The Last Time New York Was Hardcore

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Throughout the ’90s, one high-octane underground music scene desperately held on to its rebellious roots of power chords, slam dancing and stage diving. Whatever happened to hardcore?

More than three thousand people surround me in the packed Roxy nightclub on West 18th Street in Manhattan. It’s hot. We’ve been dancing for hours. But the wind-milling arms, roundhouse kicks, and javelin-like body tosses on this night in ’97 bear little resemblance to the more subdued moves once executed in Roxy’s early days as a roller disco. Still, we’re grateful the surface below our feet was custom designed to support hard falls.

Instead of short-shorts and go-go boots, the few females in attendance are wearing cargo shorts and Doc Martens. Many of the more buff men have relinquished their shirts, revealing glazed, inked skin and nipple piercings matching the ones in their septums.

The houselights darken. Piercing feedback drowns out the roar of the crowd. After four quick clicks of drumsticks, it’s chaos.

The lights blare again. The headlining band’s singer, Lou Koller of Sick of It All, is at the foot of the stage, a pile-on of fans mounting at his feet.

He screams his first lines of lyrics: “Thinking back on what we had!”

The audience handles the next part: “Wooooah-Oh!”

Distorted guitar parts are blasted out over a catchy groove. Crowd members defend themselves from possessed slam dancers. Koller offers the mic to a crowd surfer. Someone in the pit falls down, and three people quickly scoop him up.

“Hardcore was very real,” says Kevin Gill, a former co-manager of the underground hardcore record label Striving for Togetherness. “It was punching you in the face, where punk was shoving you and saying, What’s up, bro? Hardcore’s about ‘fuck the world,’ but it’s also about the opposite: respecting people.”

After a few minutes of near complete sensory overload, the band strikes the tune’s last note, the crowd cheers, and everyone readies themselves for the next song.

Intense, original and cultivating an infectious sense of community, hardcore music began its reign of underground terror nearly forty years ago. Though its fabric extends far beyond traditional sonic labels, when it emerged in the late ’70s hardcore was simply defined as a more rambunctious, faster-paced form of punk rock. Merging with thrash metal in the ’80s, it experienced both jumps and dips in popularity. But throughout the ’90s a slew of fresh faces officiating a polygamous marriage between punk, metal and hip-hop reignited the scene, making hardcore the biggest it’s ever been in and around New York City.

“The mid-90s was the best,” says Tim Williams, front man of the Long Island band Vision of Disorder. “There was no makeup. No facades. No laser-light shows. The music came from an honest place. And I know these people personally. They weren’t talking shit.”

* * *

In a 2015 New Yorker article about hardcore in New York, Kelefa Sanneh wrote that it “was born as a double-negative genre: a rebellion against a rebellion. The early punks were convinced that rock and roll had gone wrong … But when punk, too, came to seem lame, the hardcore kids arrived, eager to show up their elders. The idea was to out-punk the punks.”

Clusters of hardcore bands, primarily out of Los Angeles and Washington, D.C., emerged before a New York City scene germinated on the Lower East Side, circa 1981. Set on seedy Avenue A at the corner of Seventh Street, A7 was the first Manhattan club to regularly host hardcore shows. Local bands like Agnostic Front, Cause for Alarm, Murphy’s Law, Antidote, Kraut and others were welcomed into its tiny, kitchen tile-floored back room, inciting slam dancing and sing-alongs from their fans, which early on numbered no more than a few dozen – predominantly white males in their late teens and early twenties, with a low center of gravity, swinging their arms and banging into each other while carrying crowd surfers and absorbing stage divers. They looked like embattled rugby players in various states of worn-out uniform, with no ball or decipherable goal. A source in Tony Rettman’s oral history book covering ’80s New York hardcore (NYHC, as it’s known) half-joked that those early participants “all had mental problems and they all lived in the street.”

Fans of Agnostic Front slam dance and watch the band perform at A7 in Manhattan's Lower East Side on November 12, 1983. (Photo by Jessica Bard, courtesy Drew Stone)
Fans of Agnostic Front slam dance and watch the band perform at A7 in Manhattan’s Lower East Side on November 12, 1983. (Photo by Jessica Bard, courtesy Drew Stone)

The melee’s soundtrack featured songs faster than anything produced in rock before it, with anti-establishment lyrics preaching social consciousness and standing up for oneself. Sometimes the bands didn’t play their songs correctly. Guitar and vocal cords failed frequently. But none of that mattered. The aggression discharge within the tight space was so captivating that nobody stopped moving, or having a good time.

Out-of-towners and eventual storied hardcore groups such as Black Flag and Bad Brains were also fan favorites at A7. Before adopting a hip-hop sound, The Beastie Boys cut their teeth at the club too. As the ’80s progressed, CBGB on Bowery, The Ritz on East 11th Street, and a few other Manhattan clubs began booking hardcore shows.

At about that time, Kevin Gill, raised in Whitestone, Queens, “just dove headlong into it.”

“Hardcore is raw reality,” says the former record label manager, now 44. Intensely upbeat, and tall with a closely shaved head, he adds, “It’s regular people with regular problems.”

Like many NYHC fans – myself included – Gill first latched on to heavy metal. “From Anthrax and Metallica,” he says, “it’s a very short journey to Sick of It All, Killing Time, Merauder” and other ’80s hardcore bands he obsessed over after some high school friends provided him copies of their recordings.

Craig Setari, then of Agnostic Front, performs with the band in New Jersey, ca. 1988. (Photo courtesy Craig Setari)
Craig Setari, then of Agnostic Front, performs with the band in New Jersey, ca. 1988. (Photo courtesy Craig Setari)

But as the scene continued to swell, toward the end of the decade Downtown club managers became less willing to contend with increasing violence and injuries befalling audience members because of slam dancing, stage diving, and other unruly behavior, which could spur lawsuits. Lenny Bednarz, a member of noteworthy hardcore bands Without a Cause and Fahrenheit 451, remembers observing two concertgoers entering a mosh pit swinging a sock full of batteries during one show. He says there was also a brief “trend where people sprayed mace in the clubs.” Arthur Smilios, a member of Gorilla Biscuits back in the late ’80s, says he observed a “gang mentality” coagulating at the time, which caused such a frequency of large-scale fights at CBGB that the historic club suspended its weekly Sunday matinee hardcore shows. Smilios says that was New York hardcore’s “low point,” when many regulars disappeared from the scene. “It wasn’t fun anymore,” he adds. Smilios himself left Gorilla Biscuits, in part to pursue a college degree, but also because of the hardcore scene’s mangy turn.

Because small clubs were shuttering their doors to hardcore or had closed altogether – like A7 in 1984 – Gill says there was “no point of entry for bands to grow.” But by the mid-90s he and many other fans would get the chance to experience a new brand of hardcore, appealing to an even broader demographic.

* * *

As some dedicated NYHC bands trudged on and found places to play, they began to intertwine old-school punk-based hardcore with thrash metal and hip-hop, crafting fresh sounds that rang throughout the underground, most frequently at the Bond Street Café, located on the Lower East Side, just a few blocks from the former site of A7. “That was the place,” says Gill, who remembers it as “a crack in the wall.” “It was hardly a venue,” he continues, “but it was amazing. How many music venues in Manhattan at the time would let a bunch of maniacs stand in front, smoking and drinking before a show and then for three hours just let you lose your shit?”

“The energy at those Bond Street shows was electric,” says Mark Scondotto, former singer for Shutdown. At five-foot-two in his early teens, he’d accompany his older brothers to the club, who’d protect him from 150 other wily slam dancers and stage-diving ruffians. “You walked out of there feeling like you were on a roller coaster. The [mosh] pits were sick.”

Much of hardcore’s appeal was manifested not in the music, but in the atmosphere at a show, typically set in a tiny club with the band inches from fans’ faces.

“The idea of a singer handing the microphone out to people in the audience, people jumping on stage … It’s astounding,” says Frank Pavich, director of “N.Y.H.C.” – a film that documented hardcore’s mid-90s era. “It’s like taking that super-duper rock star and reducing it until they’re one of us and we’re one of them.”

“I have no musical ability whatsoever, but if someone’s going to hand me the microphone, it makes me feel like I do. It makes me feel like I’m a part of it,” says Virginia Kress, 44, one of a handful of females who were regulars at NYHC gigs back in her twenties. “It’s like an awakening.”

Kevin Gill channeling the wrestler Raven - pictured on his shirt - while at an NYHC show at the Lower East Side's Acme Underground venue in the late '90s. (Photo courtesy Kevin Gill)
Kevin Gill channeling the wrestler Raven – pictured on his shirt – while at an NYHC show at the Lower East Side’s Acme Underground venue in the late ’90s. (Photo courtesy Kevin Gill)

I too was tractor-beamed into the scene, an angst-ridden teen from Astoria, like so many others feeling as though I was suddenly immersed in a community, or even a movement, for the very first time. And all of this was available to us for the cover price of about eight dollars.

Gill says hardcore shows have “ruined regular stuff” for him. Now a San Francisco resident, he bemoans the prospect of paying $75 to see a more commercially successful metal band like Slayer perform at a venue like the 2,300-seat Warfield. “I almost wish I never went to hardcore shows,” he says.

By the end of 1992, several more clubs began providing space to hardcore promoters, including Brownies, also on the Lower East Side, and The Wetlands Preserve, directly across town in TriBeCa. CBGB ran Sunday NYHC matinee shows again, and though the Bond Street Café met an untimely demise in 1994, Coney Island High – located on St. Marks Place, with double the capacity of Bond Street – more than picked up the slack shortly thereafter.

Downtown Manhattan was hardcore’s epicenter in the ’90s, but the music’s allure spread throughout the outer boroughs, as well as Long Island, New Jersey, Upstate New York, Connecticut and beyond, birthing mini-scenes where more clubs could prosper. Castle Heights on Northern Boulevard in Corona, Queens – where I worked as a soundman for three years – was one such place. “We had our own scene,” says Kevin “Castle,” as he’s known throughout the community. Now 48, he is an older brother of Shutdown’s Mark Scondotto, and was a show booker at Castle Heights for ten years. “By ’94, ’95 we were doing three or four hardcore shows a week. We couldn’t do enough shows, there were so many bands.”

