The Man Who Got America High

He chartered the Rolling Stones while smuggling Pablo Escobar’s drugs on the side. After disappearing for decades, Alfred Dellentash finally shares his unbelievable life story.

It is seven o’clock on a humid Los Angeles evening, and business is winding down at a suburban car showroom. I walk past a team of guys polishing Japanese hybrids with bright white rags, past the twenty-five-cent gumball machines and into the air-conditioned office. An attorney has arranged this meeting with one of America’s most mysterious men — who has reportedly had surgery to change his identity — at his place of work.

His name is Alfred Dellentash. When I first punched his name into Google, six months ago, the results were simply baffling. First, there is an archived People magazine article from 1978, titled: ‘TOURING ROCK STARS GO TO AL DELLENTASH WHEN THEY REALLY WANT TO GET HIGH.’ The headline is a clever joke, you see, because the story is about his multi-million-dollar private jet-leasing business, which he built in his twenties: “Among the acts that have chartered Dellentash’s three Convairs, two helicopters and a Boeing 707 are the Rolling Stones, KISS and the Grateful Dead.”

The next hit told me Dellentash was moonlighting as a wingman for two of history’s most deadly criminal organizations, flying Pablo Escobar’s drugs from Colombia to the Gambino crime family in New York. His mile-high empire was a front for the most rock ’n’ roll drug smuggling ring in history. Ironically, Dellentash was secretly getting the whole of America high — hiding in plain sight as a chartered plane provider, and later, a music manager for 1980s acts including Meat Loaf and the Bay City Rollers.

I requested to speak to Dellentash through Jack Dampf, the Baton Rouge attorney who represented him during his 1984 trial in which Dellentash was charged with criminal conspiracy to distribute drugs. As soon as I mentioned the name “Dellentash,” Dampf broke into laughter and told me: “Boy, this is one hell of a story.”

Online speculators have tried to link Dellentash’s name to the famous D.B. Cooper hijacking in 1971 (he was too young and short to have been Cooper), the C.I.A.’s covert operations in South America, and even the 9/11 terror attacks in New York — tinfoil-hat theorists discovered that Dellentash’s father was once a contractor on the World Trade Center. But the truth is not out there.

Here in the car showroom, he is known to colleagues as “Dell.” While I wait, one of them, Susan, tells me her favorite Dell story: She was dealing with an angry customer who was rejected for poor credit. In a rage the thug rose to strike her, but Dellentash came from nowhere and subdued him with an expert arm twist.

And suddenly he is ready to see me.

Today, Alfred Dellentash, sixty-six, is mustachioed and bespectacled, wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt. If there has been any surgery, I cannot see it. The expensive Italian shoes are the only glimpse of his past, when he infuriated the fusty airline industry by staffing his jet planes with Playboy models. According to feverish reports online, back then he was the equivalent of Richard Branson and Tony “Scarface” Montana.

In an office full of salesman trophies, I politely request his first extended interview since being released from his twenty-five-year jail sentence, of which he served just a fifth. I offer the chance to tell how it really happened, for the first time. But Dellentash explains that his head is compartmentalized — he keeps his past locked in a shadowy corner of his mind. This showroom, he says with a wave of his hand, was the choice he made long ago: to leave his past behind and stop running, to enter civilian life and try to win back the only woman who could keep up with him at full flight. He turns down my request.

Weeks later I am surprised when my telephone rings, and a thick New York accent asks:

“Where do you want to start?”

* * *

Alfred Dellentash Jr. was born on August 19, 1948, in New Rochelle, New York. His father was an Italian-American building contractor with high-rise goals, and his pianist mother was the head of the local Republican Party. Alfred sang in the church choir but regularly stole the “Body of Christ” wine. He spent his evenings painting model B52 and B17 bombers at home and wanted to be a rock star or a jet pilot, depending on what day you asked.

Dellentash became a frequent truant and a straight-D student by his own admission, preferring hustling in local pool halls, “moving swag” and loan-sharking. He played in local bars with his band instead of studying. At age sixteen, Dellentash obtained his pilot’s license. “I spent every dollar I had buying flying time,” he says. “I thought about becoming an airline pilot, but I figured I only wanted to fly where I wanted to go.” He flunked high school but excelled at aviation school. While his peers raced fast cars, he soared high above them in planes, flying loop-de-loops.

