple tops on Lexington Avenue from 133rd Street to 116th Street. And suddenly he had “the gold, the green, and the girls.”

He soon managed a crew of thirty drug dealers and began selling heroin. His team would easily make $100,000 in a few days. At nineteen, he had a van with chrome rims and almost enough gold chains to sink a ship. Finally, he was getting the respeto he had been searching for.

Then one day in the early spring of 1988, a drug dealer from a rival crew shot him twice in a territorial fight over a street corner. One bullet missed his vital organs and went through his stomach. The other lodged in his chest and nearly killed him. He woke up in an ambulance, breathing through an oxygen mask and on his way to spending twelve years in prison.

*   *   *

While LaSalle was locked up, New York City was poised for dramatic change, as former prosecutor and newly elected mayor Rudolph Giuliani declared in his 1994 inauguration speech. Giuliani and police commissioner William Bratton set out to clean the streets with a zero-tolerance strategy of cracking down on petty crimes by targeting vandalism, broken windows, graffiti, litter and other so-called quality-of-life crimes in the hope that reducing minor offenses would bring down major felonies, too. Helped by the data-driven mapping system known as CompStat, the NYPD was able to dissect crime trends block by block, sending more officers to aggressively patrol and pursue serious crime in the most troubled areas.

From 1990 to 2003, New York City experienced an unprecedented drop in crime. Despite other factors like the booming economy, a saturated crack market, declining unemployment, and the fact that crime began lowering even before Giuliani and Bratton took office, the police were hailed as the saviors of the city. Many minority residents, on the other hand, felt they were paying a high price for this new, aggressive policing strategy, which they associated less with decreased crime than with harassment and alleged police brutality, culminating with the death of Amadou Diallo, the immigrant from Guinea who was shot forty-one times by police officers mistaking his wallet for a gun. As a response to Giuliani and Bratton’s intense policing in minority neighborhoods, former members of the Black Panther Party announced in 1996 that they would put away the .9mm and pick up the 8mm camera. Armed with celluloid, the Panthers created the first cop watch patrols in New York City.

“We were aggressive. We didn’t just stand back and film, we walked straight up and confronted the police, commanding them to step back and stop harassing people,” says Shepard McDaniel, a former member of the Harlem chapter of the Black Panther Party.

In prison, Jose LaSalle didn’t care much about the Black Panthers or racial profiling. He was too busy trying to stay out of the gangs that ruled the corridors of Attica Correctional Facility, a maximum security prison in Upstate New York.

*   *   *

The Latin Kings, the largest Hispanic drug gang in America, perceived his lack of engagement with their group as betrayal. LaSalle heard rumors that they would take him down, so he prepared carefully in his cell. At night, he broke off little pieces of the ceiling fan and wrapped them in metal wires to fabricate a shank that he would carry under his clothes.

The Latin Kings waited patiently. One day, when he went to the bathroom unprotected, three of them came up from behind and one sliced his lip. LaSalle couldn’t feel a thing, just kept stabbing his knife in all directions while blood was dripping from his mouth.

LaSalle watches his videos of stop-and-frisk on his iPad in East Harlem.
LaSalle watches his videos of stop-and-frisk on his iPad in East Harlem.

“In there, you become an animal. It’s all about survival,” he said one night as we rushed through the subway system, from Rockaway Avenue towards East Harlem and the Bronx. “I remember thinking that if they didn’t kill me, I would kill them. I just wanted to get out alive.”

His shank hit one of the gang members in the eye, popping it, and LaSalle was transferred to the D-Block of Clinton Correctional Facility, the largest maximum security prison in New York. He can’t recall exactly how much time he spent in Clinton—he was transferred a lot—but he does remember that he was put in solitary confinement for more than a year. In total, LaSalle spent four years in isolation. Somewhere in a dark corner of his loneliness he discovered something that would help him in the streets many years later.

“At first, I was just running around desperate in my cell, screaming to myself, but that didn’t get me anywhere,” says LaSalle. He couldn’t see beyond his room, except for those few seconds a day when food was delivered through a small hole in the door. So he began using his ears to envision the world outside, listening to every little sound: footsteps, conversations. “I became patient, and I became an observer,” he says. “And that taught me to stay in control of my rage and channel it in ways that would actually reach somebody.”

*   *   *

When LaSalle was finally released in 2000, the streets of East Harlem were barely recognizable to him. Most drug dealing had moved inside, and he was constantly stopped, questioned and frisked by the police. El Barrio was slowly gentrifying, and renovations were taking place everywhere. But it wasn’t only New York that had changed. LaSalle was different, too.

He no longer felt at home in his apartment, so he tried to make it look like his solitary cell. He painted the walls black, blinded the windows and kept himself in darkness for nearly six months while searching for a way back into the drug trade. He’d probably have found himself behind bars again if it hadn’t been for a slender brown-eyed girl who lived next door.

“She looked like a queen, everything was popping out. I felt something, so I began to say ‘hi.’ And one day, she said ‘hi’ back,” he recalls. Her name was Nancy Ocasio, and with her, LaSalle became a law-abiding family man. He moved into her apartment, got a job at a moving company, and ten years went by.

“I guess she taught me to love myself, and that was really what I’d been looking for my whole life,” he says.

Nancy cooked for him when he came home from work and they talked for hours at night. She was the kind of woman everyone in the community bent an ear to, and she would tell LaSalle all about the neighborhood. He often said that he wanted to do something for his community, be like Martin Luther King or Malcolm X. In prison, he’d become a member of the Five Percent Nation, an organization founded by one of Malcolm X’s early students. The group taught members to rise above street life in order to free their communities from oppression. But at the time, LaSalle didn’t know how to do it.

“I was in love, I was happy and I didn’t want to lose all that, so she kept me off the streets and out of trouble,” he says.

LaSalle took care of Nancy’s kids like his own, especially her son Alvin. His biological father, a police officer, hadn’t been present much in Alvin’s life, so LaSalle stepped up as a father figure.