Record labels began to come around too. The Brooklyn hardcore band Biohazard released Urban Discipline in 1992 through Roadrunner Records, an independent label that went on to house a number of NYHC bands. Biohazard’s album would sell more than a million copies worldwide, and their video for “Punishment” – featuring many of the scene’s most recognizable faces rocking out behind the band as they performed the song – became the most-played video ever on MTV’s late-night program “Headbangers’ Ball.”

“Suddenly people look at that video and go, ‘Wow, what’s going on in New York?’” says Drew Stone, who produced the clip. “All the kids in New York that saw that video thought, ‘I gotta make a band.’”

In ’92 Kevin Gill became the American distributor of a tiny, German-based record label called Striving for Togetherness Records, or SFT for short. A couple years prior, he’d befriended the members of Without a Cause, a largely unknown, hard-hitting band from Manhattan’s Upper East Side. “They were playing the worst shows,” Gill says. “I remember they played like a Chinese restaurant or some shit.” He shopped the Without a Cause demo around for distribution, but “Two or three labels were like, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’” Then, trying his best German accent on for size, Gill recalls the owner of SFT writing back to him: “Yah, this stuff is sah-lid. Maybe we can do a seven-inch.”

The members of No Redeeming Social Value pose for a photo, ca. 1992. Top row, l-r: Singer Mike Dixon, guitarist Kent Miller, and drummer Vinnie Value. Bottom row, l-r: Singer Dean Miller and bassist Mike "The Kid" Palmer. (Photo courtesy No Redeeming Social Value)
The members of No Redeeming Social Value pose for a photo, ca. 1992. Top row, l-r: Singer Mike Dixon, guitarist Kent Miller, and drummer Vinnie Value. Bottom row, l-r: Singer Dean Miller and bassist Mike “The Kid” Palmer. (Photo courtesy No Redeeming Social Value)

As the hardcore scene regenerated, Gill became the go-to guy for up-and-coming bands looking for a deal. There was Vision of Disorder (VOD) from Long Island, featuring Tim Williams, whose vocals oscillated between a lazy drawl and a primal scream. Fahrenheit 451 formed out of the ashes of the disbanded Without a Cause, mixing hip-hop and hardcore with an amiable rock bend. New York hardcore’s premier party band of the ’90s was No Redeeming Social Value, out of Queens, whose seven-inch record Hardcore Your Lousy Ass Off sported a copy of singer Dean Miller’s bare rear end with “HARDCORE” scrawled across its cheeks, written in black marker by his younger brother and guitarist, Kent.

“Playing good music is one thing, but making people laugh is a whole other thing,” says Kent Miller, now 39. With sing-alongs about the largest bottle of malt liquor imaginable – “New 64” – and watching the cutest girls in school date jerks – “Your Boyfriend’s a Guido” – he and his brother admit that No Redeeming Social Value, who still perform every so often, are not terribly talented musicians. But the band’s only real goal, they say, has always been to ensure “the audience has a good time.”

“We threw whatever we could get our hands on at the audience,” remembers Dean Miller, 45, spouting a list of projectiles that included confetti, money, bologna and lawn chairs. “One time we told the audience we’ve got seven-inches to give away, or fish,” recalls Kent. “‘What do you want?’ ‘FISH!’ So we gave it to them.” Dean says by the end of the night there were fish parts scattered throughout the club, some of which rotted overnight underneath arcade games and in other nooks.

He heard that “The Godfather of Hardcore” himself, Vinnie Stigma of Agnostic Front, performed at the same venue the next night and wondered aloud why he smelled such a foul odor. Dean recalls: “Someone told him, ‘No Redeeming Social Value played here last night, and threw fish at the crowd.’ He said, ‘Oh, well that figures.’”

The band also gained such a widespread reputation for performing naked that, when they traveled to Germany for a gig, the show’s organizer offered them a financial bonus if they did so again. “We would’ve done it for free,” says Dean, “but if you’re going to give us extra money to do it, we definitely will.”

Left: Lenny Bednarz holds up a vintage No Redeeming Social Value sticker from the '90s. Center: Singer Dean Miller poses with a vinyl recording of No Redeeming Social Value. Right: Dean looking through NYHC artifacts from Virginia Kress' collection. All photos were taken July 31, 2016 in front of the former site of the Bond Street Café on Manhattan's Lower East Side where Bednarz and Miller once performed and Kress attended shows. (Photos: Carlos Detres)
Left: Lenny Bednarz holds up a vintage No Redeeming Social Value sticker from the ’90s. Center: Singer Dean Miller poses with a vinyl recording by No Redeeming Social Value. Right: Dean looking through NYHC artifacts from Virginia Kress’ collection. The photos were taken last month in front of the former site of the Bond Street Café on Manhattan’s Lower East Side where Bednarz and Miller once performed and Kress attended shows. (All modern-day photos by Carlos Detres)

Hardcore also splintered into an impossible number of sub-genres, including “deathcore” (a combination of death metal and hardcore), “noisecore” (hardcore with screaming vocals and sizzling accompaniment so distorted that the melodies are virtually indecipherable), and the “post-hardcore” movement, which offered more mature and slightly less-aggressive songwriting. The Brooklyn band Candiria miraculously mixed several types of heavy metal, along with hip-hop, jazz, psychedelic rock and other styles, sometimes with Latin American or African backbeats. Dog Eat Dog earned international fame with straight rap lyrics over traditional rock accompaniment and a saxophone thrown in for good measure. Crown of Thornz, according to front man Danny Diablo, who in the ’90s went by the stage name Lord Ezec, was “like Black Sabbath meets Rush meets the Cro-Mags.” Meanwhile, old-schoolers Sick of It All released back-to-back records with a sign-of-the-times groove and, according to bassist Craig Setari, a “darker” edge. They even performed on a bill with legendary New York City M.C. KRS-One.

CIV, an NYHC super group comprised of three former members of Gorilla Biscuits – Anthony Civarelli, Sam Siegler, and Arthur Smilios – and Quicksand guitarist Charlie Garriga, formed almost accidentally in 1995. “CIV was an anomaly,” Smilios says, explaining that hardcore vet Walter Schreifels, then on tour with Quicksand, wrote a bouncy, fun-and-games song called “Can’t Wait One Minute More” and another titled “Et Tu Bruté,” hopeful that Civarelli would gather some troops to record and release the two tracks on seven-inch vinyl. Civarelli, who had settled into life on Long Island as a tattoo shop owner, took some convincing, but with assurances from Schreifels that the whole project wouldn’t last beyond the first recording, he eventually agreed.

After the single was pressed, an associate of the group, Marcos Siega – a young director looking to shoot a clip he could use as part of a résumé – sold the CIV members on the video concept for “Can’t Wait One Minute More.” In it, Civarelli lip-syncs to the song while posing as a talk-show host, à la Jerry Springer.

The video wound up in the hands of Quicksand’s manager who loved it and, as Smilios remembers, “all of a sudden a bidding war started between record labels over a band that didn’t exist.”

CIV recorded the album Set Your Goals for Atlantic Records’ Lava imprint, and the “Can’t Wait One Minute More” video was an MTV hit. “By the time CIV was doing shows, we had the record [and] were signed to a major label,” Smilios says. “It was weird.”

* * *

I went to my first NYHC show in 1996 after getting hooked on hardcore a year and a half prior. One of my favorite bands, Madball, was the headliner. I recall approaching the venue – the Wetlands Preserve on Hudson Street – with my pals, amazed to see the band’s singer, Freddy Cricien, standing on the sidewalk, a few feet away from me, talking to fans and his friends. That night was also my first glimpse into a true NYHC mosh pit, a far cry from what I’d seen on MTV when they covered grunge shows featuring bands like Soundgarden, Nirvana, and Pearl Jam. At those concerts fans seemed to mostly jump up and down, tamely. On the other hand, the hardcore “dancers,” as they’re called, appeared rather menacing at first, with an updated style of moshing comprised of shadowboxing and karate kicks thrown to the beat. But I soon realized nobody was getting hurt; all I saw were smiling faces and all I heard after each song was thunderous applause, for the bands and even for some of the more on-point mosh pit dancers. It wasn’t long before I became one of them, surprised at my own willingness to risk bodily harm.

“Hardcore’s not the best music, but it has an energy that isn’t like anything else,” says Danny Diablo, formerly of Crown of Thornz, another band I enjoyed back then. With so many tattoos they’re beginning to threaten his eyelids, Diablo is now a hip-hop artist and says hardcore’s roots stem from resilient city dwellers who “take everything head on.” He adds, “They don’t call it ‘softcore.’”

Left: Danny Diablo, aka Lord Ezec (center, holding microphone) performs with Crown of Thornz at Coney Island High, ca. mid-90s. (Photo courtesy Drew Stone) Right: Fahrenheit 451 with guitarist Lenny Bednarz (fourth from right) performs at Coney Island High in 1998. (Photo by Michele Lago, courtesy Lenny Bednarz)
Left: Danny Diablo, aka Lord Ezec (center, holding microphone) performs with Crown of Thornz at Coney Island High in the mid-90s. (Photo by Dan Peltz, courtesy Drew Stone) Right: Fahrenheit 451 with guitarist Lenny Bednarz (fourth from right) performs at Coney Island High in 1998. (Photo by Michele Lago, courtesy Lenny Bednarz)

Few can claim to have embodied this ethos as well as Frank Pavich did during the production of his “N.Y.H.C.” documentary. A native of Douglaston, Queens, known for its golf course and sprawling multi-million-dollar homes, Pavich, now 43, met “a strange, tall, lanky, hilarious guy” named Kevin Gill – who provided Pavich with NYHC mix tapes – during his senior year of high school in 1991. As Pavich puts it, Gill “opened up my eyes to a whole other world.”

Four years later, Pavich, a well-spoken, bespectacled son of Croatian parents, decided to shoot a documentary about the hardcore community that, according to him, “completely ripped off ‘The Decline of Western Civilization,’” a film about the Los Angeles punk scene of the early ’80s, directed by Penelope Spheeris.

Admitting now that he had no idea what he was doing, Pavich enlisted a forty-something-year-old cameraman, completely oblivious to the concept of hardcore, to capture the footage. What the cameraman lacked in New York underground music acumen he made up for with his equipment ownership, including a $100,000 Betacam, used primarily to film news stories. Pavich paid him with “credit, copy, and comps” – a credit in the film, a copy of it, and complimentary meals – and helped shield the camera from possessed crowd members and performers throwing themselves in every direction.