Dellentash grew up in the suburbs of New York and sang in a church choir. (Photos courtesy of Alfred Dellentash Jr.)
Dellentash grew up in the suburbs of New York and sang in a church choir. (Photos courtesy Alfred Dellentash Jr.)

One afternoon while in Florida he borrowed a twin-engine plane to take a girl on a date, landing the aircraft on a strip of sand just in time for the sunset. “It was completely illegal,” he says, “but she was very impressed.” This was “Mad Men”-era America, where the pursuit of material possessions and individual happiness reigned free.

“My father arranged for me to work for a construction firm, where I joined the union and sat on a crane doing nothing. I just felt trapped in his world,” says Dellentash. “My life was all mapped out for me.” In 1971, Dellentash married his high school girlfriend, and they had two children. Any dreams of becoming a pilot or rock star faded like jet plane contrails in the sky as he settled down in a Montvale, New Jersey, house he couldn’t afford. “It tore me apart,” he says. “I had babies at home to look after and that became the priority.”

But domestic life could not ground him for long, and he yearned to escape the daily grind and lift off once again. In 1973, Dellentash spotted an irresistibly priced aircraft for sale in a copy of “Airplane Trader.” “I just wanted to feel that freedom when my plane left the runway, when I could go anywhere I wanted,” he recalls. Dellentash flew to Oklahoma to complete the sale, but learned that the vendor, known as “Flamin’ Eddie,” had been found dead in his bathtub. The plane was a wreck, and in desperation, Dellentash tried to cancel his check. His bank suggested that he take a loan against the title of the plane instead. Remarkably, he left the bank with a check for $300,000 — for a plane worth next to nothing. “I realized I was on to something,” he says.

A young Alfred Dellentash Jr. with his father.
A young Alfred Dellentash Jr. with his father.

Dellentash quit his construction job and set up an airplane sales and charter company at Hanger 17 in Teterboro, New Jersey. Though he used the bank’s cash to finance his spending, he was often too broke to afford gas. Dellentash recalls buying a consignment of light aircraft in Sweden that turned out to be overhead camera planes used for geometric surveys. They had trap doors on the bottom, and when asked if he wanted them sealed, Dellentash said, “No. I’ve got an idea.”

“I’ll buy as many of these damned trap-door planes as you can sell me,” said Lenny, one of Dellentash’s customers from Oklahoma. Under his cowboy hat, Lenny was a shaggy-haired triple-A athlete who chose booze and girls over the big leagues. Dellentash knew Lenny and his boys flew bales of pot from Mexico, and dropped their load into fields across the Sooner state without even landing. Everyone was doing it, Lenny said. Together, they figured the trap doors would be perfect.

A 1970s New York Times editorial titled FLYING DRUG-RUNNERS REAP BIG PROFITS described these early, aerial smugglers: “They fly low and slow and by the light of the moon, and make $50,000 a night.” The piece quotes a Customs agent, who said: “Anybody who knows how to fly can get into the business and make a lot of money in a hurry if he can get away with it.” Dellentash was intrigued.

“You know anyone who can pick up 1,500 pounds of marijuana?” Lenny asked, one afternoon.

“Where is it?” said Dellentash.

“Belize.”

“Why not?” When opportunity knocked, he always answered.

Dellentash leased a plane for the occasion and flew a rare push-pull Cessna Skymaster 337 over Central America, with propellers on the front and back of the aircraft. It was the first time Dellentash had flown one, and it was certainly the first time the Belizeans at the airport had seen a push-pull aircraft, because one of their men walked around the back and strolled into the rear propeller, still running at full speed. “It was a mess,” says Dellentash. The propeller almost decapitated the man, who fell with blood bubbling out of his nose and mouth. Someone finished him off with a revolver, Dellentash recalls. “It was a horrifying glimpse into my future.”

Dellentash decided against the drug game, instead using his title loan scam to buy more planes with the bank’s money and lease them to rich businessmen. He found a bank in Oklahoma that wasn’t part of the FDIC and wrangled a $200,000 line of credit. This was the era of the “check float” that enabled many con artists: After a check was deposited, three days were required until the funds were debited from the payer’s account. As a result, a check writer could expect to receive approximately nine days of free money. And with that, his Cessnas became Falcons, and those Falcons became Learjets. As America entered the “Me decade” of the 1970s, one man was climbing faster than the rest, and he wasn’t looking down.

