The Amazing Aviatrix of Wartime Casablanca

A daring teenage girl defies authority to become Morocco’s first female pilot and the hero of a young nation—then the victim of an assassination still shrouded in mystery.

Touria Chaoui is buried in the Ahl Fas cemetery, off the Boulevard d’El Hank in Casablanca. Nobody’s been buried there in years. If you manage to find the entrance, take the winding dirt path to the far end of the cemetery, past the lonely grave of Abdelwahed, her father. Another hundred meters along, through plots dug so closely that you’ll have to climb over them, feet slipping on the hard mounds, fingers catching the tops of tombstones for support, you’ll come to the grave of Touria. As the guardian brushes dead leaves from a stone, he’ll tell you that a couple of German tourists were her last visitors, a year, eighteen months ago. The Arabic inscription reads:

The sad moon sings for her youth. The Virgin has found her God, and she found him pure. Martyr of the nation, a traitor’s bullet found her head.

 * * *

On December 14, 1936, theater director Abdelwahed Chaoui left rehearsal, returned to his family’s riad in Fez, and was told the bad news: Zina had given birth to a daughter.

One of the first Moroccans to write a regular newspaper column in French, and known for theater productions that subtly satirized the French occupiers, Abdelwahed was self-educated, sophisticated, and no misogynist. But his role as an artist and resistant was one he had hoped to pass on to an understudy, one able to lead a similarly engaged life: a son.

He pouted for a few weeks, refusing to join his beautiful wife Zina in bed, but despite himself he was soon charmed by his little girl. They named her Touria — Arabic for the bright constellation of stars the Greeks called the Pleiades, after the daughters of Atlas, who were relentlessly pursued by the hunter Orion. A daughter was a difficult challenge, to be sure, but Abdelwahed was determined to rise to that challenge. Soon her hair was cut short like a boy’s, she was dressed in pants and he was taking her everywhere. As she grew older, she accompanied him on theater tours and acted in small roles, scandalous in a country that was still Shakespearean in the sense that a Juliet was played by a mincing Abdul. “I wash my hands of you and your family,” a neighbor declared. “Next are you going to prostitute the girl?” The hunters were already taking aim, but meanwhile Touria was learning from her theatrical father the power of self-transformation. And more than anything, she wanted to fly.

Hearing that familiar roar approaching, she would scamper out to the riad courtyard, toss back her close-cropped head and wait for the blue square of sky above to be broken by the winged flash of an airplane – Allied planes heading from Casablanca to Algiers or Palermo. And when the skies were calm, she would show her cousins how to make paper airplanes from the pages of school notebooks carefully ripped along the staples at the spine. They sent them whizzing through the air, swerving like fighter jets, or looping slowly to the ground, until the last plane was lost to the fountain at the center of the courtyard, and became a sea monster, or mush.

* * *

At four in the morning on November 8, 1942, Casablanca was startled from its dreams by the sound of engines rumbling across the dark sky, and thousands of paper tracts fluttered to the ground. The rain of paper announced, in French and Arabic, that the Americans would land at dawn. Do not resist. Lay down your arms and join with your allies to defeat the Nazis. A few miles off the coast, the largest American flotilla in history, over one hundred ships, approached the North African coast. This was to be their first battle of the Second World War fought in the Western hemisphere.

Over the next three days dogfights broke out in the sky over Casablanca’s minarets, and soon Frenchmen, fighting reluctantly for Vichy, were falling from the sky. The Red Ripper squadron off the USS Ranger made low runs in pairs to strafe the anti-aircraft batteries firing from installations near the port, including the tombstones of the Ahl Fass cemetery.

“We just feel we are floating in space,” an American pilot wrote about those three momentous days in Wildcats Over Casablanca, “casually floating in a vacuum where there is little sound and fury…The cockpits are so sound- and cold-proof that the pilot lives in a comfortable world all his own, untouched by the outer world.”

On the morning of the 11th, the French command surrendered across North Africa and united with the Allies to push towards German field marshal Rommel in Tunisia, kicking the Axis out of Africa for good and preparing the attack on Europe, where the sound and fury would come, and the world, as always, would get its revenge.