Screenshots from Frank Pavich's "N.Y.H.C." documentary, filmed in Summer 1995. Clockwise from top-left: Cesar Ramirez of District 9; Kevin Gill of Striving for Togetherness Records; Danny Diablo, aka Lord Ezec of Crown of Thornz; and Freddy Cricien of Madball. (Images published with permission from Frank Pavich)
Screenshots from Frank Pavich’s “N.Y.H.C.” documentary, filmed in Summer 1995. Clockwise from top-left: Cesar Ramirez of District 9; Kevin Gill of Striving for Togetherness Records; Danny Diablo, aka Lord Ezec, of Crown of Thornz; and Freddy Cricien of Madball. (Images published with permission from Frank Pavich)

Pavich shot close to 44 hours of interviews and performances over the course of two weeks in the summer of ’95. “I’d never edited anything before, so it took forever,” he says. “It was old-school editing, from tape-to-tape.” It didn’t help that the aged editing machines broke down on a weekly basis either.

The complete ninety-minute film wouldn’t see a release until 1999. “The movie’s not for everybody,” he says, “but it’s there and I still love it. I still love those bands and everyone that was involved with it.”

Pavich learned “what to do and what not to do” in filmmaking, and his second feature-length documentary, “Jodorowsky’s Dune,” released in 2013, was short-listed for an Oscar.

One of the standout subjects in Pavich’s “N.Y.H.C.” is Virginia Kress, prominently quoted in the film’s trailer as saying, “I don’t want to be, like, forty, and have missed out on anything.” Then 23 years old with blonde hair and three facial piercings, she shyly stumbles over her words at times in her interview. After displaying a tattoo etched into the inside of her bottom lip that says ‘SUFFER,’ she coyly smiles and says, “It’s a VOD song. It’s my favorite.”

Today she is a friendly, stay-at-home mom who gave birth to her son six months prior to her fortieth birthday. “I don’t think I missed much,” she says confidently. “I feel like I lived through my twenties and thirties.”

Kress says she attended an average of three hardcore shows a week in the ’90s, attracted to the music itself, but also “the family atmosphere” at shows. “I knew pretty much everyone in the bands just from going all the time,” she says, adding that she decided to skip out of college so she could afford a car and travel to out-of-state shows.

“Looking back I probably made the wrong decision,” Kress says, before laughing. “Actually, no, I don’t regret it. I gotta be honest.”

Virginia Kress shows off her old tattoo in Manhattan's Lower East Side with her son in tow, July 31, 2016. (Photo: Carlos Detres)
Virginia Kress shows off her old tattoo recently on Manhattan’s Lower East Side with her son in tow.

When driving even as far as New Orleans or Detroit for gigs, Kress would bump – or slam – into friendly faces among the fray. She was always at home at a hardcore show.

“Once you found your little hardcore circle, they were your brothers,” says Cesar Ramirez, former guitarist of District 9, a band that emerged out of the socioeconomically challenged South Bronx. “You had each other’s back and you did everything together.”

Ramirez, 39, befriended the bass player for District 9 at a neighborhood music store. After a failed tryout, he obsessively studied his instrument, winning a spot in the lineup one year later, at the age of fifteen. Soon, District 9 became a standout act in the scene, in spite of their propensity to skip gigs and get high in the Bronx instead of lugging their instruments onto the subway to Downtown Manhattan and elsewhere. “We were trying to put soul into the shit,” Ramirez says about District 9’s musical style – a combination of metal and hardcore punk, with an occasional jazz break and rhyming lyrics that were virtually interchangeable with popular gangsta rap songs of the era.

Ramirez reminisces about one night when District 9 traveled ninety minutes north of the Bronx to perform in New Paltz, New York. He says everyone in his clique, including himself, was smoking marijuana and drinking beer throughout the evening. (His band’s singer, Myke Rivera, recalls them tripping on mushrooms as well.) But Ramirez was the only one who had to report to school the next day. “It was crazy shit, but it was fun,” he says.

Guitarist Cesar Ramirez, formerly of District 9, hanging out in front of the former site of Coney Island High on St. Marks Place, July 31, 2016. (Photo: Carlos Detres)
Guitarist Cesar Ramirez, formerly of District 9, hanging out in front of the former site of Coney Island High on St. Marks Place in July.

Like other eras in rock history, partying in the hardcore scene claimed its share of victims, including Ramirez’s chatty, stocky bandmate, Rivera, who, through laughter in “N.Y.H.C.,” told stories of his troubled South Bronx childhood. He says in one tale that his mother “beat him into a fever” with a broomstick topped with a wire hanger.

Last May I called Rivera for an interview. He agreed to it, telling me about his alcoholic father – “the kind who drank fifty-sent beers at seven in the morning” – and his mother – a “straight Puerto Rican Chihuahua savage” – whose last days Rivera missed because he was on a cocaine bender. Rivera had at first wished to postpone our chat because he wasn’t feeling well, blaming a chest cold. It turned out he had suffered a mild heart attack and spent a few days in the hospital. “My body’s telling me, ‘You fuckin’ up, dog,’” he said when he felt well enough to talk.

In July he told me he was on his way to Pasadena for a 30-day stint in drug rehab. Just this past weekend, he informed me that he’s moved back in with his wife and children – clean, sober and enrolled in the Twelve-Step Program.

* * *

It’s April 1997 at the Roxy and my friends and I are gathered near the back of the club as Sick of It All performs their encore. The vibe all night long has been one of revelry, passion and pride. It’s everything New York hardcore is supposed to be, but on the grandest scale we in the scene have ever witnessed. The band was interviewed that day by Kurt Loder for a spot on MTV News, and more than three thousand fans are in the house – “the high-water mark in Sick of It All’s career in New York,” as bassist Craig Setari told me this past spring.

But steps in front of me, an argument unfolds as a petite young woman in a white tank top screams at a muscle-bound dude, “You hit me, asshole!”

Looking left and right, palms up, at his two equally large, sweaty and shirtless male companions, he says, “What’d you call me?”

“An asshole!”

The man rares back his right fist and punches the girl in the middle of her face, dropping her with a thud.

As my friends and I flee the scene, it’s difficult to tell who’s fighting in the crowd and who’s trying to break the scuffle up.

As I tell Setari the story during our recent interview, a pained expression comes over his face.

“Why would anyone want to do that?” he says.

Though I wasn’t aware of it that night, the incident was a sign of things to come in hardcore.

* * *

“In any social movement there are ebbs and flows,” says Manhattan-based film producer Drew Stone, “and hardcore was no different.”

As the world celebrated the new millennium, “nu-metal” dominated the American rock charts. Many in the hardcore scene viewed it as a more vanilla version – or, as Frank Pavich put it, a “bastardized” brand – of the raw music they preferred. But while few listeners knew it, acts that soared during this time, like Korn, Limp Bizkit, Staind, Papa Roach and Linkin Park, were inspired by the same pioneering artists that lead to the underground hardcore sound of the ’90s.

“Bad Brains kicked down a lot of doors; Biohazard kicked down a lot of doors,” says Stone, who’s working on a new documentary film about hardcore. “But it’s the bands that walk through those doors that get the accolades.”

Left: Antidote performs at the final NYHC show at the Grand Victory in Williamsburg, Brooklyn on July 31, 2016. Right: Antidote poses for a picture outside the Grand Victory before the show. (Photos: Carlos Detres)
Left: Antidote performs at the final NYHC show at the Grand Victory in Williamsburg, Brooklyn on July 31, 2016. Right: Antidote members (l-r) drummer REA, guitarist Nunzio, singer Drew Stone, and bassist Tristan Michael pose for a picture outside the Grand Victory before the show.

Meanwhile, the factors that generated momentum for the scene’s rebirth in the early ’90s proceeded in the exact opposite direction toward the end of the decade.

Coney Island High closed in 1999, after being in business for a little over four years, due to the owners’ inability to afford rent. A 677-square-foot renovated condo unit in the same building today runs $1.093 million.

A real estate developer purchased the building that housed The Wetlands Preserve, and, after the club’s last show in 2001, a high-end condo went up there. That building has since boasted tenants like Jon Stewart, actor Jeremy Piven, and Mike Piazza, former star catcher of the New York Mets. For years a designer bedding store was located on the ground floor where Wetlands Preserve stage divers and slam dancers once ruled.

The Bond Street Café is now BONDST restaurant, a chic sushi spot with $16 craft cocktails, and, in the building’s exclusive residential section above, the average rent for an apartment exceeds $11,000 a month.

Left: Cesar Ramirez and Lenny Bednarz hang out in front of the former site of the Bond Street Café. Right: Kent Miller (l) and older brother Dean (r) pose with a vinyl recording of their band also in front of the Bond Street Café. All of the subjects once performed at the venue, which has since been replaced by luxury condos and a high-end sushi restaurant. (Photos: Carlos Detres)
Left: Cesar Ramirez and Lenny Bednarz hang out in front of the former site of the Bond Street Café. Right: Kent Miller (l) and older brother Dean (r) pose with a vinyl recording of their band at the same location. They all performed at the venue in the ’90s, which has since been replaced by luxury condos and a high-end sushi restaurant.

A John Varvatos boutique sits where CBGB thrived for three decades. The owners of the high-end retailer have kept the club’s recognizable air ducts – with the patchwork of band stickers smacked onto them throughout the years – in place. There are framed collages of uncountable, partially shredded gig flyers on the walls too. Shoppers can ring up a Guns N’ Roses graphic tee at the original CBGB bar, now outfitted with cash registers, for $80.

Tramps, Roxy, Knitting Factory, Brownies, Roseland Ballroom and several other clubs that booked New York hardcore shows have also disappeared.

Provoked by the closing of Roseland Ballroom in 2014, the newspaper amNew York proclaimed that the city’s “once-storied live music scene” had altogether perished. “Condos have replaced clubs,” the column went on, “and European bankers rather than struggling artists are more likely to be seen on dance floors.” The Lower East Side, once home to the glut of venues that welcomed hardcore bands, has been among the most rapidly gentrifying sections of the city since 2000.

All photos taken July 31, 2016 at the John Varvatos boutique on the Bowery in Manhattan. The retail outlet is on the former site of CBGB. Left: Kent Miller of No Redeeming Social Value examines vintage NYHC and punk rock flyers advertising performances on display at the store. Center: The interior of the John Varvatos boutique on the Bowery. Right: Lenny Bednarz, Cesar Ramirez, and Kent Miller (l-r) reminisce about performing at CBGB inside the store. (Photos: Carlos Detres)
Recent photos taken at the John Varvatos boutique on the Bowery in Manhattan. The retail outlet is located on the former site of CBGB. Left: Kent Miller of No Redeeming Social Value examines vintage NYHC and punk rock flyers advertising performances on display at the store. Center: The interior of the John Varvatos boutique on the Bowery. Right: Lenny Bednarz, Cesar Ramirez, and Kent Miller (l-r) reminisce about performing at CBGB inside the store.