In his early teens, Alvin was a member of the Explorers, an NYPD youth program designed to guide teenagers into careers in law enforcement. But in the spring of 2011, LaSalle noticed that Alvin wouldn’t leave the apartment, claiming that the police were hunting him all over Harlem. LaSalle thought his stepson was being paranoid, but on the night of June 3, something happened that made him think otherwise.

Alvin was walking home from his girlfriend’s house when three police officers jumped out of their car on 116th Street between Madison and Park Avenues.

“You look very suspicious when you are walking the block with your hood up and you keep looking back at us like that,” one officer said.

Alvin tried to explain that he was wearing a hoodie because it was cold, and that he was only looking at the officers since they’d already stopped him a few blocks away.

“Do you want me to smack you?” the officer said. Then he pushed Alvin and twisted his arm while he aggressively frisked him, threatening to break his arm and punch him in the face before he handcuffed him.

“What am I being arrested for?” Alvin wanted to know.

The officer drew close and yelled into his face: “For being a fucking mutt.”

“Is that a law, being a mutt?” Alvin asked before the cops left him in the street without any explanation.

You couldn’t blame Alvin for wondering if there actually was a law against being brown-skinned. Within the previous few months he’d been stopped, questioned and frisked multiple times for no other reason than looking “suspicious.” That year, the NYPD stopped a record-high number of almost 700,000 people. Nine out of ten were young black or Hispanic men like Alvin.

Under Mayor Michael Bloomberg and Police Commissioner Ray Kelly, the stop-and-frisk program expanded 500 percent, growing from 97,296 people stopped in 2002 to 533,042 in 2012. More than five million people were stopped in New York City during the Bloomberg administration; 4.3 million were black or Hispanic.

What made the stop on the night of June 3, 2011, different from those millions of others was that Alvin had secretly hit the record button on his iPod.

*   *   *

When LaSalle heard Alvin’s recording, he immediately woke Nancy up and they went to the 25th Precinct. LaSalle was furious, and Nancy yelled at the officers. She asked for an explanation, demanded someone be held accountable. They filed a complaint to NYPD’s Internal Affairs Bureau but never heard back.

Months went by. Then one October morning, just before the first rays of light hit Harlem, life knocked LaSalle back into the dark. Nancy made him breakfast as usual, eggs with fries and ketchup, and he left for work before the sun rose. Three hours later, her children called. Nancy wasn’t moving, they said. LaSalle rushed home and found Nancy lying on the sofa. Her face was pale.

LaSalle's tatto of his late wife, Nancy
LaSalle’s tatto of his late wife, Nancy

He kept blowing air into her mouth even though her lips had turned purple, and he knew it was too late. She had died of a heart attack. “Her body…there was nothing there. Whatever kept her alive was gone,” he says. The kids cried and screamed. LaSalle waited for the ambulance to arrive before he stumbled down the stairs, dizzy and disoriented, and for a moment stood paralyzed in the hall.

“I was messed up, I was hurt, and I didn’t know what to do. The only thing that had kept me on the straight and narrow path, that kept me being a righteous person, was gone,” LaSalle says.

He left the kids with relatives and disappeared for weeks. At night, he moved into different hotels. He didn’t show up for work in the mornings, wandering the streets aimlessly all day. He had no idea where he was heading. He just kept walking, hoping that each step would lead him further away from the pain.

*   *   *

He was roaming the streets somewhere around 135th Street and Amsterdam Avenue when a young man handed him a flyer about a rally against stop-and-frisk. LaSalle noticed that Cornel West was speaking at the event. He’d read several of his books while in prison and thought the Princeton professor was right when he said that American racism is as prevalent as ever, that American society is designed to protect the white and the privileged, and that none of it will change until the people themselves take care of it.

LaSalle went to the rally, mainly to get a picture with his jail-time hero. When he arrived, West, dressed in his signature black suit matched with dark shades, was roaring about Martin Luther King and Malcolm X, and the need to stand up for the young generation.

A woman was walking around with a notepad asking people to sign a sheet. LaSalle, eyes focused on West, wrote his name thinking that he was signing up for a newsletter. But then the woman started shouting out the names on her list. She called his name.

The protesters instantly began cheering and patting LaSalle on his back. He hadn’t signed up for a newsletter. He’d volunteered to block the NYPD’s 28th Precinct in order to get locked up in an act of civil disobedience that marked an escalation in the fight against stop-and-frisk.

LaSalle desperately looked for an escape. There was no way he was going back to prison, he thought. But the protesters kept pushing him forward, cheering and clapping.

“They were constantly telling me how brave I was, and saying that I was ‘the man’” says LaSalle. Suddenly he was standing next to Cornel West. For a brief moment the pain felt a little less piercing, and right there, on the corner of 125th Street and 7th Avenue, where Malcolm X held his legendary speeches back in the 1960s, LaSalle’s life as a crusader against stop-and-frisk began.

*   *   *

Cautiously he started sneaking around in the streets, watching the cops in secret. He mostly walked around with just a pen and a notebook, writing down whatever he witnessed. If he saw an officer acting particularly aggressive towards people in his neighborhood, he sometimes took out his phone, but he always kept his distance and immediately put it away if the police noticed him.

He always carried a copy of Alvin’s audio recording on his phone, but he couldn’t figure out what to do with it. He played it to anyone who would listen and sent it to all the media outlets he could think of, from Channel 7 to CNN, but none would publish it without revealing Alvin’s identity, and LaSalle was scared that the officers might retaliate against his stepson if they saw his face on TV. He carried the recording around for almost a year, until a filmmaker LaSalle met through the activist network convinced him that Alvin had to step forward in order for the recording to have a real impact.