But running an airline like Dellentash’s required a 121 Air Carrier Certification from the Federal Airline Authority (FAA), which involved boring application letters and safety checks. Dellentash bypassed the requirements by calling his business a leasing company instead of an airline. He cleverly ran a separate crewing company to dodge the rules. The FAA was not impressed.

In the late 1970s, agent Charles P. Braunstein was assigned to both the New York and New Jersey FAA offices and tasked with investigating fraudulent Air Taxi certifications. “Most operators I met during that time were cordial and interesting to know,” Charles Braunstein told me in an email. “But in each case I was disappointed to find out they were involved with drugs.”

In 1977 the agent was assigned to Dellentash’s “Triple-D” Corporation. He would spend years chasing Dellentash, whose company was — in Braunstein’s words — the epitome of the fly-by-night airlines that were a danger to American passengers.

When he secured the contract to fly Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud, the third in line to the Saudi throne (and now the king), Dellentash’s aircraft received automatic diplomatic immunity, taking him above the clutches of the FAA. And the more luxurious the planes he hustled, the richer and more fabulous his clients became. Mick Jagger inquired about a private jet, and Dellentash piloted a helicopter from New Jersey to Woodstock to pick him up.

Within months, he was the personal pilot for the Stones, Emerson, Lake & Palmer, The Grateful Dead and John Denver. He financed the purchase of a Falcon jet by forging signatures on a 300-page loan agreement after a bank turned him down. The planes were a key to the lifestyle he was chasing: More planes meant more money, and more groupies and as much fun as he could handle — as long as he was home for Sunday dinner with his family, like any good Italian-American husband.

The cash and rock connections inspired Dellentash to dabble in his own music pursuits: He dreamed of becoming a music mogul like his famous passengers. He started talent-spotting in New Jersey bars, where he discovered a band called Whiplash. “I said, ‘Let me manage you, I’ll make you huge!’” Dellentash marched them to Manny’s Music and let them spend $30,000 on guitars. “I was at my happiest then,” he says. “I was living a life other kids from New Rochelle could only dream about.” His wife was also struggling to keep up with him. “I tried to involve her in my world,” he says. “She didn’t want to go to rock concerts — she wanted to be at home. I felt like I was torn between two worlds.”

Dellentash’s planes had fully stocked bars, king-sized beds, gold fixtures, thick carpeting, plants, phones, telex printers and electric typewriters, all unheard of in-flight luxuries at the time. “I got great contacts with film people, TV, rock promoters and managers,” he boasted during the People magazine interview. “I got a lot of money and a good business sense.” The article also earned him some unusual attention.

* * *

Miami International Airport, Florida — A piano-black Lincoln town car idled on the street. Leaning against it was a barrel-chested Italian-American clutching a leather purse, watching the jets land through dark-tinted glasses. He greeted Dellentash with a firm handshake and introduced himself as “Steve Teri.” He described himself on the telephone as a real estate developer, keen to talk business with the high-flying New Yorker from the pages of People.

Walking into a private room in his sprawling office, Steve said, “Listen, you’ve got the perfect setup. I need a plane to go to Pakistan.”

“Please sit down,” he added. “I need you to pick up some drugs.”

“The propeller disaster in Belize was fresh in my mind,” Dellentash says, “but everything with this guy just seemed organized. He made it all sound easy. He offered $150,000 in start-up money, so he was really talking my language.” But as Dellentash would discover, this gentleman’s name was not Steve Teri, and he was no realtor.

Dellentash decided to give the smuggling game another try and excitedly flew his Convair back to Stewart Airport in New York. But Charles Braunstein was waiting. FAA agents forced their way inside the cockpit and cited Dellentash for illegally operating an airline. With no foreign diplomats on board to protect him, Braunstein delivered a $770,000 fine and grounded the aircraft. This was the part of the job he loved — taking the keys. But Dellentash calmly asked a stewardess to fetch his briefcase, and minutes later, Braunstein watched the Convair roar into the skies again as he stood gripping a certified check for $78,000, the exact amount of the fine’s “payable.”