“Once New York hardcore lost its home, you didn’t see the same people every weekend,” says Dean Miller of No Redeeming Social Value. “Then, you’re not in communication with people, and what was once on solid ground becomes very shaky.”

Kevin Gill, for example, left the familiar tidings of Whitestone, Queens, for San Francisco fourteen years ago, and with that move ended his stint purveying over American operations for SFT Records. Since then he’s worked a couple of jobs in the video game industry, has been involved in independent wrestling leagues, primarily as a commentator, and hosts a podcast dedicated to those interests, as well as hardcore, of course.

Gill still sells some dusted-off hardcore merchandise left over from his SFT days. Last year he reissued VOD’s Still EP on its twentieth anniversary. “I’m not making a living, but making the rent,” he says.

Another force at work against hardcore was that, once others saw there was money to be made in the genre, an influx of imitators entered the fold. Many such acts wrote a simpler, yet more aggressive style of hardcore, which became exhaustingly common in the latter part of the ’90s. Kevin Castle, the former Castle Heights show booker, says, “There was a tough-guy-posturing thing going on to that type of music. I’m sure the majority of people at shows weren’t looking to hurt people, but there was definitely a contingency that were.”

Lenny Bednarz, formerly of Fahrenheit 451 agrees, noting that as the decade progressed, he saw “more cheap shots” in the form of slam dancers “going out of their way to hit others,” once again making hardcore fans think twice about attending shows.

Lenny Bednarz, former guitarist for Fahrenheit 451, pointing to his band's name on a vintage poster on display at the John Varvatos store. Located on the Bowery in Manhattan, the boutique is at the former site of CBGB where Bednarz once performed.
Lenny Bednarz, former guitarist for Fahrenheit 451, pointing to his band’s name on a vintage poster on display at the John Varvatos store. Located on the Bowery in Manhattan, the boutique is at the former site of CBGB where Bednarz once performed.

Similarly to New York hardcore’s formative years in the ’80s, many of those involved in the hyperactive ’90s scene were in their teens and early twenties. By the time the calendar flipped to 2000, band members and fans alike were experiencing sobering wake-up calls.

“Getting injured back then was a badge of honor,” Castle says of the ’90s, “but if you’re a mechanic or you work with your hands, and you’re 26, 27 years old, you can’t be out of work for two months because you got hurt at a show.”

Castle provides yet another perspective on the New York scene’s loss of luster. “I think when it really started to fall off was post-9/11,” he says. “There was just a depressed feeling throughout the city. People were scared to go out.” He adds that many shows were run as fundraisers for victims’ families, which were good causes, but served as reminders of the state of the city. In the months after the terror attack, Castle spoke with managers of clubs around the city that were suffering just as much as Castle Heights – which closed in November 2002 because the building’s owner refused to allow a club to operate out of the space any longer.

Though he considers himself one of the scene’s prime supporters and spokesmen, Sick of It All’s Craig Setari is candid when it comes to the long-term financial viability of the genre, and its community: “No matter what we talk about – violence, this wave and that – [hardcore] is not pretty; it’s not meant to be this commercially successful thing … But all in all it’s a great communication medium; I think the last great American subculture.”

Rather than mourn the loss of most of the bands and all of the clubs he filmed in ’95, Frank Pavich – now a resident of Geneva, Switzerland, currently working on a third feature-length documentary – opts to celebrate the genre’s resiliency and the connection it generates between people. “It’s really like the one thing that to this day has not been corrupted by mass media,” he says. “It hasn’t been co-opted [and] when you see someone walking down the street wearing a New York hardcore t-shirt, it’s like holy shit.”

Members of the hardcore scene pose for a picture in XXXX. Top row, l-r: Craig Setari, bassist for Sick of It All; Freddy Cricien, singer for Madball; Drew Stone, filmmaker and singer for Antidote; XXX Bottom row, l-r: Evan Seinfeld, bassist and singer for Biohazard, and Hoya, bassist for Madball
Members of the hardcore scene pose for a picture in 1997. Top row, l-r: Craig Setari, bassist for Sick of It All; Freddy Cricien, singer for Madball; Drew Stone, filmmaker and singer for Antidote; Stickman of Fury of V. Bottom row, l-r: Evan Seinfeld, bassist and singer for Biohazard, and Hoya Roc, bassist for Madball. (Photo courtesy Drew Stone)

There were many such shirts, pulled down over bald heads and salt-and-pepper goatees, covering midsection excesses non-existent twenty years ago, at this spring’s Black N’ Blue Bowl. Formerly known as the “Super Bowl of Hardcore,” the event is an annual, all-day show at Webster Hall – the former site of The Ritz in the East Village. No longer the slender kid with a chain wallet and baggy skater jeans, I floated nostalgically through the dimly lit venue, bumping into performers I’d run sound for at Castle Heights more than fifteen years ago, and shaking hands with some of my biggest musical heroes.

Freddy Cricien, 40, front man of Madball, who first climbed a stage at the age of seven when his half-brother, Roger Miret of Agnostic Front, allowed him to sing for his fans, is an organizer of the Black N’ Blue Bowl. Kent Miller of No Redeeming Social Value, who attended “The Bowl” this year, says the gathering is “what’s keeping the scene alive.”

After a slow start, Webster Hall was rocking by the time acts like Leeway and Madball, both founded way back in the ’80s, hit the stage. A massive mosh pit opened up in the front of the house, though in between sets I couldn’t help but notice there were a couple of men doubled over, out of breath. (Admittedly, if I’d been among them, I would’ve been in the same condition.)

Cricien, who has two kids, four years and four months, says that when he was younger and touring with Madball, he never cared for the business side of music. But “being a hardcore kid alone doesn’t pay the bills,” he now knows, so after 33 years in the scene, Cricien has become a self-styled NYHC “representative” and “curator.”

“People are big on the nostalgia factor,” he says of hardcore these days, lamenting over the promoters never interested in the genre before who now look to capitalize on it. “I don’t want to sound bitter,” he continues, “I back anyone who backs me, but it’s become trendy.”

Virginia Kress holds up a vintage seven-inch vinyl NYHC recording from her collection in front of the former site of the Bond Street Café on Manhattan's Lower East Side, July 31, 2016. (Photo: Carlos Detres)
Virginia Kress holds up a vintage seven-inch vinyl NYHC recording from her collection in front of the former site of the Bond Street Café on Manhattan’s Lower East Side.

Virginia Kress still attends shows once in a while, recently witnessing No Redeeming Social Value and Madball share a bill. She says a few friends remarked that night, “It feels like ’95 again.”

“Those were the last wild days of New York,” says Cricien, when he and his comrades “got away with a lot of shit.” But there are signs that point to yet another possible rebirth.

Three years ago Ben Ratliff wrote in the New York Times, “I haven’t seen so much energy around the hardcore scene in New York in a long while.” Chris Wynne, publisher of In Effect magazine – a top hardcore fanzine he used to hand-deliver to record stores before re-launching it on the web – says, “New York has tons of bands.” He points to A Breed Apart, Manipulate, Ache, Regulate, Out. Live. Death., and Enziguri as some of the more notable new acts that have released demos, but not yet earned record deals. Still, they are attracting a younger set of fans to the community, plenty of who came out to this year’s Black N’ Blue Bowl.

Wynne notes that Brooklyn is now home to more venues open to hardcore shows than Manhattan. Of the potential for a long-delayed fourth wave of New York hardcore, he says, “Time will tell … The lifers are always going to be there.”

For Dean Miller of No Redeeming Social Value, time and place doesn’t matter at all when it comes to the reverence he has for the community he’s been a part of for nearly thirty years. “If everything went away tomorrow, all the bands, all the venues, hardcore was banned from the world, the guys in my band would still be getting together in my basement to play tunes,” he says. “We never joined a dart league, a bowling league. That’s what hardcore is for us.”

How I Fell Face First for an Epic IRS Scam

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As an Ivy League-educated journalist who has reported on scams and their victims, I certainly never thought I’d fall for one myself. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I received a call on my home phone recently from someone who identified himself as Officer Jason Dean with the Investigative Bureau of the Department of Treasury. He said an arrest warrant had been issued in my name for failure to respond to IRS Notice CP503 — a third reminder — informing me that I owed $5,347 in back taxes. He said my home and cell phones were being traced and I should not attempt to leave the city.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, “I never received any notices.”

“That is not my concern,” he replied. “We’re only calling you as a courtesy to inform you that you will be arrested and charged with failure to meet federal taxation requirements, malicious conduct, and theft by deception. You will be arrested within the next two hours and held in custody for six months pending an investigation.”

And just like that, I was caught in what has become the biggest tax scam in American history.

I called upstairs to my teenage son and told him to call his other mother and tell her to come home. Then I got back on the phone and asked for more details, trying to prove to myself I could dismiss this as a hoax. I asked for the address they had for me. (He had it right.) I asked for the tax year this issue allegedly stemmed from. (2011.) I asked for my Social Security number. (He said he was not permitted to give this over the phone.)

I usually do my own taxes, and I am never completely confident that I get it right. Just a few months ago, I had received notice that I owed about $700 in back taxes for income I’d forgotten to include on my 2013 return. More recently, I filed my 2014 taxes, hoping I’d done them right. But 2011? I couldn’t even remember what I’d reported.

But the man on the phone was done talking. He repeated that I must not leave the area, or I would be charged with evading the police. Then he prepared to hang up.

“Wait,” I said. “This has to be a mistake. If I owed back taxes, I would pay back taxes.”

He paused and asked, “Can you tell me truthfully you have the intention to pay any taxes you owe?”

“Yes, of course,” I said.

He said he could transfer me to another unit that might be able to help. But, he warned, they don’t have to. (It sounded ridiculous but I wasn’t quibbling.)

A moment later, another man came on the line, identifying himself as Investigator Duane Maguire. He repeated that I would be held in custody for six months while a lien was put on my property.

Thinking this all bizarre but also thinking that things do go terribly wrong for people every day, I asked what I could do.