On October 8, 2012, The Nation published a short documentary about Alvin on its website. Called The Hunted and the Hated, it quickly generated almost 900,000 views, spread across the Internet and amplified the debate about stop-and-frisk in the mainstream media. It also infuriated New York City Council members when it was played a few days later at a meeting of the council’s public safety committee. “It’s totally despicable, totally unacceptable,” council member Robert Jackson said during the meeting. “It should not be tolerated in our NYPD.” Alvin became the poster child of a policy that many felt had grown out of control, and LaSalle vowed he would do everything in his power to protect Alvin and teenagers like him by watching their streets. He studied the law, realized that watching the cops was well within his rights, “and one day I just didn’t step back,” he says.

*  *  *

LaSalle usually gives his phone number to young men he meets on his walks, and sometimes they call to him: “Yo, Jose. The cops are working some kid over here. Come over.” LaSalle then patrols the area intensely to let the police know he is watching. Some of the areas he patrols, like Brownsville in Brooklyn, are home to members of notorious gangs like the Crips, Bloods, Latin Kings and MS-13, who fight turf wars with each other, often turning their neighborhoods into bloody battle zones. LaSalle fears that if the good kids don’t feel they can trust the police, they will become easy targets for such criminal gangs. “I don’t want that life for anyone,” he says. “I hope to be at least one person in the street that they can trust.”

When he spots a new officer, he walks up and introduces himself. “Hello, my name is Jose, I’m in charge of the Cop Watch Patrol Unit, patrolling this area to make sure you’re carrying out your duty of Courtesy, Professionalism and Respect. So, be safe and see you around.”

One freezing January night, we passed an officer at Thurman Munson Way in the Bronx. Jose handed him one of the brochures he normally gave people in the streets. It outlined do’s and don’ts for citizens stopped by the police and explained the concept of cop watching.

LaSalle hands out his business cards to residents in East Harlem.
LaSalle hands out his business cards to residents in East Harlem.

The officer, who is black, browsed through the material while his white partner came over. LaSalle handed him a brochure, too.

“It doesn’t matter if the cop is black, brown, white or yellow. Once he puts on that uniform he becomes alienated from the community,” LaSalle explained. The officers looked puzzled.

“So you are running around filming? Waiting for us to punch somebody in the face?” the black cop asked.

LaSalle laughed disarmingly. “As long as you follow the procedures you’re not in trouble,” he said. “But you have to remember that you are out here to protect and serve us. You are not out here to harass us or make us afraid of you, but that’s what’s happening. We’re not gonna stop until this ends—”

The white cop interrupted him. “They almost eliminated stop-and-frisk in Philly and look what happened.” The officer was referring to a class action lawsuit settlement that caused reform of stop-and-frisk in Philadelphia, while the murder rate had gone up.

“All that talk about guns is just bogus,” said LaSalle, “You stop 1,000 people to find one gun. When 600,000 innocent people get stopped and almost all of them are people of color, we have a problem.”

The officers began fidgeting. They had to get working, they said.

One day, LaSalle got a chance to talk to Ray Kelly. It was a sunny September afternoon during the African American Day Parade in 2012, and the police commissioner was visiting Harlem. With the green, black and red Pan-African flag in one hand, LaSalle marched straight up to him. They were an odd couple: Kelly in a hand-tailored suit and silk tie and LaSalle in a Yankees cap, drinking a Red Bull to keep himself energized.

“Ray Kelly, my man, I think you are doing a great job,” he recalls telling him. He only offered that praise to get his attention, and it worked. “But I have a problem with the stop-and-frisk. You have to end it,” he then told Kelly, pointing his flag at the police commissioner. Kelly told him to put it away, but LaSalle was so eager that he couldn’t stop pointing. Kelly grabbed the flag and his bodyguards moved closer. Then he asked LaSalle: how he would otherwise get guns off the streets?

LaSalle told him that stop-and-frisk wasn’t getting guns off the streets. In fact, NYPD’s own data show that a gun was found in only .15 percent of stops in 2012, and that most guns are recovered outside stop-and-frisk hot spots.

“I just got brave out of nowhere,” LaSalle says of his encounter with Kelly. “I always wanted to be able to stand in front of the police and let them know that what they’re doing is wrong.”

*   *   *

Since the first day I met him, LaSalle had been talking about the court case against stop-and-frisk, a class-action trial suit in U.S. District Court in Manhattan. In Floyd vs. the City of New York, four black men and the Center for Constitutional Rights challenged the department’s use of stop-and-frisk as racist and unconstitutional.

When the first day of trial finally arrived, the courtroom was crammed; even the overflow room was flooded. Social workers, lawyers, community organizers and scholars of all kinds were taking notes. This was not just the case of a few bad apples in the police department or a single incident of cops crossing the line. This was an entire practice of the NYPD going on trial.

Black and Hispanic teenagers, Muslims and members of New York’s LGBT community rallied outside the courthouse nearly every day of the hearings. Floyd vs. The City of New York had become the symbol of injustice in minority communities. Meanwhile, the long-shot mayoral candidate Bill de Blasio was starting to gain momentum based on his “tale of two cities” platform and aggressive opposition to stop-and-frisk.

Inside the courtroom, whistleblowers documented that CompStat had turned into a numbers game, constantly demanding officers to stop and frisk more people in the streets. They also documented what black and Hispanic teenagers had complained about for decades: that they were being stopped because of the color of their skin.

On an audio recording from 2011 that was played during the trial, Deputy Inspector Christopher McCormack told officer Pedro Serrano that in order to suppress violent crime in the 40th Precinct they had to stop, question and frisk “the right people at the right time at the right location.” Serrano asked who the right people were.

“I told you at roll call, and I have no problem telling you this: male blacks, fourteen to twenty, twenty-one,” the commanding officer replied.

A wide range of officers were questioned: Sergeants, lieutenants, commanders, the whole chain going all the way up to the recently retired Chief of Department, Joseph Esposito. Meanwhile, Judge Shira Scheindlin sat rock solid behind her desk, sipping large cups of Diet Coke while listening to testimony from more than a hundred witnesses and reading the transcripts on her computer in real time. She’d been hearing lawsuits against the NYPD for more than a decade, and now she was faced with a rare chance to rewrite the rules and end an era in the history of New York City.