* * *

After the war, Abdelwahed Chaoui opened a Casablanca agency specializing in communication and special events. With his actor’s gift for social mobility, he enjoyed the pleasures of the country’s economic capital, meeting friends for drinks after work at the Roi de la Bière, or later at a reserved table in Parisian-style cabarets like the Don Quichotte. He was still producing the occasional play and still engaged in the resistance against the French (and still observed by the police), but his principal concern was developing the business, which would allow his growing family to join him. Eight years after the arrival of Touria, Zina had given birth to Salah Eddine, a son, and every two weeks or so Abdelwahed would arrive back home in Fez late on a Friday night to kiss the children as they slept.

That year a French movie director named André Zwobada arrived in Casablanca to scout locations for a film called “La Septième Porte.” Mostly forgotten today, the movie presented an opportunity to Abdelwahed, who was engaged by Zwobada as his local assistant. When it came time for casting, an important role was given to an outspoken young Moroccan girl, not even ten, who had some acting experience in local theater productions – Touria Chaoui.

Shooting moved out to the desert, where temperatures dipped below 100 only after midnight. It was so hot the film was melting in its cans, and at night Touria sat beneath the stars with her father, as comfortable as he was now at inhabiting two worlds – the day and the night, the city and the desert, the male and the female, the French and the Moroccan. This was the gift her father had given her, or the gift she’d given him.

* * *

In 1948, the whole family moved from Fez to Casablanca and set up house in an apartment at the back of Abdelwahed’s office on the Avenue Poeymirau. The city mesmerized the children. Touria loved the windows of the toyshops on the big Haussmannian boulevards the French had built – not so much for the toys, but for the model airplanes, which she could classify and name. Her brother Salah got a new pair of red leather shoes and couldn’t stop looking down at them as he stumbled along, not such a brilliant student as his sister, but beginning to show a talent for drawing, an instinct for color. All the same, it was expected that he would continue studying until his high school diploma, whereas Touria couldn’t hope to study further than junior high, the highest possible scholastic achievement for a girl. But Abdelwahed had always encouraged his daughter to go further, higher, and Touria still wanted to fly – which was completely ridiculous. No Moroccan – male or female – had ever earned a civil pilot’s license, much less an adolescent girl. Of course, all girls dream. What’s rare is a father who dreams just as big.

In the fall of 1950, father and daughter rode in a taxi out to Tit Mellil on the outskirts of Casablanca, where the French military had built an airstrip after the war and now trained the pilots of the elite fighter corps known as the Ailes Chérifiennes. Abdelwahed had seen enough of how the French system worked to have no great hopes of enrolling her in the school, but how could Moroccans, or his daughter, ever expect freedom if they did not at least pretend to be free? Couldn’t a performance, well played, become something like the truth? So he rode with his daughter out to Tit Mellil in a taxi, and they pretended that they were going to enroll her in flight school.

Amusement met them at the Aéroclub. Abdelwahed was assumed to be an applicant for the cleaning position, one who had presented himself in a foppish suit, accompanied by a tomboy daughter. The girl probably wanted a job too. Amusement ballooned into laughter when this Mohamed (the name the French gave all unknown Moroccan men) politely informed them that he had come to enroll his daughter in flight school. “This little Fatima [the female “Mohamed”] pretends she can be a pilot,” cried Monsieur Martin, the school’s director, to his merry subordinates. Abdelwahed continued. He could pay the tuition (although he hardly could), and so he wished to know what rule forbade his daughter from enrolling. The laughter died. There are some situations so improbable that they do not require a rule, which was unfortunate for Directeur Martin. After some hemming and hawing, certain that the girl would never survive a week in his demanding program, he agreed to let her begin.

She survived a week, then a month, then a year, infuriating not only Martin, but her French instructor, who resented being diverted from more important matters, like crushing the growing Moroccan resistance, for a sideshow. She was a perfect student, acing every test with passion and precision, but what sense was there in teaching a native girl how to fly? It’s not as if she would actually be given a license.