“The payment options are closed,” he said. “This is a criminal tax fraud case.”

“There must be something,” I said, adding, “Look, I have children.”

“Let me ask you,” he said, “Have you ever been arrested before?”

Assured I had not been, he said there was one possibility — if he could obtain a 1099C form for out-of-court restitution for cancellation of debt. But this would be difficult to secure, and there was not much time.

Just then, my cell phone rang. The caller ID read 911.

I told the man on the phone the police were calling me. “911? Already?” he said. “Don’t pick it up. They are trying to trace your location to make the arrest. I will try to call them off. Just don’t pick it up.”

He then explained what I would have to do to avoid being arrested. “I cannot take any personal information from you,” he said. “But if you obtain an Instant Tax Payment voucher at the bank and give me the code on it, I can obtain the 1099C form.” This, he said, would give me 48 hours to visit an IRS office and clear things up. But, he insisted, you must stay on the phone with me at all times until the process is completed. This made no sense. But I didn’t question it.

I looked at the kitchen clock. It was 5:10 p.m. I told him I had to pick up my son from baseball practice.

“I can call you on your cell phone but you have to stay on with me while you pick up your son and go to the bank,” he said, adding: “This is a federally monitored and recorded line, and you must not discuss what is happening with anyone or you will be in violation of federal law.” I raced upstairs and told my son what was happening and that he should relay it all to his other mother, Kate.

My cell phone rang. It was 911. It rang again. It was Kate. It rang again. It was 911. It rang again. It was the alleged Investigator Maguire. Bringing the phone with me, I rushed out of the house, telling my son to come with me to drive and refusing him a moment to change out of his pajamas.

In the car, the call came over the speaker, and when the caller put me on hold a few minutes later, I used my son’s cell to call Kate.

Within twenty seconds, he came back on and asked, “Who are you talking to? I told you this is a federally monitored phone, and you cannot speak about this with anyone. You are breaking federal law.”

I kept my son’s cell line open so Kate could hear.

“Is anyone else with you?” he asked.

“No,” I said, signaling my son not to say anything.

When we arrived at the ball field, I found my eleven-year-old in the dugout and told him something had happened and there would be a voice on the car phone as we drove home but he was not to say anything. He complied until the man asked how far I was from the bank.

“What did you do?” my younger son asked. “Rob a bank or something?”

I signaled for him to be quiet, dropped my kids off at home, and drove to Wells Fargo. It was 5:40 p.m. and the bank closed at six.

I had made no decision to withdraw the $5,347. But I was definitely operating on the premise that I needed to get to the bank before it closed to keep my options open. If it was a scam, I thought, they would tell me. If it was real, I would have to access the funds that would keep me out of jail.

At a stoplight, I glanced at the texts that had come in from Kate:

“Do not take money from the bank!!! Pls call the police instead.”

“Pls speak with Marcus at the Wells Fargo before withdrawing any money.”

A moment later, I was standing before Marcus. The IRS, presumably, was still on hold.

“Kate talked to the police and is 100 percent sure this is a scam,” Marcus said. “So is my manager.”

“100 percent?” I asked.

“100 percent,” he repeated.

He walked me over to the bank manager who explained: It used to be about lottery winnings. Now it is about alleged threats from the IRS.

As I sipped a glass of water, and my rushing adrenalin began to subside, the whole thing suddenly seemed so obviously ridiculous. And it was no surprise that when I got back on the phone, the alleged Investigator Maguire, who must have sensed this fish getting away, was no longer there.

Throughout my hour-long ordeal I was very aware that it could be a scam, and that there were many things that didn’t make sense. Yet I was also deeply afraid that it could be true — that I could have made a mistake on my tax forms; that IRS forms could have been sent but never arrived; and that events could get out of control and go terribly wrong. And this combination of plausibility, fear and confusion soon drove most rational thoughts from my head.

Since the IRS-Impersonation Telephone Scam began in 2013, it has targeted more than 400,000 Americans. More than 3,000 have been successfully conned out of thousands of dollars and more, according to Congressional testimony by Timothy P. Camus, Deputy Inspector General for Investigations and Treasury Inspector General for Tax Administration. The total take: approximately $15.5 million.

If anyone should have known better, it was me. I’m a somewhat experienced adult, with more than one degree from an Ivy League university. In my career as a journalist, I’ve researched the ways our minds fall for tricks like this. I’ve even reported on scams that cheated people out of big down payments on houses and tricked others into buying previously wrecked cars. But the truth is that I fell for this scam — almost completely.

And if you think that you wouldn’t, you might consider what Stanford University scam expert Martha Deevy, Director of the Financial Security Division at the University’s Center on Longevity, has to say. Contrary to popular opinion, Deevy and her colleagues have found that no one type of person tends to be vulnerable to a financial scam but, rather, certain types of people are vulnerable to certain types of scams.

For example, older women who live alone tend to be more vulnerable to confidence scams in which someone promises a large sum of money for a small fee (a fee that grows as the target is drawn in). Educated middle-aged Caucasian men who identify as financially literate tend to be vulnerable to investment frauds. And while the IRS scam is too new for researchers to have identified a typical victim profile, Deevy suggests that it is likely to be “law-abiding citizens who are confused by the IRS” — which, she adds, represents a very large number of us. In fact, when Deevy received a voicemail from an IRS scammer herself, she said she had to listen to it four times before concluding it was not real.

“These guys,” she says, “are very good.”

Unlike most scams that attempt to trigger the desire for gain, the IRS scam rests on something more deeply hardwired in the brain — the fear of loss, which Nobel Laureate Daniel Kahneman and others have found, is a twice as powerful motivator. And fear of the loss of personal freedom is one of the most powerful fears there is. For me, it made the chance of losing $5,347 seem a trivial risk in comparison to the possibility that I had unwittingly brought trouble on myself that could land me in jail. So I kept taking this call seriously until it was absolutely clear to me it was not.

This quality of uncertainty, says Stanford’s Deevy, is precisely what these scammers prey on. “The IRS, in particular, even in a law-abiding person, is such a mystery. You think, ‘Did I miss something? Did I screw something up? They have seven years to come after me.’ It’s not indisputable that you could have done something incorrect. It’s plausible — and that’s why people get hooked. You might know it doesn’t sound right but you also think if you are wrong about that, the stakes are so high.”

Couple all this with the seeming urgency of the threat (the police will be there in two hours), the creation of isolation (you must not talk to anyone about this), and the apparent external affirmation (repeated 911 calls), and you have the ingredients for a scam that can get to people who should know better. Indeed, for me, it almost entirely stopped me from doing what is second nature: Google it. Talk to other people. And think.

If I had done any of those things, I would have known that the IRS never calls to demand immediate payment without giving you the opportunity to question it or discuss an appeal. Nor does it threaten law enforcement. Nor does a call from 911 appear as 911 on your phone. But fear put me in an altered space that, by the following day, made the whole experience feel like a dream.

Once back to my senses, I hesitated to share my story because it is embarrassing to say one fell, or almost fell, for a scam. People are quick to judge in these situations — if only because one does not want to imagine oneself being similarly vulnerable. But in the end, I decided to swallow my pride in the hope that sharing the story might help someone else recognize this scam for what it is, before their fear triggers are similarly activated, at the risk of overwhelming usually more rational minds.

* * *

Lisa Bennett is coauthor of Ecoliterate and a contributor to The Compassionate Instinct and other books. She is currently writing a memoir about how the most challenging issues of our times help teach us the most important things about being human. She is on Twitter @LisaPBennett.

Marley Allen-Ash is an illustrator from Toronto creating work through printmaking and digital media. Follow her on Instagram at @marleyallenash and see more of her work on her website www.marleyallenash.com.

The Day My Therapist Dared Me to Have Sex With Her

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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

A Super Strange True Love Story: My Disappearing Fiancé

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After years of avoiding love, I found a match that seemed almost too perfect. We were practically walking down the aisle before I realized it really was too good to be true.

“So let me get this right. You’re Italian but you’re a resident of India.”

“Yes.”

“And your fiancé is Canadian. Resident of Canada.”

“Yes, but he lives in India.”

“And you’re having a Catholic wedding.”

“Yes.”

“In Italy.”

“Yes. But he’s Jewish.”

“That doesn’t matter to us. It’s a parish matter, they take care of the paperwork. Did you discuss it with your Italian priest?”

“My parish is in Delhi because I am a resident here. Anyway yes, we have permission to have the ceremony in Italy. We still need the bishop’s permission for the mixed religion marriage, but that should arrive soon.”

“So all we need is a certificate that says your fiancé has never been married before. A nulla osta. And then we can process the documents.”

“See, that’s why I called. Canada doesn’t really have that certificate.”

“Did you check with the Canadian embassy in Rome?”

“Yeah. They say they have nothing to do with this.”

“Mmmh…I actually have no idea then.”

The lady at the Italian embassy in Delhi wasn’t able to help. She’d never seen this before. Our wedding was just like us: Unique, unconventional, and a little all over the place. It looked impossible. Four months from the day and nothing was confirmed.

“It’s not going to work. Nothing’s ready.” I called him in a panic as soon as he woke up, in Canada. In India, it was evening already.

Amore mio, that’s not true,” he replied. “Everything’s set. We’ll get the paperwork done.”

He was right. We had a venue, a fairytale-like villa on the Amalfi Coast. I had a dress — an expensive affair that looked just understated enough: When I tried it on I teared up immediately, surprising my cynical self at the belief that it was “the one.” The invites, designed by a talented friend, were about to be printed. Save the dates were sent — all our favorite people couldn’t wait to be there.

We had even received our certificate from the church after a two-day intensive course instructing us on how to start a good Catholic family. Not that we were going to be a Catholic family, but the course was compulsory to get married in a church —which I wanted, not for religious reasons but because I liked the tradition — and he had accepted to do, to please me. The course was on the outskirts of Delhi, and for two days we stayed in a nunnery with other couples, sleeping on different floors (the men upstairs, the women below) and attending classes on family values and conjugal duties. A foreign couple wasn’t the norm, and we were the center of attention — particularly when questions about sex came up and everyone assumed, despite our amused protesting, that we knew more about it than the teachers.

“So, where does sperm come from? Maybe you know?” I was asked.

“Nope. No idea.” I’d reply as the class burst in laughter. “Maybe he does?”

He looked at me smiling, shaking his head. “Why would I know? I don’t know!”