Despite Steve’s promises, the Pakistan job was a bust: When Dellentash arrived at the meeting point near Islamabad, armed Pakistani gangsters were engaged in shootout in a hotel lobby. Fleeing in a hail of gunfire, Dellentash escaped back to the States. Then Steve persuaded him to try a similar job in Colombia to recoup their money. Again, he promised it would be easy. He was a hard guy to turn down.

Dellentash took his old Oklahoman buddy Lenny as a co-pilot, for his experience and cool nature behind the controls. Though the pick-up in Colombia was stress-free, they didn’t take enough gas and barely made it back home. “I remember flying over the theme park in Orlando, and I could see the fairytale castle all lit up, and I was flat out of gas with a cargo hold full of drugs,” says Dellentash. “I was flying all over the place, thinking it was the end. We were gonna crash land with thousands of pounds of marijuana.” They searched for the promised buckets of fire. “I was making so much noise it was unbelievable,” he says. “I was coming in hot, but I said, ‘Fuck it, I gotta land this thing, or it’s gonna land me.’”

As the plane fell into a controlled descent, he flipped on the lights as they smashed into a farmer’s field. “Before that night I never thought a cow could have an expression,” he laughs, “but they were scared!” The aircraft skidded into the mud. Dellentash shut down the engine and waited for the sound of trucks. Steve’s gang was quickly on hand to load up the drugs. Then a watchman ordered to fire a warning shot gave the signal that cops had arrived. The trigger-happy cops returned fire.

Dellentash ducked as the unmistakable BING! BING! BONG! of rounds struck the plane. The cockpit window exploded. “They’re shooting at us!” he screamed, and they ran into the dark night.

* * *

Steve was furious. If he had been there, he said, the FBI would have busted him. He told Dellentash that his real name was Salvatore Ruggiero, the younger brother of the fearsome gangster Angelo Ruggiero, and the ringleader of New York’s Pleasant Avenue Connection drug ring, a forerunner to the legendary Pizza Connection. “I’m the most wanted man by the DEA,” he confessed. The mobster was desperate to earn his $250,000 back from the failed missions. “The problem is your guys,” Dellentash suggested. “Respectfully, I want to keep you out of it. You give me the Colombian contacts, I’ll make the pick-up and deliver it to New York. I’ll make it like Federal Express … for drugs!”

Steve, or Salvatore, invited Dellentash to a restaurant in Miami Beach. At midnight a Colombian walked in with two girls on each arm. “He was one of the best-looking guys I ever saw,” says Dellentash. “And the girls he was with? I wanted to pinch them to make sure they were real.” That man was Carlos Lehder, who revolutionized the cocaine industry and teamed up with American smuggler George Jung, making millions of dollars and winning the trust of the biggest suppliers of cocaine in Columbia: Pablo Escobar and his Medellín Cartel. Lehder gripped Dellentash’s hand and looked him in the eye.

Later, at one of Salvatore’s pork stores in Fort Lauderdale, the three men talked as their breath hung in the chilled air. “Here’s another fifty for expenses — now can you not fuck this up?” Salvatore joked as he handed Dellentash a tinfoil package of cash. Dellentash was in business with the mob.

Braunstein was waiting as he taxied down the runway at Stewart Airport in New York one day in 1980. “You’re running an illegal airline and this time we are confiscating your aircraft, Dellentash,” he said, but the pilot pushed past him towards a waiting limousine. Dellentash wound down the mirrored window and tossed him the keys. “You can keep the damned thing,” he said with a smile, as the car slid away. “I got others.”

* * *

Dellentash and I are eating at a diner in Studio City, California. Sly Stallone is holding court five tables down, but the waitresses fuss over Dellentash, mainly because he tips roughly 200%. Over eggs, Dellentash says he would rather talk about his rock music achievements. In around 1980, his rock star passengers introduced him to the famous music attorney David Sonenberg, who asked if Dellentash would like to co-manage Meat Loaf. His first client was one of the record industry’s most successful, and troublesome, talents. “I was delighted, but I felt like being in a pressure cooker,” says Dellentash. “I was living my dream, to become a big player in the music business. Meat Loaf had the talent, and he had the songs. Meat Loaf’s only problem was he looked like Meat Loaf.”