In the third row sat Yolanda Matthews, a volunteer with LaSalle’s cop watch unit in Brownsville. She showed up in court every day, as long as the trial went on.

Jose LaSalle talking to the police in East Flashbush, Brooklyn, during one of the protests following the fatal shooting of sixteen-year-old Kimani Gray.
Jose LaSalle talking to the police in East Flashbush, Brooklyn, during one of the protests following the fatal shooting of sixteen-year-old Kimani Gray.

“Finally, karma is coming back,” she said.

LaSalle, however, was nowhere to be seen. A few days after the trial began, I found him in East Flatbush, Brooklyn. The streets needed him, he said. He’d been out there every day since a young black teenager had been killed by the police on March 9. Two plainclothes police officers shot Kimani Gray seven times just before midnight on East 52nd Street; three bullets hit him in the back. The officers said Gray, sixteen, had a gun. A loaded .38 caliber was found at the scene, but at least one witness said Gray was unarmed.

A little less than a year earlier, Shantel Davis, twenty-three, black and unarmed, had been shot and killed by a narcotics detective just a few blocks away, and the community was outraged. Following Gray’s shooting, young people filled the streets. Forty-six were arrested, and police occupied the neighborhood. Cops were everywhere: on rooftops, along buildings, two on almost every corner.

It had been more than a week since the shooting when I found LaSalle. Things had cooled off a bit, but on the corner where Gray used to hang out a crowd of two dozen protesters refused to give up. LaSalle stood in front of the police, all fired up and showing teeth.

“Whose streets? Our streets!” he kept roaring at the protesters, leading them on. He had hardly any voice left, and he looked exhausted.

“But this gives me energy,” he said. “This is my new family.”

*   *   *

When the public learned about Alvin, the police finally began investigating his case. At around the same time, his biological father stepped into his life, and Alvin now lives with him in Harlem.

“Alvin really needed that. Nothing can replace the biological father. They will always have a special bond that a stepfather can’t give,” says LaSalle. His voice turns almost silky when he speaks of Alvin, and he always refers to him as his son. “Of course I miss seeing him every day, and I wish I could bring him with me wherever I go, but I just want him to be happy,” he says.

Sometimes, Alvin bumps into the officers who handcuffed him and called him a “fucking mutt” on that summer night in 2011, but they haven’t touched him since. Other officers have stopped and frisked him, though. So when Judge Scheindlin ruled against the NYPD on August 12, stating that New York City’s stop-and-frisk practice was unconstitutional, Alvin was excited.

“This is what I’ve been waiting for for a very long time,” he said.

A federal appeals panel later removed Judge Scheindlin from the case after questioning her impartiality, and the city has asked the court to vacate her order that stop-and-frisk be reformed. Regardless of the court case’s final outcome, Mayor-elect de Blasio has pledged to change the program and install new leadership at the NYPD.

*   *   *

Since Nancy died, LaSalle has been living with his seventy-four-year-old mother in the Bronx. She was recently diagnosed with cancer, and LaSalle is terrified that she will die just as suddenly as Nancy did. Sometimes he finds himself sneaking into her room at night with a flashlight to make sure she is still breathing. He can’t let go of the thought that Nancy might be alive today if he hadn’t left her to go to work.

Whenever he is not patrolling the streets he makes sure he is there for all the families who’ve lost their loved ones to confrontations with the police. He marched with the fiancé of Sean Bell, a young unarmed black man who was shot on the morning of what would have been his wedding day.

He showed up at Ramarley Graham’s house on the day after the unarmed eighteen-year-old was shot and killed by an officer who chased him, based on false information that he had a gun. The officer kicked in Graham’s door and shot him in the bathroom, in front of his grandmother and six-year-old brother.

And he spent every moment he could in East Flatbush to support the family of Kimani Gray.

“I am doing all I can to help them find some form of peace. When someone you love is suddenly taken away from you, you are searching for answers. You keep torturing yourself with the question: What could I have done differently to prevent this from happening? And you feel so lost, so alone,” he said.

The protesters on the corner were waiting for a cue from LaSalle to move on. They would march to Gray’s home and then to the precinct to show their anger.

“I never knew I had all this inside me,” said LaSalle. ”I guess I had to go through all that shit to find myself. That’s the funny thing about death: sometimes it pushes you to your right place.”

* * *

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

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* *

Sara Maria Glanowski is an award-winning freelance journalist and documentary filmmaker exploring culture, politics and social affairs, especially the issues of race, poverty and inequality. She holds an MA in Politics from Columbia Journalism School, and her work has appeared in The Atlantic, Vice, and on Al Jazeera America. Follow her at @Sara_Glanowski on twitter and at saramariaglanowski on Instagram.

Secret Life of a Search and Rescue Volunteer

When someone goes missing on a frozen mountaintop or in a wildfire, my team heads out to help when no one else can — even if all we can do is bring back their bodies.

Three kids are missing on the mountain. They missed their check in, and search and rescue (SAR) has been tasked with finding them. It’s what we do. We track down the lost and injured and bring them home. I’ve been a member of this unit, primarily based around Mount Hood, Oregon, but working wherever we are needed in the Pacific Northwest, for about three years. Given my profound lack of experience at the onset, I’ve only actually been useful for about a year, maybe two.

We have a general idea of where the three kids are, or at least where they are supposed to be. At the base of the mountain, where most climbs start, is a climbers’ register where parties write down their intended route, expected return date, and what equipment they have – vital information in just this type of situation.

It’s cold and windy. Visibility is low. No one wants to be in the field on days like this. But, as Rocky, a veteran member once told me, only half joking, “We’re mountaineers. We suffer. It’s what we do.” That suffering is accepted because this is what we volunteered for (and almost all of us are truly volunteers – only the sheriff and a few others are paid). It’s made tolerable knowing that there is someone worse off, someone who needs us.