We were warned that the Holy Spirit was not going to attend the ceremony since we weren’t both Catholic, but then his being Jewish — as opposed to Muslim or Hindu, which was the case for other mixed-religion couples there — gained the staff’s sympathies. He was labeled “almost Christian.” We joked that we didn’t have money to feed the Holy Spirit anyway.

I needed to calm down. It was all working out.

But we did need the papers. And we didn’t know how to get them.

“Maybe it’s a sign? Maybe this wedding thing is a bad idea?” I whined. I was tired, and insufferable.

He laughed. “Aaaamore,” he started, in a sing-songy way. His funny accent on the few Italian words he knew would lighten up the darkest rooms of my soul. “Listen. Getting married is the best idea we’ve ever had and we’re going to do it. It’s all going to work out. I promise.”

* * *

He was so certain about us. He had been unfailingly so since our engagement, which caught me by total surprise. We had been living together for a couple of years in India — where I had followed him looking to start a career, and finally be with the man I loved — when he proposed.

Before moving in together, ours was the erratic, long-distance relationship of two people who never seemed to be in the same place. We met in Italy, fell in love and spent the summer of our lives on intense weeks together and long stretches apart: He worked on a photography project that took him to Alaska, Japan, Congo; I went to Kosovo, volunteering and looking for stories, then moved to Paris to complete a master’s. His work took him there, too, and we spent a couple blissful months together. For the first time since I could remember, I felt beautiful; I was loved and desired. We’d dress up and walk out in the middle of the night to have French onion soup in 24-hour restaurants. We shared a studio that was too small for one, let alone two plus too many cameras.

Before I’d met him I kept joking that “love is overrated.” But it wasn’t; It was perfect. When he had to go back to India, where he’d been living for years before moving to Italy, I worried it’d be the end.

It wasn’t. We spoke whenever we had a free minute. It was never enough. We were so different that our attachment was a mystery to both of us: I loved studying, he had hardly finished high school; I was all about manners and rules, he recognized none; I worried about everything, he never did. At times, our love for each other seemed to be the only thing we had in common.

And it was all we needed.

On spring break I went to see him in India. I landed, terrified and drenched in mosquito repellent, in the fog of Delhi’s February nights. In the arrival hall, he was waiting for me in the neon light, holding a sign, just like the hotel chauffeurs. It read: Amore Mio. My love.

Everything in India frightened me. The smell. The noises. The light, so different from anything I had seen before. Even the peacocks, flying on the rooftop terrace from the park nearby, were wonderful but so foreign. I followed him to Calcutta on assignment. In the teeming backstreets, electrifying and overwhelming, I looked upon poverty and dirt, equally horrified. Once I cried a whole night about not being able to afford anything better than a filthy guesthouse. I returned to Paris relieved.

We managed to meet wherever and whenever possible. In Paris, London, Italy. In New York — where we both thought we’d eventually end up. We spent Christmas together, my family now his. He had been estranged from his parents for many years, and while on my insistence he had resumed contact with them, it didn’t look like there was real hope of saving their relationship. They had been demanding and cruel to him in his teens, kicking him out of home before the end of high school, and still refused to acknowledge it, let alone apologize for it. As someone who counted on her family for anything, it was impossible to even imagine how hard that must have been, so it filled my heart with joy hearing him call my mother “mamma.”

A year after my first visit, I moved to Delhi. I planned to stay a few months, but I began the adventure of a lifetime.

We got an apartment and decorated it with colorful fabrics. I struggled to keep the dust out of the house, struggled with everything that didn’t work, struggled with the scorching summer heat, struggled to get work. I struggled, struggled, struggled. I packed my bags at least twice, shouting at him that I was going back home. He’d been in India so long he could no longer remember the hardship of the beginning, and he was traveling so much for work that I was often on my own. I got mad at him — now that we could be together he was off to Africa or China or wherever, prey to a wanderlust I failed to understand.

All I wanted was for him to be around for me, because when he was, things were pretty wonderful. We had so much hunger for time together that nothing seemed trivial: We’d explore the city on his motorcycle, go on holidays to remote places, turn any and every bit of daily life into an adventure.

But a couple of weeks here and there were not enough. I felt like all I did was wait for him. Finally, shortly after he came back from a long trip to visit a dear, sick uncle, I broke down. I felt horrible — this trip was not for fun, how could I get mad about it? — but I just couldn’t help it. I told him we’d better split up, that he had no space for me in his life. I screamed, he screamed more, the neighbors came to check if I was O.K. In a country where women are common victims of domestic abuse, it was hard to believe that it was me who always raised her voice first. We resolved that we should part.

* * *

I was on my way to work, late and unspeakably sad, when I realized I did not want to leave him. I wanted to stay. I loved him, and our life.

I went back to our apartment. He was sitting on the couch, exhausted as I was from so much fighting. I hugged him, sat on his lap.

“I’m sorry. This was terrible,” I apologized. “I don’t want to go away. Never.”

“I don’t want you to go away either. I want to be with you forever.”

“Yes. Forever,” I said, and I meant it. Yet I was shocked when I saw in his eyes the resolution of a question I didn’t know he had in him, and I wasn’t ever expecting him to ask.

“Then… Will you… will you marry me?”

“What… You don’t… You don’t have to — I’m not going anywhere. You need to think this through.”

“But I have! I have. Look—” he reached for his backpack, me still sitting on his lap, and took out a small box. “I even have a ring! I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

“Well this is pretty right,” I joked. “So how did he propose? Well, we had a massive fight and nearly broke up, but got engaged instead.”

“So. Will you marry me, amore mio?” He was serious.

He was ready.

It was a gorgeous ring, an Art Deco family heirloom — Canadian, as guilt-free as diamonds can come — and hard not to notice. People did notice: the excitement about our engagement was so genuine and overwhelming, everyone pointing to what a romantic story we had.

It was, indeed, the most romantic story I had ever heard.

* * *

It was all unbelievably sweet, yet I couldn’t shake the looming sensation that something was going to go wrong. It came out in my dreams. The fear of losing everything would turn into nightmares, and cropped up at every big step we took.

I loved him, and the unexpected certainty that he, too, truly loved me gave me a happiness so enormous it frightened me. My father had died too early for me to believe happy endings were possible, let alone feeling that I was destined for one.

I looked everywhere for signs of an impending disappointment. We had to leave our apartment, and our landlady insisted we owed her several months of rent. He was in charge of making the deposit but couldn’t find the receipts to show we had paid — that was enough to infuriate me. He was irresponsible, I said – how could he be ready to be a husband? We should call the whole thing off.

We looked for a new place, and I cried like a spoiled child when faced with the reality that his priorities were different from mine — he wanted to save money on rent, and on everything really, to be able to invest in his work. I saw myself as shallow and materialistic for wanting a place that was nice and comfortable. Again told him, “See? This is why we should not do it.”

I would cast doubts over us and our future, which I so wanted and so feared.

But for all my questions, he had answers. “It’s us, amore,” he’d tell me, his voice always so calm and kind. “I’m not letting you get out of this.” His certainty seemed to grow as mine withered, and the way he dealt with my actions, minimizing my fears, showed me time and again the depth of his love.

We finally found a place that worked and bought new furniture. We didn’t have much money — I worked as the editor of a small online publication and had been supporting both of us on my Indian salary while his work was slow. He had a few personal projects to pursue, and I was determined to help him see them through. His assignments had always been sporadic, but a day of his work often paid ten of mine, and something always came through when our funds were nearly gone.

But this time seemed different — I was worried we wouldn’t be able to afford the fairytale wedding that I, who had never actually thought I’d get married, discovered I wanted. My mother was covering most of the costs, but I insisted we at least pay for a few things: The flowers, the invites, the favors. As the weeks, then the months, went by, I grew worried we wouldn’t have enough.

One thought, in particular, made me panic. If he didn’t get any work soon, I’d even have to pay for his suit and his ticket to Italy for the wedding. I’d have to pay for my own bouquet. Something about the image of me buying myself my own wedding flowers was unbearable to me: Was this the life I was signing up for? What if he never actually had a breakthrough? I looked up what would happen if we divorced, if I had to pay him alimony.

I was disgusted by my own thoughts.

I hesitantly suggested he look for assignments from publications less prestigious than the ones he usually worked for. He was hurt, and saw that as a lack of belief in him, pointing out that he could have gotten work in Africa had he been free to move there, but I didn’t want to leave my job to follow him around — that had its costs.

But my faith in his talent was blind — it was destiny I didn’t trust.

* * *

We were over the rough patches, though, when the issue with the papers came up. It appeared we were in a bureaucratic loophole and none of the puzzled officials I contacted were able to figure our situation out.

“That’s why we’re so special,” he said. It was a fact.

He had gone to Canada to renew his visa — his trip home drained my account, but some work had finally come through for him and he was going to be paid soon. We were back on our early-days routine of long-distance phone calls. For the first time in our many goodbyes, I hadn’t cried when he left. As he told me that he’d be right back, his happiness was so visible it gave me goose bumps, and a newfound feeling of safety.

But then, when I tried to reach him the day he was meant to go see about our documents, I couldn’t get through to him. He would not pick up his phone. He was not online — which he almost obsessively always was. I emailed him. No reply.

Something was wrong.

Whether it was some sort of sixth sense or just my constant fear of the worst, I started to worry. I called the friend he usually stayed with, trying not to sound paranoid; after all, it had only been a few hours since I had heard from him. He was not home. As the night became morning in India, a day was passing in Canada. I called, and called, and laid awake waiting. Sleeping was out of the question.

Finally, I got a two-line email. He said he loved me. And that he needed space.

I was paralyzed.

The following days were a game of waiting. I checked my phone and my email compulsively. I stared at the screen to see if he was logging onto Skype. No sign of him. I told myself I should not try to contact him, that he needed to be left alone, though I did write to him that we could postpone the wedding if he wanted to, and that whatever problem there was we were going to work it through. I knew we could.

I blamed myself for having so many doubts. Had I ruined everything? I kept going to work to be around people, but I was numb.

As the date of his return trip approached, I tried to be calm and focus on the fact that I was about to see him again. We had never been out of contact this long, and I missed him terribly. I tried to be patient, but when I saw his name go online on Skype in the middle of another sleepless night, I couldn’t resist.

Amore mio,” I typed. “I am so happy you are coming back next week. We’ll make things right, I promise.”

“Yes,” he replied. “We have a lot of work to do but we can make things right. Things will be right.”