“The music biz was clearly a sideline for Al,” Meat Loaf wrote in his 2000 autobiography. “He would tell these stories about flying to Libya with a load of automatic weapons. It was enough to make me afraid of him. One day Dellentash came into the studio. He’d bought in a shoebox wrapped in tinfoil. I opened it expecting to see cookies. When I took the tinfoil off I saw it was full of hundred-dollar bills. Wrapped like in the movies, with the little seal around them… I said, ‘Whoa,’ and wrapped it again fast.”

Together, Sonenberg and Dellentash wrangled cash advances from record companies for Meat Loaf albums, tours and movies. Dellentash brought street charm and muscle to the bargaining table; Sonenberg crunched the numbers. That year, Dellentash helped the Bay City Rollers sell an album to CBS International for $250,000; he hung out with Jimmy Iovine, who would later go on to form Interscope Records and the Beats by Dre headphones empire. Meanwhile, his airplane business attracted huge clients like OPM, the crooked computer leasing business that stole $225 million from various banks and guru Shri Hans Ji Maharaj, the leader of the questionable religious sect The Divine Light. They were all attracted to Dellentash — and the vast riches he was accumulating.

Dellentash purchased a lavish headquarters on Riverside Drive in New York City and furnished it with Louis XIV furniture. The lobby was dressed entirely in gold and paneled in rich mahogany. There was even a pink room with a pink grand piano at the center. “I had a private chef, and a full-time guy just to keep the fireplaces roaring at all times and a theater room with a twenty-foot screen,” he says. “We’d host sex parties with all the best girls.” Dellentash was now dressed to kill, wearing $400 shirts and shoes made from exotic animals. He employed a former college linebacker for a bodyguard who had twenty-one-inch biceps and reveled in his nickname, “The Brick.”

Dellentash started to become tempted by the beautiful women who populated the music industry, the girls befitting of his new status as one of New York’s rising stars. One spring day in 1980, he held a casting for a Meat Loaf video called “Read ’Em and Weep.” The last girl arrived wearing killer high-heels and a tight pantsuit.

Bonnie was a waitress at the Playboy nightclub on East 59th Street, the imposing nine-story building that boasted over 38,000 square feet of adult fun. To her delight, Bonnie found the Playboy job also came with a host of perks: She launched a submarine in Groton and played baseball with the Navy Seals. When the music business required attractive girls, they knew Playboy bunnies were available.

“I immediately fell for her, the moment she walked in the door,” says Dellentash. At the casting call, Bonnie waited in the doorway with her hands on her hips. Dellentash’s full-time fire-tender, distracted by the blonde, nearly let the flames go out.

“She was drop-dead gorgeous,” says Dellentash. “But she knew it!”

Dellentash with Bonnie, 22 at the time.
Dellentash with Bonnie, 22 at the time.

“His office was ridiculous,” Bonnie tells me. “He sat behind a twenty-five-foot desk, and his chair was an airplane seat. It even had a safety buckle! I just saw this huge ego. He asked me out, but I said no way.”

Somehow Dellentash convinced her to fly on his private jet to watch another of his artists, Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes, play a sell-out concert at the Blossom Music Center in Cleveland, Ohio. Afterwards, he let her take the controls and they listened to Blondie records as they soared through the clouds, back to his ludicrously appointed residence overlooking Central Park. That night she slept on his sofa and was gone before he awoke. With her blue-collar upbringing and street smarts, Bonnie was more than just a match for Dellentash: She was a challenge. At the time he had the pick of almost every woman in New York, and naturally, he desired the one he couldn’t have.

“Chasing Bonnie had become a full-time job,” Dellentash recalls. But a second date turned into a third, and soon she had moved into his apartment. Dellentash was still married but says his heart already belonged to Bonnie. She was more than a lover; she was a co-pilot.

* * *

The twin islands of Little and Great Inagua are the bird-watching capital of the Bahamas. More than 80,000 pink West Indian flamingos reside there, but that’s not what drew Dellentash to the islands. The coral surrounding Inagua made it inaccessible to Cuban smugglers in speedboats, granting an opportunity to a drugs pilot.