The Chaouis, however, still chose to believe that she would, and on October 17, 1951, they dressed in their finest – Touria’s finest was a flight suit – and made the trip to Tit Mellil to watch her final flight test. They rode in the Grand Taxi of the neighbor who had been so inspired by Touria’s story that he had driven her to and from the airfield every day for a year without accepting a franc. She was a source of pride in the neighborhood, a minor celebrity in the local groceries and hammams, but this was no longer enough. She had wanted to fly, but in flying she had found something that needed to be said to the world.

By the time the family reached the airfield, the temperature had dropped and the wind was rising, pulling in dark clouds from the ocean. Even for a veteran pilot, it was dangerous flying weather, but Directeur Martin, whose only power over Touria at this point was bureaucratic, refused to let her reschedule. One of Touria’s instructors, a Spaniard, spoke up: they could not let her go up into that storm. The Frenchmen insisted: today or never. So Touria insisted too.

Flying alone, high above the storm, much higher than she’d ever flown before, Touria performed the required maneuvers and landed with a perfect score. Two months shy of her fifteenth birthday, she became the first Moroccan civil pilot in history, and the first aviatrix in the Maghreb. Newspapers across the country hailed her as a hero, and one of her biggest admirers, the Sultan Mohamed Ben Yousef, invited her and Abdelwahed to the palace to meet.

The Sultan was a measured leader who had patiently guided Morocco towards greater independence ever since his favorable 1943 Casablanca meeting with Roosevelt. He was almost universally adored by his people, and together he and the young pilot greeted the press, grinning for the cameras, the Sultan in his brown djellaba, Touria in a dark tie, white shirt, pants, and double-breasted pilot’s jacket, wings pinned to her right breast, her arms filled with flowers. Some saw more than a celebration of one girl’s accomplishment in the photos that were published the next day. Some saw stagecraft. Some saw a Sultan too adept at symbolism, flying too close to the sun. For the French, independence was as unacceptable as a girl pilot. They would have to burn his wings.

In all the excitement, not much attention was paid to Touria’s cough. It had been too cold in the cockpit at that altitude, and she had caught a lung infection that worsened every day, until she was taken to the Hospital Colombani, where the doctor pulled Zina and Abdelwahed aside to tell them that within ten days their daughter would be dead.

Word was passed to the Sultan, who immediately acted. The royal plane flew her across the Mediterranean and into the French Alps, where at the sanatorium in Sancellemoz she spent six months away from home, and her life was saved. From her snow-swept balcony atop Europe, cheeks growing fat, she stared for hours at the white summit of Mont Blanc. The desert was another world away.

* * *

On August 20, 1953, the French dealt with the Sultan by exiling him and his family to Corsica and then to Madagascar. He was replaced by a puppet, a feckless, kif-addicted relative named Mohamed Ben Arafa, and the time of the assassinations began. Secret death squads within the French police set about efficiently liquidating resistants whom they judged a threat. For the two years of the Sultan’s absence, terror reigned. Moroccans were confined to native quarters, with curfews enforced by phalanxes of French police. Istiqlal, the leading independence party, was banned, and into the vacuum stepped dozens of Moroccan groups prepared to use violence to terrorize the French and consolidate their own power. There were the Secret Organization, the Liberation Army, the Black Crescent, and many others. Each claimed to represent the true Morocco, or true Islam, more fully than the rest. Some wanted secular democracy; others would implement Sharia law. With Moroccans of any political wisdom killed or forced underground, the ranks of the new guard were filled by self-styled gangsters, vaguely politically aware, but also trafficking arms and collecting bribes. Casablanca resembled 1920s Chicago. Moroccan informers were killed, trains were derailed, and French farms were burned.

At ten in the morning on Christmas Eve 1953, a bomb exploded in the Casablanca Central Market, killing two dozen people, mostly women and children. French settlers responded by forming their own “anti-terrorism” units – the French Presence, the Ultras, the Organization for Anti-Terrorist Defense, and others – in close collaboration with the police, who often worked bloodier cases out of uniform. They organized hunting parties in the streets, assassinated resistance leaders, and set off their own bombs at cafes frequented by Moroccans, as well as targeting advocates for peace – Moroccan and French – calculating that more violence would justify even stricter French control. Dozens of censored French newspapers called out assassination targets and published grotesque cartoons. There was only one liberal French paper. Its owner was assassinated by a group called the Red Hand, which had been formed by the French secret service.