But he was not coming back. Not yet anyway. His birthday was coming up, and he didn’t want to spend it with me.

“I don’t want to resent you,” he typed.

He wasn’t going to discuss it further, but I convinced him that he owed me an explanation. He promised to get back online soon, and he did.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, sweetly, when I answered the video call. “I missed you.”

He looked beautiful, too, in his light blue collared shirt, rolled-up sleeves and messy hair.

He started explaining what was going through his head: He needed to be free to travel and work, and I wanted security — we were just too different, there’s no way it was going to work.

As he was speaking, gently, his words started losing meaning to me — it all became white noise, and I interrupted him.

“Oh my god,” I said. “You cheated on me.”

Something in his gaze hardened. “Yes,” he replied.

“No, not again,” I begged. I knew it was true, again.

I hadn’t thought about it for years — the memory of betrayal buried deep under the illusion of the most wonderful story that had ever happened to me. I had found out about his infidelities before I moved to India, when we lived apart. Infidelities and lies: a girlfriend hidden from me when we first got together, who he moved back in with after he left Paris; an older woman he had even thought he was in love with; adventures around the world as he traveled for work.

But we had worked through it all. He had begged me to stay with him when I found out, told me I was the love of his life and the last chance he had of having a happy life, of changing. He had blamed distance and so had I, and it had worked for years — so well, too well. I had worked so hard to get past his infidelities that I had actually forgotten about them — the truth, of the past and the present, felt heavy on my burning sternum.

“Yes, again,” he said, suddenly cold. There was something in him, something in his voice I could not recognize. He was a stranger.

“But this time it’s different,” he continued. “I found her.”

I swear I heard my heart break.

He told me he’d just met her. A few days had been enough to know. He had given up thinking he could find the one. But there she was. They were going to travel together, see the world and be nomads, as he wanted. And she wanted. And I never did.

“I bet she dresses terribly,” I said, heart yolk leaking from my smashed chest, making an ugly mess already.

I became a monster; I could barely speak, filled with anger as I told him, shocking myself with the violence of my own words, hissing at him, shaking, that it was not true that he felt sorry — that he felt good and not sorry, that while fucking this woman he didn’t know, in and out and in and out of her, he did not think of me.

“You want to make me feel guilty because I am in love.”

He was moving in with her.

“Are you going to marry her?” I was crazy. It was crazy.

“We’re not planning to get married at the moment.” He was crazy, too.

The conversation lasted through the night, through bouts of anger, tears, words of love. At the end, I asked him if this was the first time that he’d be unfaithful since we’d been living together.

“No.”

“Is it because I was not enough?” Isn’t that what every rejected lover dreads?

“Yeah. I was always looking for something better.”

“Something or someone?” I couldn’t stop digging.

“Something, someone, I didn’t know. I thought it was as good as it got, with you. Now I know it wasn’t true.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am not in love with you. I don’t think I ever was.”

Outside, it was dawn. The sounds of India waking up were a loud sign the conversation had to end. We — “us” — had to end.

“I will miss you so much,” I muttered before I hung up. I wanted him desperately. But he was unrecognizable, someone else. Happiness and love were a dark force in his gaze. They were pulling him away from me, taking him some place frightening and far, a place my arms couldn’t stretch to.

I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t feel anything other than terror. Who was he?

* * *

When I landed in Milan I was a ghost. I hadn’t eaten in days; I had no feelings other than sorrow. My sister picked me up from the airport, and as she hugged me, without saying a word, I cried. I cried when I saw my mother. My grandma was visiting — usually the simple sight of her would be enough to put me in a good mood, but I just kept crying, incapable of anything else.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It was all I could say, whisper really. I was sorry I had trusted him, that I had followed him, that I had brought him home. I was sorry I was so embarrassingly heartbroken. I was sorry I messed up, sorry I failed, sorry about the embarrassment of a wedding to cancel. That he had not only lied to me, but to my family, caused me unbearable pain. I blamed it on myself — all of it.

I was infinitely sorry. And so sore.

I walked straight into my mother’s bed and laid there crying for days, getting up only to check my emails for signs of him, and sit at the table for lunch and dinner, unable to touch my food.

As I stared into my plate, the Italian mothers of my life — my own, and my mother’s — discussed me, and him, as if I weren’t there.

“She isn’t eating.”
“I can see that.”
“What are we going to do about this one?”
“I don’t know, I can’t force her.”
“Look at that. Not one bite.”
“I know, Ma. She doesn’t feel like it.”

My belligerent grandma had been through a lot — her father dying as a kid, the war as a teenager, her husband leaving her a widow in her early thirties, an earthquake destroying her home and her town in her late forties — far too much to concede to a romantic heartbreak.

“That guy had always been a bit strange,” she offered. “Remember how he stopped eating meat?” She had always treated his vegetarianism as an exotic disease.

When I finally had the strength to leave my bed, I started trying to put together the pieces. I was obsessed with understanding, and the more I obsessed, the more it all seemed terrifying.

I went back to Delhi, leaving behind a family worried sick about me, determined to save the salvageable: A job I loved in a country that was going to save my life.

My pain was enormous, kept alive and stinging by a succession of small new wounds.

I had to cancel the wedding, let all the guests know on my own, as he was far too busy with his new life to even tell his own family — who called me seeking explanations, unable to track him down.

* * *

In all of this, and despite my rational self, I still madly loved him. I hoped he would come back. Once I woke up convinced I heard him ring the bell in the middle of the night. It was a dream.

A recovering patient, I put one day in front of the other, waiting for my love to go away. Like a famous Italian poem says, it was like quitting a vice. Come smettere un vizio. It was a daily exercise in abstinence — from calling him, wanting him, loving him.

Before I knew it, it had been a month since I had last seen his face, on a computer screen. Then two, then a whole summer.

On August 26, when our wedding was meant to be, the sun was shining over the Amalfi Coast, but I spent the day in rainy Kathmandu, Nepal, on my own, hanging out with the monkeys at Pashupatinath Temple — the Temple of Shiva.

I was glad there was a god I could thank for destruction.

For a long time afterward, I was obsessed with this story. Obsessed with his lies. I uncovered countless more: about his family, his past, our relationship. The more I found out, the more the hurt gave way to relief.

I wrote to the woman he had left for me way back when — to let her know it didn’t work out with us. Somehow, I felt it was right for her to know, that I would have wanted to know, if I were her. She was understanding, forgiving, and helpful — knowing far too well what I was going through, she repeated to me countless times I had not lost someone worth keeping.

Years later, that’s what I told his wife, when it was she who wrote to me.

Read the Sequel: A Second Super Strange Love Story: I Was the Other Woman

* * *

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

See the complete list of Editors’ Picks here. 

* *

Annalisa Merelli is an Italian writer living in New York. She is a reporter with Quartz and tweets at @missanabeem.

Ayun Halliday is the Chief Primatologist of the award-winning East Village Inky and author of seven books, including “Peanut” and “No Touch Monkey! And Other Lessons Learned Too Late.” Follow her @AyunHalliday.

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

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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.

Saying I Do, And Saying Farewell

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Eleven days after marrying the love of my life, I stared at his lifeless body and said goodbye.

Eleven days after my wedding, two men from the crematorium arrived to take my husband’s body away.

“Do you want his ring?” they asked, pointing to the black titanium band on his left hand.

“No, he should wear his ring,” I said. He should wear it into the afterlife.

A quick look passed between them. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I replied, and turned to my mother-in-law Linda for approval.

“Honey, you should keep his ring,” Linda said gently.

I gave the crematorium men a slight nod. They slipped the ring off his finger and handed it to me.

*   *   *

Kaz and I once made up a story of how we met. “You fell on your bike and I stopped to help you,” he said in his baritone voice. This actually happened on our second date. “Sounds good to me,” I said. But we never told the made-up version. Whenever people asked us how we met, we would look at each other, shrug and tell the truth: we met on Match.com. My profile advertised “Curves and Curls – what more do you want?!” His moniker was “Nerdy4Music.”

After years of dating more men than I care to mention, in April 2007 I received an email from Kenneth Allen Smith. “My name is Ken, but everyone calls me KAZ,” he wrote. He was an employed, never married, childless, bald, badass, bespectacled black man, born and raised in Washington D.C. by a single mother. He had equal parts swagger, sensitivity and sweetness, had traveled the world, had real rock stars for friends, was witty, funny, charming, pragmatic, Scorpion sexy, so smart he beat his own computer at chess, and he rode a Honda RC51 sportbike. To quote a female colleague (who once yelled this at a party), Kaz was the coolest motherfucker on the planet.

At the time, I didn’t understand why such a cool guy was dating me, a somewhat neurotic, struggling filmmaker who was not thin. “I like spending time with you,” he explained. “You’re smart, funny, beautiful, good in the kitchen and good in the sack, and you’re sexy as fuck.” I still didn’t buy it.

In 2010, after two years together as a couple, during which we almost broke up once, we learned that the headaches and blurry vision he’d been experiencing were the result of a terminal brain tumor. Neither of us could believe it. Why would a healthy, physically active, forty-two-year-old man get the same disease that killed Ted Kennedy? It was too random to be true.

And yet, for me at least, it felt strangely inevitable. My mother had been ill for much of my childhood and died when she was fifty-six (I was twenty-two). Now, the man I loved more than anything, the best man I’d ever known and probably would ever know, was going to die young, too.

Within days of the diagnosis, he proposed. Kaz didn’t make rash decisions. It had taken nine months for him to say “I love you,” and after two years he was still reluctant to move in together (a source of frustration for me — at thirty-nine, dragging a backpack around every weekend was getting old). But the tumor changed things.

“I don’t know how much time I have left,” he said. “But I know I want to spend it with you.” He bent to one knee. “If you’ll have me.”

As I looked down at him, I was more afraid than I had ever been. Commit to someone with a terminal illness? “Yes,” I answered. I, too, wanted to be with him as long as possible. Deep down, I also might have thought we could beat this cancer bitch, statistics be damned.

Life moved forward. We moved in together, a huge transition for any couple but especially for one dealing with cancer. We supported each other through two resection surgeries, three clinical trials, dozens of MRI’s and doctors’ appointments. We tried to marry, but various factors kept getting in the way. He wanted to do it quick and easy at a courthouse. I wanted our friends and family around. Both of our families had money and debt concerns. Plus, I’d never planned on changing my name if/when I got married, and Kaz was old school. “You can keep your name professionally if you want, but I’d be really disappointed if you didn’t take my name,” he told me.