We will trace the most likely path and hopefully find them hunkered down in a snow cave or some other shelter, but alive. Bringing a victim home alive is why I go up. The satisfaction is like no other. After more than a decade in medicine, as an EMT initially and now as a physician assistant in a busy urban ER, I have revived cardiac arrests, treated trauma and dealt with just about every other medical calamity, but mountain rescue is different. People get injured in the mountains and back country, we get them when no one else can or will. Even if all we can do is bring back their bodies.

And I know how important that can be.

On the night of my first high school dance, the police showed up bearing somber news to my mother. She took me into the back room of the house. “There’s been an accident. Dad’s dead,” my mother told me, barely a quiver in her voice. She was trying to hold it together, but saying that out loud, she couldn’t. My brother, mother and me stood in that back room, with the lights off, and hugged and cried and lost track of time.

He fell while out hiking two states over. Local SAR was bringing the body out of the canyon. They couldn’t save him, but they could return his body to his family. We grieved while we waited for his return, which would take a day or two. It didn’t become concrete or tangible until we had the body. A tremendous service was done for my family by strangers.

Now it is my turn.

I will do for others what had been done for us. I will bring them home, do what I can to prevent further backroom suffering. Paying a debt to the universe makes the insufferable tolerable.

* * *

We are a team of 15 – physicians, general contractors, business executives and even an animal chiropractor, with personalities as varied as the professions. But there is a core tenet among us all: to help those in need.

A resort at the base of the mountain provides a Sno-Cat that transports us up through the groomed ski fields. National forest regulations prohibit mechanized travel beyond certain boundaries, but occasionally, we get permission to ignore them, to save a life. The driver takes us up as far as we can go before the Cat starts to backslide.

This is where the hard work starts. From here on out, we will be on foot. Once over the ridge and onto the next glacier, we break into smaller teams of three or four and separate to search different areas. Bob, a tall, slender guy who made some wise business decisions and retired early, is my team lead. He is tasked with interacting with the other team leads and Incident Command, as well as making sure all of us come home alive. Then there’s Keith, an engineer who makes dad jokes without being a dad; Christopher, an occasional school teacher who’s fond of instigating shenanigans and watching his work unfold; and me, the newest member of the team – the low-man on the totem pole.

The winds are up. The temperatures are down. Visibility is minimal. Freezing fog deposits a thin layer of ice on clothing. Beards freeze and develop icicles. Any exposed skin quickly turns red and raw. The moisture from my breath freezes my goggles. Periodically, I use the rubber handle of my ski pole to scrape the ice out of the goggles. This only provides a brief window of clear vision.

We follow the kids’ intended route up the mountain, up the gentle snow slope, bearing west. It’s a short distance, but it takes us an hour in these conditions. We come up into a bowl, relatively protected from the wind. The route travels up from the bowl and over a ridge. Once on the other side we must be hyper-vigilant. We will be travelling across a large crevasse field, hidden in dense fog. The route leads up a snow and ice gully from the far end of this crevasse field. This is one of the two more common routes for teams to take after they have previously completed the standard route. It represents a step up in technical difficulty, presents complicated route finding, and is an overall longer route. Most of us on the rescue team have climbed this route before, individually or as a team, but not in these conditions.

A fall from their route could have spit the kids out onto this crevasse field. We must search it exhaustively. First, we rope up – tying ourselves together so that if one of us falls into an unseen crevasse, theoretically, the rest of the small team can arrest the fall and retrieve the teammate. A rescuer becomes a liability if he is dead. As the newest, least-experienced member, I’m in the middle of the rope. Bob, on point, has to choose a path around the crevasses. The man in the back is the last hope if the first team members can’t arrest their own fall. Bob scans the snow for signs of weakness indicating a crevasse. I follow the footsteps exactly.

Slowly, methodically, we spread out to search the area. Ice axes are at the ready in the event a rope mate goes into a crevasse. My eyes strain to look for clues through fogged-up goggles. Even a light snow can cover vital clues. We move westward toward the terminus of the route the three kids were attempting.

“I need to search that area down by the big crevasse. Keep eyes on me,” Bob says. Rather than continue with our roped travel, Bob will move more cautiously down towards the crevasse on his own. I head up a ridge and plant myself in a vantage point where I can maintain constant visual contact. The area looks lousy with crevasses, with more likely hidden. Bob is belayed down into the field by Keith, who is anchored to the snow. Any fall should be terminated quickly. Should be. Our gloves have a layer of icy grime, so holding the rope during a fall would require more effort than in more pristine conditions.

He goes out, searches, and returns. No incident, but no evidence found of our three kids either. We’re preparing to keep moving when our radios start crackling and we hear someone from one of the other teams say, “I think I’ve found something.” We all stop and put lift our radios to our ears.

“Should we head up to you?”

Silence. Crackle. “…Yeah.”

My team was searching the lower end of the glacier, so we are some of the last to get to the scene. As we approach, I see the other teams standing around a body. If it weren’t for the people standing around him, I might have walked right by; he was nearly invisible in the waning day, under a fresh layer of snow. I see that no one is frantic. No one is pulling a medical kit out. Our kid must be dead. His mouth is open, in the shape of an “O” and full of snow. I get to him and place my hands on his body. He is stiff and frozen. His base-layer shirt and soft shell jacket are unzipped. There is blood on his thigh, though no obvious deformity or injury. I see no grossly apparent signs of blunt trauma. Some distance away, there is climbing gear strewn at the bottom of the route. One of the other teams had continued searching and found it. It looks like he walked some distance away from the debris field.

Maria, a newly minted ER doctor, digs a little bit of the snow out of his mouth. Not much, just a little. I’m not sure why. It is an image that will stick with me.

“Hey, why don’t I package the body? Not everybody needs to see this,” I offer to the overall rescue leader. Some of the team members have never seen a dead body before.

He pauses for a moment. “Yeah, do it.”