Ahmed Touil was one of the biggest Moroccan gangsters of all, and in the purest sense: he’d kill anybody. He’d started in Casablanca as a union worker at the American air base, became a driver for a leader in the Black Crescent, which led to transporting arms, around which point he began systematically eliminating his rivals, whatever their political affiliations, including some within the Black Crescent. It was rumored that he had assassinated a Moroccan French teacher for collaborating with the enemy linguistically. He kept tabs on anyone who mattered, including Touria Chaoui, and after mastering the underworld, he became a detective in the French police department. He knew where power lay and chased it relentlessly, but like the hunter Orion, his bloodlust would destroy him in the end.

* * *

Touria had her enemies. Conspicuously independent – still cutting her hair short, wearing overalls, and now driving a green Morris Minor – she irritated both the French administration and the more Islamic factions jockeying for power. There were rumors to serve different agendas: she had lovers, she was collaborating, she was armed. Over time the rumors would acquire more and more improbable specifics: the lover was a French pilot, enraging Ahmed Touil, who was said to love her too. It was true that she spent a lot of time out at the airfield, where she was founder and president of the pilot’s club, but she had also been recruited to the boards of two non-profit associations run by rich women from prominent Moroccan families, The Future of the Young Moroccan Girl, and The Cradle of the Poor. Their goal was to teach young women to be independent by reading, writing, and working for themselves. Although Miss Chaoui wasn’t exactly club material, after her exploits she was (infuriatingly) close to the Sultan, and the Casablanca society set was happy to trot her out in uniform and rake in the donations. Touria resented being used as bait. Taking advantage of her position as a board member – a position whose advantages it had been assumed she would never exercise – she went through the books and discovered that the donations she was inspiring were going straight into the pockets of the association’s board.

She played detective, poring over the accounts in the evenings. Then she asked to speak at the next general meeting, stood before a roomful of Casablanca society ladies, and detailed the crimes of the board, who responded with significantly more outrage than the general membership. Said one officer: “We’ll skin that bitch.”

And then, of course, there were the French. The police would pull over her car and make nebulous threats. In 1954, the Chaouis were living in a house on rue Bonaparte, and their movements were regularly observed, both by the authorities and by gangs of right-wing thugs. Neighbors reported suspicious activity when the family was out, and around noon one day two un-uniformed Frenchmen in a jeep stopped at the grocery across the street to ask when the Chaouis would be home. The threat was clear. A few hours later, the neighbors helped them move everything out of the house and into somebody’s garage. Monsieur Girardin, proprietor of the nearby Hotel Bonaparte, offered them a couple of rooms for the night.

Past midnight they were awakened by the blast. Girardin knocked at Abdelwahed and Zina’s door. Outside they moved through clouds of dust to where their home had been. When the dust had settled, nothing remained but an empty lot.

Underground contacts in Istiqlal, whose Islamic agenda even the exiled Sultan, an ally, was beginning to fear, found them a safe house for a few months in Madrid, and eighteen-year-old Touria drove them there through the night. Abdelwahed, who had bought the car, didn’t have a license himself. Driving made him nervous. Salah sat in the backseat watching the nape of his sister’s thin neck. She’d been having nightmares in the room they shared. She would wake him at night, murmuring disconnected words, then screaming. But now she just drove and drove, locked in on a low straight line as stars swarmed overhead. The hunters were chasing her now, but she couldn’t fall apart.

By 1955, the Chaouis had returned from Spain to a second-floor apartment at 32 rue de Bergerac. Several bombs went off in Casablanca every single day, and this had sapped the will of Paris to hold on to the Protectorate. The Sultan’s return to Rabat on November 16 was the first step in a series of negotiations that would lead to official independence on March 2 of the following year. These would be dangerous months, with panicked Moroccan-born French settlers using the last days of administrative protection to secure advantages and settle scores, and dozens of Moroccan political groups battling to obtain maximum power in the new government.