Then, in November 2010, he was in a motorcycle accident that left him unable to work. Even more devastating, he could no longer ride the motorcycle, or walk without assistance. He sank into a deep depression. As his illness progressed more rapidly, my caregiver responsibilities and the pressure of dwindling time intensified. We started arguing. Whereas before I had always been the one waiting for him to catch up, now he rounded the corner of acceptance before me. I still refused to accept it, like a ship captain who keeps trying to steer a sinking vessel. At one point, I thought I would surely have a nervous breakdown if I didn’t leave.

Instead, I got a cold.

One day in late March 2011, my job sent me home because I was feverish. I walked into the apartment early and was surprised to find Kaz sitting on the couch fully dressed.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I feel weird,” he said.

His body was shaking like a leaf. I grabbed a blanket and draped it around his shoulders. “I’m so pissed we never get to hang out anymore,” he said. “Something always happens and we can’t just hang out. It hurts, it really hurts.” His gaze drifted up to the corner of the room. “I’m sorry, babe,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry…” his voice trailed off.

The doctors later told us if I hadn’t come home early, the seizures would have killed him. They still almost killed him, but the doctors worked hard to keep him alive, while I sat by his bed and prayed. Please don’t take him right now. Please let him wake up. Please don’t let it end like this. Please give us another chance. Please let us say goodbye.

Forty-eight hours later, he finally opened his eyes. I had never been so happy in my life.

“When are you going to be Mrs. Smith?” he asked in front of his team of doctors and his mother, who had just flown in from D.C. “Are you going to hyphen or not hyphen? I’m okay with second billing,” he continued.

My face flushed as everyone turned to look at me. “Let’s talk about it later,” I said quietly.

The next day, I was sitting on his bed massaging his hands with lotion while a young nurse changed the bags on his IV drip. Kaz looked at me intensely.

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

“I think so,” I smiled.

“I have never loved anyone as much as I love you. I have never wanted to marry someone as much as I want to marry you. I didn’t think it was possible.”

I heard the nurse sniffle behind me.

“I want you to be Mrs. Smith,” he said, ignoring the nurse.

“Then you have to get better,” I said.

*   *   *

On Good Friday, April 22, 2011, we stood on the Griffith Observatory veranda overlooking the Hollywood Hills, surrounded by several protective rings of our closest friends (we didn’t have a location permit). I wore a sleeveless blue cotton dress that I had purchased that morning. Kaz wore a black suit, shirt and shoes, and a blue and purple-flowered tie. Our officiator and friend, Chandra, read the vows:

“Do you, Kaz, choose Niva as your wife? Do you promise to share in all life offers and suffers, to be a constant friend, a faithful partner, and true love from this day forward?”

“Hell to the yes!” Kaz said loudly. Everyone laughed.

“Do you, Niva, choose Kaz as your husband? Do you promise to share in all life offers and suffers, to be a constant friend, a faithful partner, and true love from this day forward?”

“I do.” I smiled.

Chandra pronounced us man and wife. I bent to kiss Kaz in his wheelchair, and then leaned back to look at him. We had done it. Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

“Wifey,” he whispered the next morning.

*   *   *

Three weeks later, I stood in a large warehouse, watching two men push a gurney towards me with a large cardboard casket on top. I wanted to see Kaz one more time. They wheeled the gurney before me, so I could see the word “Smith” written on top. Then they removed the cover.

I stared at him for a long time. His eyes were closed, and he was wearing the clothes I had given the men who picked him up ten days earlier, on May 3, 2011. He had all the same tattoos. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was looking at someone else. The Kaz I knew and loved was not in that box. I didn’t know where he was.

“Goodbye, babe. I love you.”

The men replaced the cover, opened the furnace door with gloved hands, and pushed him inside. The room suddenly felt warmer, and I sat down, lightheaded.

*   *   *

A month earlier, when he was in the hospital, he had told me he wanted to be cremated, with his ashes spread out on Angeles Crest Highway, the mountain road where he had ridden his motorcycle every weekend. He told me who should receive his things, how to divide his money and what songs to play at his memorials. I wrote everything down in a list, fifty words to sum up a life.

As I added the last item, he said, “I miss us.”

I looked up from the list, my heart in my throat. “I miss us too.”

“I’m so glad we stuck it out,” he said. “I know we both thought about leaving.”

“I’m honored to be here with you, babe.” I leaned forward to kiss his hands.

Afterwards, I referred to that list like a bible, using it to guide me through the memorials, the obituary notices, the giving away of possessions, the canceling of credit cards and all the other tasks that must be handled after someone dies. The day I showed up at his bank, a heavily made-up teller kept looking between the death certificate and the marriage certificate. “I don’t understand,” she said. “You married eleven days before he died?”

“Yes.”

“Why? How did he die?”

I didn’t explain it to her. It was none of her business.

“I’ll need a court order to switch over his accounts,” she said, shaking her head. “This just doesn’t make any sense.” I wanted to scream. He died at forty-three years old. Nothing made fucking sense. Instead, I looked squarely at her and tried to keep my voice steady. “I have all the proper forms, signed and notarized. If you don’t help me transfer the accounts, I’ll close them and go to another bank. Do you understand?”

“I have to speak to my manager,” she mumbled and rose from her desk. As she walked away, I stared outside at the traffic on Vine Street and thought about throwing myself in front of a double-decker tourist bus.

*   *   *

When we moved in together, Kaz and I had talked about making some changes to the apartment. After he died, I decided to go ahead with those plans. I asked Chandra, an interior decorator, to help redesign the space with Kaz in mind. We chose furniture in grey tones with chrome details and black-and-white checkered tiles for the kitchen, an ode to his old racing flags and love of chess. We hung his favorite rock posters, African masks and Chris Cooper lithographs. We put pictures of him on every bookshelf.

Several weeks later, Chandra and I sat on the patio drinking beers. “How do you feel about all the changes?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope he approves.”

“I think he does. I can feel him here really strongly.”

“I thought it was only me.”

“No, dude, he’s totally here.”

I nodded. So I’m not going crazy.

I often felt his body pressed against my backside and his arms around my waist when I was in bed. Other times, I felt his hands cupping my breasts from behind. Sometimes the lights would dim, and I felt him as a breeze against my face. Most cherished were the times he visited me in dreams. In one dream, as we were getting undressed, he said, “I’m afraid if I keep coming to you like this, you won’t be able to move on.”

“That’s okay,” I said, already half naked. “I don’t want to move on.”

When he was alive we used to write each other emails throughout the day. Now I wrote him letters. I told him about the long process of legally changing my name, first going to the Social Security office, then the DMV, my bank, and human resources. I told him how I was still getting used to being called “Mrs. Smith” and saying “my husband,” let alone saying “my late husband.”

During the day, I left the television on the channel that broadcasts the AMA, MotoGP and World Superbike races. After work, I watched all the same shows we used to watch together, still sitting on my side of the couch and directing my comments, jokes and questions to him. I got used to having one-sided conversations. I started telling close friends that Kaz was actually still in the apartment; he was just invisible.

One night, a former lover came to visit. I started crying and the man held me, which felt good. It had been so long since real arms held me. But as the man’s hands moved down my back, and his lips found my neck, I went limp. I didn’t have the energy to refuse him, but didn’t fully engage either. I kept looking over his shoulder, wondering if Kaz was in the room, or if this made him leave. Afterward, I couldn’t sleep.

I wrote to Kaz: “I don’t know if you saw what happened the other night, but I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Honestly, being with him just made me miss you more.”

*   *   *

Around our first wedding anniversary, I took my wedding ring off at the gym and forgot to put it back on. When I realized my finger was bare the next day, I felt naked. I spent the rest of the day praying that the ring was where I thought it was, and that I hadn’t somehow lost it. I rushed into the bathroom when I got home and found it in the side pocket of my gym bag, which I had left on the counter. I slipped it back on and vowed to never take it off again.

But as time went on, Kaz’s presence seemed to recede, like an echo, and the emotional limbo between newlywed and widow in which I’d been living began to fade as well. One day I did take the ring off. At first I wore it around my neck along with his ring. Then I started leaving both rings at home in a jewelry case, a decision fraught with angst and guilt. I recognized that losing the feeling of being married was part of the healing process, but it was also painful, like we were “breaking up” on some cosmic level.

Then I realized that it wasn’t as much of a break-up as it was a shift. I still felt him inside and around me, but in a different way than before. I could feel him encouraging me to move forward with my dreams and desires.

When he was in the hospital, we once had a conversation about my career. For years, I had bounced between writing and directing small projects and working all kinds of day jobs. “What do you think I should focus on?” I asked him.

He thought about it for a moment. “I think you should focus on writing.”

“How would you feel if I wrote about us?”

“I hope you do write about us,” he smiled.

Today, three years later, I am starting to envision my future. I see film festivals and book signings; a house with land, animals and a fireplace; African plains, Parisian boulevards and Jerusalem sunsets; and a community of artists dedicated to the pursuit of personal expression.

A while back, I spent time in Vermont on a writer’s residency and was drawn to the quiet, open sky and the no-nonsense atmosphere of the rural Northeast. Shortly after the third anniversary of his death on May 3, I felt an overwhelming urge to leave Los Angeles, to breathe fresh air, meet new people and experience seasons again. A few weeks later, I gave notice at my day job. Soon, I’ll be driving across the country with my dog to live and write in the Catskills, about two and half hours outside of New York City.

What I’m less clear about is who (if anyone) will be with me in the future. I’ve been on a few dates in the past couple of years, but nothing major. As I told a friend recently, my current love life is “an empty beach.” The truth is, I’m not the same person I was when I married Kaz, nor am I the same person I was after he died. At some point, I became bi-curious, something I would never have had the courage to admit if it weren’t for Kaz and everything we went through together. I don’t know when I’ll be ready to love again, but I credit Kaz for teaching me how to love and be loved. I know he would want me to be happy.

*   *   *

Niva Dorell Smith is a filmmaker and freelance writer currently based in Los Angeles. She is working on a memoir titled The History of Us and writes regularly about grief, writing and her dog at www.ridingbitchblog.com

Sophie Goldstein is a 2013 graduate of the Center for Cartoon Studies. Her work has appeared various publications including The Pitchfork Review, Seven Days, Irene 3, Sleep of Reason, Suspect Device 3 and Best American Comics 2013. Check out more of her illustration and comics at redinkradio.com