I’m new to mountain rescue, but seasoned to life’s grim realities. The body must be packaged for extrication. He will be covered with a protective plastic tarp and placed into a litter. The litter is like a backboard with small walls and rails. It proves difficult to package him. He is frozen and did not have the foresight to die in a position conducive to packaging. But, I make it work. I have to.

Looking at what’s in front of me, I know what is ahead for the family. I know the sound. I know the dark, backroom scene, huddled in a private anguish that comes after the authorities deliver the news. There’s a wail that comes with unexpected death. It comes from the gut. It’s a sound I heard time and again in those first few days after my father died. I lost a parent, but they have lost a child. I package him as gently as I can. We will get him back to his family. The importance of our task is visceral. I cannot fathom what mourning without the body is. This family will not have to try.

* * *

The radio crackles again. The sheriff is thinking that we should package the body, anchor it someplace safe, and mark the location on GPS. This would allow us to keep searching for the other two. The freezing fog has turned to heavy snow. It was early afternoon, a time in the Pacific Northwest when the sun begins to set, and we are worn. We wouldn’t have more than a few hours of daylight left and still had to get off the mountain.

This is a dilemma. He’s dead, but the other two kids may not be. Until we find them, there’s no way to know. The weather forecast calls for continued lousy conditions for the rest of today and the next few days. Extrication is a lengthy process. Under the best conditions, in more easily accessed terrain, extrication by foot takes half a day. Do we begin the extrication of the body and leave our other two kids to try to survive another night? Do we try to place our first kid somewhere we can find him later and keep searching? In these conditions, among the crevasses, with the accumulating snowfall, it’s unlikely we would be able to find him again. Even anchored in a corner somewhere, location marked on GPS, any manner of event could prevent us from retrieving him. Avalanches could change the landscape of the entire field. There is the risk of continued snowfall and burial. An anchor could fail, leaving the body free to slip into one of the crevasses below.

It’s unbearable, in my mind, to leave him to keep searching. The thought of having to tell the family that we found the body, but left him on the mountain, is crushing. It seems inhumane. But then what would we tell the families of the other two kids if we left the mountain without knowing whether they were alive or dead?

I’m supremely thankful not to have to make that call. There are benefits to being a rookie.

The medical team, my other team, has setup nearby, in an area safe from crevasses or avalanches. There is a tent to escape the wind and warm drinks are being brewed. The medical team is solely concerned with the living. In the absence of proof of life of the other two, the medical team bears watch over the rescuers. The tent is for the rescuers. The warm drinks are for us. Periodically, people have to take a breather, to warm up and mentally recharge. It’s amazing how beneficial something as simple as a warm cup of tea can be in these situations. As one of the new guys, I still feel like I have to prove myself. I stay in the crevasse field and suffer.

Conversations between the rescue leaders in the field and the sheriff’s SAR deputies have been ongoing since we packaged the body. I haven’t been listening. I have no input to offer. Just feet to carry me to wherever I can be useful.

“The sheriff wants us to keep searching.” Word is spreading. My heart sinks into my stomach. I am exhausted. There is no good decision to be reached. I look at my teammates and can tell many are feeling the same. We don’t want to keep searching, but we will.

“SAR base from Team One.”

“Go ahead Team One.”

“Yeah, hey it’s Rocky. We’re not going to do that. It’s cold, it’s late. We’ll never find the body again. We’re bringing the teams in.”

A respected member and veteran of decades of mountain rescue has shut down the sheriff’s plan. Ultimately, it’s the sheriff’s call, but a good leader knows when to listen to experienced heads.

“O.K. Team’s coming in.”

We re-cross the crevassed glacier, this time with a sled with a body in it. Once at the eastern end of the glacier, we raise the whole package up and over the ridge, which is accomplished with ropes, pulleys and brute force. Eventually, we reach the waiting Sno-Cat. The packaged body lies between two rows of bench seats. The seats are full of rescuers. The layers of ice that had been our constant companions begin to melt. Steam rises off each living person’s head. Some people are looking through the camera we found among the scattered belongings. Perhaps a clue will be found to lead us to the other two kids. Perhaps there will be some indication as to what went wrong.

We reach the familiar transition point at the base of the glacier. We get out of the Sno-Cat and unload the package. A short distance below, snow meets parking lot. Rescuers meet sheriff. I head inside. There is to be a debrief. We are reminded of the resources available to us, should we need them, if anyone is experiencing grief or stress from recovering a body.

The body is brought inside the lodge. I can hear the family. By the end of the debrief, the family of our first kid should be well on their way to the city with the deceased. They are not. Word is traveling. The family of our first kid is staying on the mountain to support the families of our other two kids. I can’t imagine how they came to that decision. Their boy is dead. Yet, they remain with the other two families, while the body of their boy travels back to the city.

When I hear this, I remember that the ache I’m feeling all over is just physical pain. It is temporary.

* * *

I return to my warm apartment. The two kids are still up on the mountain. I’m mentally preparing for a return to the cold and misery tomorrow when the page comes through. We are grounded. No searchers will be deployed tomorrow on account of the horrendous conditions. Officially, this is still a “rescue.” The longer our other two kids are out there, the less likely they are to survive, if they are still alive at all. But they are up there, somewhere. I have little faith that this is going to be a rescue.

I feel utterly helpless, sitting in my kitchen, in a worn-out old chair, head back, staring at the ceiling. The debt I set out to pay remains. I am unable to provide the service that was done for my family. Logically, I understand it is out of my hands. The dangers and risks are real. This is a rational decision. In my gut, though, I have failed. This was my task. Bring the bodies home. Yet they remain on the mountain. There is only failure now.

So, I get drunk, the only solution I can think of.

Over the next few days conditions continue to deteriorate and eventually I have to go back to work. Finally, the search gets called off completely.

The following summer, I’m returning from a wildfire when the text comes through from my good friend Bob G., a member of the medical rescue team.

“multiagency effort. found the other 2.” He gives me no context. He doesn’t need to.

There is a great deal of discussion and speculation as to what happened. It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t particularly care how they got there, just where they end up – back with their families.