At the pork store meeting, Carlos Lehder enthused to Dellentash about the potential for the Bahamas as a drug transshipment point. He had arrived in nearby Norman’s Cay in 1978, buying up large pieces of property, including a home for himself known as The Volcano and an airstrip. Dellentash knew he had a lot of work to do: “Do you know how hard it is to corrupt an entire island?” he laughs while recounting the story.

Dellentash decided to arrive in flamboyant style: He performed a loop-de-loop when he landed in Nassau and hired the best bungalow at the best hotel on the island, bringing Bonnie under the guise of a island vacation. “When we arrived there were pink sheets, pink pillows and the walls were decorated pink,” recalls Bonnie. “There was even pink toilet paper. He’d hired a Bahamian guitar player to play ‘Love on the Rocks’ for me, by Neil Diamond, but calypso style.”

“The worst fucking guitar player in history,” says Dellentash.

But there was business to do: He had to set up one of the most effective drug routes in history. The first few missions were a dream, he says. Dellentash and Lenny flew down to the Bahamas from Florida and refueled at Inagua. They took with them $40,000 in cash — $15,000 for the Bahamian military, $15,000 for customs and $5,000 for fuel. Soldiers would guard the plane all night from the prying eyes of the DEA or rival Cuban smugglers.

At five a.m. they took off from Inagua, and within hours they were flying over the jungles of Colombia. “You’d be looking for a guy on a tractor waving a red handkerchief,” recalls Dellentash. Out of the woods, a tractor arrived carrying 5,000 pounds of weed.

Back in Inagua, the military stood guard over the plane again as they refueled, then departed for Millville, New Jersey, where he used large hangars that served as ammunition dumps during the Second World War and replaced the padlocks with his own.

“I basically had my own airport,” says Dellentash.

That’s not to say the drug route wasn’t difficult or dangerous. Dellentash avoided the obvious routes into Miami and Jacksonville by flying into Cape Hatteras, a tempestuous strip of North Carolina coastline known to sailors and pilots as the “graveyard of the Atlantic.” There, deadly currents create countless shipwrecks, and few pilots dare to fly during storms. But these were the perfect conditions for “flying dead” through the night — with no lights or navigation, invisible to the authorities.

He remembers his cockpit illuminated with St. Elmo’s Fire, the mystical phenomenon that creates a halo of bright electricity around an aircraft. To some it was an omen of death, but to Dellentash it was just plain beautiful. Lights on the coastline twinkled out of the dark as he pulled the yoke, dropping even closer to sea level. At just a hundred feet above the water, sometimes a ghostly ship appeared through the sea mist, passing his wing by meters. He flew so low that the cold waves often sprayed the plane with seawater.

On board was 10,000 pounds of high-class marijuana wrapped in gabardine bags, with a street value of a million dollars. One night, his gas needle was flat-out dead as Kill Devil Hills loomed nearer. Named after smuggler-talk for rum, this was contraband county, and under the port side, black waters gave way to emerald green hills. At an unmanned Carolina airport he suddenly soared towards the heavens — a fake takeoff, designed to fool air traffic control to think he was domestic traffic. Often, Lenny was directly above him in an identical Cessna: “Double the load for just one radar blip,” he explains. But even with long-distance gas tanks, sometimes they only just made it home.

Under the cover of darkness, they unloaded the pot in Millville. Passenger seats were loaded into the Cessna and marijuana leaves vacuumed away. Then their truck wound its way up the New Jersey Turnpike into the city. A “smash” car followed: If cops pulled the van over, the back-up driver would deliberately crash into the cops and take off. He never needed it, Dellentash says. But it paid to be organized.

Dellentash relaxes with Bonnie in the Bahamas. At this time, he was one of Pablo Escobar's personal pilots, and a partner of the notorious crime boss Salvatore Ruggiero.
Dellentash relaxes with Bonnie in the Bahamas. At this time, he was one of Pablo Escobar’s personal pilots, and a partner of the notorious crime boss Salvatore Ruggiero.

Between 1979 and 1982, Alfred Dellentash imported millions of dollars of Pablo Escobar’s cannabis and cocaine directly into New York, riding a wave of crime that changed the very fabric of American life. His cover made him absolutely bulletproof: By day he was a rock ’n’ roll impresario in the studio with chart-topping acts, by night he was hiding seven million dollars in cash behind fake walls in his home.