But on November 18, 1955, the country ignored threats of violence and dared to celebrate. That day, a single Cessna appeared in the sky, looping towards the royal palace, trailing behind it thousands of paper tracts that fluttered to the ground, words raining down on the coast again, words welcoming home the Sultan Mohamed Ben Yousef, who would soon be crowned King Mohamed V. Touria hadn’t been able to contain herself. The occasion demanded a bravura performance, and now she zoomed low to the palace roofs, gleefully flinging stacks of paper from the windows of her plane.

The next day her daring was again hailed in the papers. She was a symbol of Morocco’s bright future, of a freedom she felt in flight. But every time she felt that freedom, she became a more remote symbol, and symbols are like stars: they don’t breathe, but they die.

* * *

On the afternoon of March 1, 1956 the eve of Independence Day, Touria picked up Salah from school in the green Morris Minor. They stopped by the Institution Lalla Amina — an association for girls that Touria had founded herself after the run-in with the society set — where she congratulated the girls on their work and gave them the long weekend off to celebrate. A new era was beginning in Morocco, and they should be proud of what they had accomplished. Now everything was going to change, she knew.

That day she was also eager to get out to the airfield for a meeting with the pilot’s club. But was there more to it than that? Was there one pilot in particular?

First she swung by the apartment at 32 rue de Bergerac to drop off her brother. Celebrations were already kicking off in the streets, boys dropping firecrackers and scattering. Salah told her about the drawings he had made in class that day, and she listened intently, sure of his talent.

Stopping on the opposite side of rue de Bergerac, she kept the motor running and honked the horn. The family’s maid appeared up on their second-floor balcony. Touria stuck her head out the window and called up. Then Zina stepped out onto the balcony, looking down on her jubilant daughter. A Moroccan man with slicked-back hair stepped up to the driver’s-side window and neatly put two bullets through Touria’s brain.

Her head slumped to the window ledge. For a moment they assumed that the two pops had been firecrackers. The shooter fled up to the broad route de Médiouna and disappeared. Maybe a car had been waiting. Then Zina began to scream, the maid was screaming. Salah remembers the wood paneling of the green Morris Minor. He remembers the smell of leather.

* * *

Salah Chaoui was eleven when he saw his sister shot twice in the head at a spot just below the ear. Now he is seventy, living in Vichy, France, where he owns the Galerie l’Empreinte and paints skillful oils of Orientalist themes in pastel colors: hammams, medina gates, women washing clothes in sluggish rivers. There is one remarkably detailed view of Fez, with the Al-Qarawiyyin mosque piercing up through mist hanging over the city’s basin – remarkable because he doesn’t paint from photographs, but from memories of the country he hasn’t visited in fifteen years. The Morocco he paints doesn’t exist anymore.

Mist is a characteristic of Salah Chaoui’s latest work. “I leave something to the viewers’ imaginations,” he says. “I hope they see these images as something in a dream. The overall impression should be of mystery. After all, we are all living in a mystery.”

The mystery is exactly why I’ve come to visit him, and mystery, I realize by the end of my visit, may be the only refuge of a broken heart. His sister’s murder was never solved, and her name does not appear in most of the history books taught in Moroccan schools.

“There are people in Morocco who don’t like to be reminded that somebody like my sister could have existed,” he says. “Moroccan women won’t dare to be like her anymore.”

A gentleman, Salah dresses impeccably in jackets and silk cravats. Sitting at his desk at the gallery, he tells me about Touria, who has become the most powerful symbol in his life. He is patient with me, but when I ask about her life as a girl – her friends, her favorite movies or books – it is clear he finds the questions odd. Touria was not just a girl…He pauses to wave at a passing neighbor, turning up the corners of his mouth for a quick, toothy smile. Each time someone passes, the gesture is identical. The gallery is not much of a success.

Despite those persistent rumors that Ahmed Touil killed Touria over the mysterious French pilot, nobody can remember them even meeting, least of all Salah: “The idea of a romance with Touil is ridiculous,” he says, hands gripping his desk. Ever since that day he’s heard the same accusations. “If somebody wanted to marry her, he would have officially come to the house to ask my father for her hand. Touria never spent one night out of the house alone!”