How It Feels to Be the Biggest Woman at a Clothing Swap

Great, actually.

My bedroom is completely ransacked – clothes are thrown everywhere, purses piled high on my bed. I’m frantically throwing nearly all of my clothes into large plastic bags. Some are still wrapped in the plastic they came in, hanging from metal hangers, as if embalmed and exempt from the passing of time. First to go are the tight designer t-shirts, then the dresses – so many dresses. The black satin cocktail number that once made me feel sexy, but that I could never zip up now. The turquoise one with animal print from Century 21 and the red flowered dress that knocked everyone’s socks off at the company party ten years ago. I used to be so audacious with my wardrobe. Now, I want fewer eyes on me.

I planned on walking, but the load becomes more than I can carry. Instead, I throw the clothes in my car and take off, headed for my first ever clothing swap – where women get together to trade things they no longer want. I’ve been invited by my new friend Sarah to participate in this feminine ritual. This is more than the usual spring cleaning for me; I need to get rid of these painful reminders of the woman I outgrew, literally and figuratively. I no longer want to feel body-shamed by my closet, which is stuffed with clothes that are literally six sizes too small, some that have hung there, unworn, for over a decade while I tried to convince myself I could be someone else.

As I schlep my bags of clothes up to Sarah’s pre-war walk-up, I start to worry that, as a size 12, I’ll be the biggest woman there and nobody will want my offerings. But there’s no turning back now.

* * *

My obsession with fashion started when I was a teenager, when adolescence brought with it a horizontal growth spurt. I didn’t object to my new breasts and butt, but the rapid increase in my thighs and belly made me want to buy every piece of fabric ever made just to cover them up. I was convinced that buying the tightest jeans possible could stymie my out-of-control thighs and shrink them back to their original size. If my clothes were cool enough, stylish enough, expensive enough, everyone would just focus on them and not the fact that I had blown up underneath them.

At 16, the author playing dress up at a friends’ house in Park Slope, Brooklyn. (Photos courtesy the author)

By the time I was 14, I was a size 12, and no fashionable clothing could hide the discomfort I felt. It wasn’t enough to have nice clothes, I still wanted to be thin like the other girls. To be what I thought was normal. Through my teens and 20s, I tried every trend: cleanses, the lemonade diet, the cabbage soup diet, no carbs, low carbs. I tried taking diet pills, Dexatrim every morning with endless glasses of water, but it only gave me headaches and constant trips to the bathroom. Nothing worked.

Finally, I spent one full year when I was in my thirties eating pre-portioned frozen food out of a box and getting up every day at 5:30 in the morning to work out. It worked. I dropped to a size six; in certain styles I was even a four.

I had always hated dressing rooms – the bright lights zooming in on my imperfections, the dread of nothing fitting right. But then, the first time I went shopping after the weight loss was a revelation. Almost everything fit. I remember the moment I pulled a red cotton Brooklyn Industries dress over my head and caught sight of my new self in the mirror; it was as if it was made for me, and I looked incredible. Even though I was thinner, I still had feminine curves, and this dress brought out every one. The cleavage, the thin waist. I wore it out of the store, crumpling up my old clothes and having the cashier cut the price tag off of me at the register. I felt taller, sexier. I bought a whole new wardrobe for my new start. At 38, for the first time, I began to love the warmer months, when dress season was in full bloom.

But the sacrifices I made to get into those dresses meant, ironically, that I rarely went out to dinner or parties because I was afraid of gaining weight. It’s amazing how often people commented about me not drinking or eating, often making me more self-conscious. When I did give in and go out I’d gain weight instantly. Every single time. It was a total Catch-22. The whole purpose of those clothes was to show myself off, to push me to socialize more, but in reality, they kept me in my studio apartment, away from the world, afraid to live.

The author, far right, during the last week of senior year in college.

Eventually I tired of the restrictions and disappointments and took a break from a life of deprivation. The weight crept back on and then some. Most of my favorite clothing no longer fit, regardless of how many pairs of Spanx I wore. Still, I held onto them for over ten years, hoping to someday return to that size, that woman. I had tried to stick to discipline, but eventually being a certain size just wasn’t worth how hard I had to work. It was one thing to say no to dessert or put the bread basket away, but to constantly be hungry and depleted felt at odds with my energetic personality. I wanted to go out, socialize, travel and taste different foods, have different experiences. Being thin without enjoyment defeated the purpose of trying so hard to look the part. I wanted to be part of my own life.

Now, at 47 I’m packing up all of these dresses that belonged to a woman I’m no longer trying to force myself to be. A woman who needed to give up everything for how others might see her. A woman whose biology was never destined for the petite rack. I still miss how I looked in those years of denial, but I don’t miss how I felt.

* * *

I carry three large bags filled to capacity; the plastic handles digging into my skin, turning my fingers red. I walk up four flights of stairs to Sarah’s apartment, where there are tall green plants in every corner and books falling off the shelves. Sarah comes to greet me, her brown hair flowing down to her shoulders, bouncing as she cheerily introduces me to her friends. My heart sinks as I realize most of the women here are in the size six range, a zone I hit just once, and briefly, in my life. I doubt there’s going to be anything here for me.

Sarah pours wine into small glass jars and spreads out homemade pesto sandwiches with brie and bacon marmalade. As we sip our wine and scoop up the melted cheese, the swap begins. Each woman takes a turn presenting her items to the group. Even though everything is being donated, you still want to make sure someone takes home your once-treasured goods with a little pitch. Great color but I have outgrown it. Perfect for summer but too revealing for me. It says, “Love me I’m a Vegetarian,” but I eat meat now so…

A thin brunette with a lot of energy bolts up to the front of the room. As she begins to describe her clothes, all the attention is on her. People start raising their hands and laughing, this is actually kind of fun. “This is the one I got when going to the holiday party last year,” she explains. “And this one my mother-in-law got me but is clearly not my style.” Some of the women talk of ex-boyfriends as they explain the stories behind their clothes. Some of their new jobs. Everyone here wants to get rid of their pasts too. Hearing each story – vignettes about their items, their lives, brings me closer to the women. I feel connected. While they physically appear different than I, they too have stories of wanting to move on in their lives and away from a time that has passed. The clothing swap allows us all the opportunity to release our nostalgia.