When he speaks of this era, Dellentash talks fast, and continuously adds “in the interim,” as a way to cycle between the worlds orbiting his gravitational pull: planes, rock stars, drugs and Bonnie. “Keeping all the plates spinning was becoming impossible,” he says.

Bonnie and Dellentash were hitting the town every night: Studio 54, Underground, Savoy Club and the Ritz, laughing like teenagers in the back of limousines. “People were falling over themselves to let us into the clubs,” Bonnie recalls. “He was a celebrity.” Champagne flowed, flakes of pure cocaine were pushed into long rails. His fame soared.

But cracks were appearing. The Meat Loaf movie was a flop: “Dead Ringer” “barely made sense,” a reviewer wrote in The New York Times. Dellentash spread himself too thin, and while Bonnie had just a small part in the movie, she had taken over the second lead role in Dellentash’s life. That’s not to say he was always truthful: One night Bonnie walked into a restaurant and spotted him dining when he was supposed to be in the Bahamas.

“You said you were in the islands!” she yelled, throwing a drink.

“I am!” said Dellentash, soaked in a cosmopolitan. “Long Island!”

* * *

Bodies started turning up in the Bahamas. A yacht belonging to a retired couple was found drifting near Norman’s Cay. Carlos Lehder was thought to be behind it. “The Bahamians got greedy,” says Dellentash. “Inagua was no longer low-key — you had to line up behind twelve other drug planes to take off,” he says. “The bunk house where we slept looked like that canteen in ‘Star Wars’ — everyone had guns and was doing blow all night.”

President Reagan was now in power, struggling to dig America out from under a new recession. And Salvatore Ruggiero, now earning huge profits from the scheme, tried to interest Dellentash in the heroin industry by giving him a sample. Dellentash arranged for two known junkies to test its quality; both immediately overdosed and were taken to the hospital.

Then, during a party in Manhattan, a fashion model accidentally snorted that heroin, “Pulp Fiction”-style, by confusing the powder with cocaine and collapsed during sex with one of Dellentash’s gang. “I thought I had a body on my hands,” says Dellentash. “I finally bought her around by thumping her chest. I was screaming at her, ‘I ain’t going to jail because of you!’” Heroin was a curse, Dellentash says, and he vowed to avoid it at all costs. “The mob were not supposed to be involved in drugs. The Gambino family prohibited it,” he says. By the spring of 1981, the matter had driven a rift between him and Salvatore.

“We’re going into the heroin business,” enthused Salvatore.

“The problem with heroin is your brother’s involved,” said Dellentash. “And you always said getting involved with your brother is the road to the end.”

In a ferocious argument, Salvatore ordered Dellentash to gear down his music business and concentrate on importing heroin from the Golden Triangle, the infamous drug-producing region spanning Northern Thailand, Laos and Myanmar. But Dellentash was on the brink of making record-label history. He says he was working with an unknown teenager named Jon Bon Jovi, a kid he believed would become a star. Dellentash wanted out of drugs altogether. Then Salvatore threatened him: “That little blonde girl of yours,” he said, “she’s a distraction. Do we need to remove her from the situation?”

Bonnie was blissfully unaware of Dellentash’s moonlighting. She had met “Steve Teri” once and hated him. By now, Dellentash had got her out of the Playboy Club and into fashion school, but she was pressuring him to settle down. He kept on promising “tomorrow.”

“I never felt like the other woman,” Bonnie says. “I was always the number one.”

Salvatore demanded a meeting and told Dellentash to send a plane to bring him from New York to his Florida headquarters for a sit-down. The Gates Learjet 23 was a favorite of Dellentash’s because it had the call sign N100-TA, which he jokes stood for “Tits and Ass.” It took off as planned at 11:35 a.m. on May 6, 1981, from Teterboro airport, climbing to 24,000 feet at a rate of 300 knots. The pilot was informed it was a perfect day for flying, and on board he was joined by a co-pilot and just two passengers, Salvatore Ruggiero and his wife.

“Descend to maintain flight level three nine zero,” came the call from air traffic control, and the pilot duly acknowledged, stabilizing her at 39,000 feet. But one minute and thirty-two seconds later, the co-pilot hurriedly reported that the plane was going down. In the background, air traffic control overheard a warning horn. The plane was in free-fall. It made another transmission, but air traffic control could not understand it.