I’m about to mention the white caps of Mont Blanc, but he stops me: Nobody would ever say such things about a man. What about those martyred Moroccan resistants with streets in every city named after them today? Nobody cares that some of them were notorious womanizers, but when it comes to the assassination of a brilliant young woman, people assume it was her own fault.

Touil always denied the murder, and another story published by a resistant suggests that the husband of one of those outraged Casablanca society ladies hired a hitman to please his wife.

Or was it the French? That makes more sense, Salah thinks. Two bullets to the head behind the wheel of a car – the same method that the Red Hand had used on other famous resistants. But the French were leaving the day after her death, and it was unprecedented for them to trust the job to a Moroccan shooter.

“She was a symbol,” Salah sighs. “Let’s say that the French were behind it. Let’s just simply say that was it.” We both fall silent.

Abdelwahed never found an answer either, or never told his son. A few months after Touria’s murder, Ahmed Touil was caught in an ambush beside a gas station near the Chaouis’ apartment, his car shot full of holes by the newly-formed Moroccan police. The police chief, assuming Touria’s killer was dead, made a call to Abdelwahed, who came around to see the body, and then went home. He was debilitated by Touria’s death and didn’t live much longer. “He was like an artist whose masterpiece had been destroyed,” says Salah, whose own masterpiece has yet to be painted. There’s a portrait of his sister that he’s been planning to do, of her in uniform in front of a flight panel, but he hasn’t gotten around to it yet. He’s not sure why.

Before I leave, I ask Salah if he’s seen “La Septième Porte,” and his anger gives way to joy. His sister starred and spoke perfect French, he tells me. Had I seen her and Georges Marchal, the French heartthrob, ride off on that horse? “The horse named Djinn,” I nod, because I don’t want to tell him that in the archives of the Cinémathèque Française I have discovered that there were two versions shot of the film, one French, one Arabic, and that the girl he believes was Touria was actually a French ballerina. Like Touria’s story, the Arabic version has disappeared.

* * *

Josh Shoemake is working on a historical novel set in Casablanca from 1942-1956. He has published stories in The Threepenny Review and elsewhere, a detective novel, Planet Willie, and Tangier, a literary history of the city that the Times of London called “a work of passion and of experience” and the TLS called “an excellent book.” He lives in Paris.

Ellen Lindner is a New York City based cartoonist and illustrator. Her new graphic novel, a mystery entitled The Black Feather Falls, appears every Wednesday on activatecomix.com.

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

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

PART ONE: THE TIGER WAS A NIGHT OWL 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART TWO: “THE MAD MAGICIAN OF MAUL”  

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

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

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

Jimmy Grippo

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

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

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

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

Tiger Jack, meanwhile, was not.  

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

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

But could he stand up to a hex? 

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

PART THREE: “YOU WILL NOT QUAIL”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART FOUR: THE GREAT MANERO AND A CAVE IN ALBANIA 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bettina’s supporters kicked up the brass band.  

Bettina had won the title.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That Time I Tried Topless House Cleaning

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

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

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

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

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

Ayep,” Possum replies in his drawl.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awright.” He hangs up.

“Will you touch it?” Jim asks.

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

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

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

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

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

“A hundred?”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t.”

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

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

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

“Oh my god,” he says.

I giggle. “No, goddess.”

“Oh my goddess.” He smiles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

The Day My Therapist Dared Me to Have Sex With Her

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That.”

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

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

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

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

I shrugged my shoulders, only half looking up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nailed it.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There were two ways to find out:

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

2) Keep going to therapy.

* * *

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

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

“I don’t know.”

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

Here we go again.

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” I respond, flustered.

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

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

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

“Of course not.”

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

“I wouldn’t do that.”

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isn’t therapy supposed to ameliorate my anxiety?

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lori’s great at forcing me to reflect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

See the complete list of Editors’ Picks here. 

* *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

“What’s your favorite porn scene?”

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

The possibilities run through my head.

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

They’re also lies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

“Go on.”

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

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

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

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

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

And so I tell him.

* * *

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

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

And then realizing that person is me.

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

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

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

I was out of control.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

That’s why I need to tell my husband.

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

* * *

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

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