I’m surprised at how comfortable these women are in their own bodies. One short woman with a black long bob actually takes off her blouse and begins to try on the clothes right in front of us, her white cotton bra bright like neon lights. She throws on blouses, sweaters and even dresses as if no one is watching. Some of the women know her and her fashion show just blends into the background for them. But I can’t stop staring. I am no prude, but how can she take off her clothes in front of all of these people like she’s in a Loehman’s dressing room? What is that like, to be confident enough in your body to strip down in front of strangers like it’s no big deal?

Eventually it’s my turn to present. My palms begin to sweat. I want the ladies to love my clothes as much as I once did, to realize how important these items were to me in my life – my nostalgia, my years of trying to change myself, and this final moment of release as I let all of that pressure go. Each garment on display represents my sense of self when I bought them. I almost feel like if they reject my clothes, they will be rejecting a part of me. I’m afraid they might ignore me because of my current size, like some men do when we meet for the first time.

The author today.

I take a deep breath and go to the front of the living room. I open up my shopping bags and begin with an apology. “I used to be a variety of sizes from six to 12, so hopefully you will find something you like,” I say, as I start to pull out one meaning-laden item after another. I take out long flowy dresses that I wore when I first lost considerable weight in my 30s, when friends had asked if I had an eating disorder, but it was a combination of Jenny Craig and 5:30 a.m. workouts. I pull out my favorite red dress and it’s snatched up immediately. I feel much better about being here. Then I pull out a black strapless dress I never even wore. It was my “just in case I get invited” dress for parties I never went to, wanting to be someone’s plus one but often being passed over for a younger, more petite date. Someone takes this one, too, and I can feel the load lighten, all of those years of watching and wishing, falling away as I give away one too-small dress after another.

It’s a bittersweet feeling to let them go, knowing that I bought these clothes hoping for a different type of life. Now I am saying goodbye to the woman who wore them, or hoped to. Maybe wisdom really does come with age, but whatever finally let me let go of the insecurities of my youth, I’m no longer willing to base my self-worth on an arbitrary standard that I’m biologically incapable of attaining. All of my old insecurity isn’t going to disappear overnight, but passing along my clothes, my past, and my younger self feels noble, graceful, and it leaves room in my life for me, the real me.

I’m a Fifty-Year-Old Mom. I Just Had Sex in the Back Seat of a Car.

Sometimes acting like a teenage rebel is the only way to feel in control.

On a hot and humid night last June, I steered my car over twisting country roads toward a small lakeside town for a romantic rendezvous. I had spent the day at a funeral, reflecting on the fact that at fifty, I had more miles behind me than ahead. Oddly, my paramour had also spent the day at a funeral, and as the summer sun disappeared we made plans to meet halfway between our towns for a drink.

It was nearly eleven when I turned my car onto Main Street, and James was growing impatient. We were speaking on the phone when I caught a glimpse of him. Strikingly handsome, he looked at least a decade younger than his 61 years. Running and doing chores on his rural property kept his body lean and muscular, and his face betrayed few traces of the anguish I knew lay in his heart.

James met me at my car, and as we walked toward the restaurant he put his arm around me. I felt a shudder of excitement run down my spine and I pushed in closer to feel his body. When we sat at the bar he swiveled his chair, pushed his knees against mine, and leaned in close to talk. Our faces were pressed within whispering distance and I inhaled his scent. The drinks we ordered were superfluous; this was all a graceful dance of foreplay.

The bar was teeming with a coarse-looking crowd of men and women who had deeply lined faces and leather jackets. The fact that we were completely out of place only heightened our excitement. We huddled and made witty comments about the antics of other patrons, parting only to fling our heads back in hysterics. We sat at the bar laughing and kissing, and before long James ran his hand up my leg and under my skirt. On previous dates he had teased me about being a Puritan in public, but X-rated in private, but that night I made no attempt to be discreet.

It felt mischievous to be strangers in a raucous tavern far from home in the middle of the night. We reveled in escaping the constricting bonds of our everyday lives – him a lawyer, me a divorced single mother. Our behavior was an unspoken act of defiance against the taunt of age, and the gloom of funerals that had become a common part of our lives.

Outside the restaurant James kissed me deeply and with a new fervency. We were passionately entangled while patrons passed by, and I whispered that we needed to go somewhere private. James began walking me to my car, and I assumed I would follow him to the adjacent hotel, or to his house an hour away.

When we got to my car he told me to get in the back seat. I refused, saying that my kids had left a mess in my car. James took my hand and led me across the lot to his immaculately clean Mercedes.

“Get in,” he said again.

“I’m not having sex with you in a car,” I replied laughing, while thinking of how improper it would be for a middle-aged mother to do so.

“Just get in,” he repeated, smiling mischievously as he opened the rear door.

There was no point in arguing; I knew I’d get in, so I slid onto the back seat. James was right behind, and before I heard the click of the door closing he was kissing me. It was futile to fight the longing we had been feeling for the past hours. Soon, all thoughts of motherhood and what was proper disappeared. We had been together many times before, but that night we devoured each other.

“I can’t believe I just had sex in a car in a public parking lot,” I said afterward, as I searched for my bra in the front seat.

“It was exciting, like in high school,” James replied, looking flushed and exhilarated.

As I drove home in the wee hours of the morning I felt furtive pride that James and I had taken a rebellious stand against the inevitability of age, and society’s expectation that we go gently into the night. In the days and weeks that followed we frequently reminisced about our romp in the car, and how it brought us back to our adolescence; a time of freedom and endless promise, a time before responsibilities and painful regrets.

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!

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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.

Want to know more? Check out our behind-the-scenes interview with Erica Garza on Continuing the Narrative.