Dellentash's infamous Learjet, number N100TA, or "tits and ass," as it came to be known, on the tarmac at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey.
Dellentash’s infamous Learjet, number N100TA, or “tits and ass,” as it came to be known, on the tarmac at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey.

“Say again,” said air traffic control. “Say again.”

A passing fishing boat found the wreckage of the interior of a fancy jet, and told authorities of sharks eating the bodies. Dellentash was in the studio when the phone rang.

“I thought you were dead,” said Agent Charles Braunstein. Dellentash pulled down the volume lever on the mixing deck. He swung his chair away from Sonenberg and held the phone closer to his ear.

“Did you know your Learjet just crashed off Savannah, Georgia?”

“What?”

“Your Learjet just crashed. Who was on board, Al?”

“Must have been a charter.”

“Who was on board?”

Dellentash paused.

“My friend Steve Teri and his wife.”

* * *

The FBI was already listening when Dellentash called Angelo Ruggiero, Salvatore’s brother, with the bad news. Agents disguised as construction workers planted listening devices in Angelo’s kitchen, dining room and even bugged the princess phone in his daughter’s bedroom.

“This is Angelo,” said the voice.

“It’s me,” said Dellentash. “The brother’s dead.”

There was a pause.

“Who killed him?”

“No one. He crashed in my plane this morning. I swear to God.”

“What did you say?”

FBI Agents later heard how difficult it was for Angelo to accept his brother’s death because the body was in “fuckin’ pieces.” Angelo said: “If Sal would have been shot in the head and they found him in the streets — that’s part of our life, I could accept that.”

“Listen, I’ve got guys on my back,” Dellentash told Angelo. “I got his assets, he’s been living in my house and we’re one day away from the Feds being here. I’m gonna have to tell them it was him on board. Okay? We need to clean house.”

“Where’s the heroin?” Angelo demanded.

“I don’t touch heroin.”

“Listen, whoever has this heroin,” said Angelo, “I’m gonna put a shark in my pool, and I’m gonna feed that guy to a shark like a spaghetti dinner.” Dellentash put the phone down, and went cold. Just a moment ago he had an empire, a music career and a future with Bonnie. Now, he was looking at decades in jail, or worse: death.

After all, he knew Salvatore’s heroin was stashed at his home.

* * *

The death of Salvatore Ruggiero set off a chain of events that would create an internal war within the Gambino Family and eventually lead to the crowning of John Gotti as its leader. It also drove a rift between Dellentash and Bonnie. Shortly after the crash, the FBI wrote to Bonnie to inform her that her phone had been tapped. Naturally, she demanded answers.

“I want my own life,” she told him.

On a good night as a waitress at a comedy club in the city, Bonnie was now earning $1,500. She told Dellentash he could have been just a big success without all the schemes and cons. She was an honest girl from a good family and didn’t deserve all this. They split, and, heart-broken, he fled to his winter home in Vermont to clear his head. But his phone didn’t stop ringing.

“I got serious problems, Al, I’m in a fix,” said Lenny.

“I told you I’m on vacation. Call me after Christmas, Lenny.”

“They might take my life, Al. I might not be around next year.”

Lenny said he needed money to get him out of trouble. He said he owed a connection in Louisiana some cash for a cocaine deal, and Dellentash was the only guy he could trust to help.

“How much do you need?” asked Dellentash.

“Two hundred and fifty.”

Dellentash saw an opportunity. “What if I gave you a hundred and fifty, and enough heroin to hold on to as collateral?” he said, eager to get rid of the stuff. Dellentash never liked bringing cash and drugs together in the same place, because it increased the risk for all parties involved. But he could help Lenny and himself, so he agreed to drive to a hotel in Louisiana.

Two men knocked on the door of room 12, and Dellentash let them in. One was tall, black, with prison tattoos and earrings. “The other guy was a nervous junkie,” says Dellentash. “The whole situation stunk. I was gonna get rolled, and I knew it.”

Dellentash pulled his gun, but the door crashed in and twenty guys appeared. A shotgun butt smashed into Dellentash’s jaw, knocking out five teeth. The gun flew out of his hand, and his mouth poured with blood as he staggered to his feet. Another punch floored him. “I was certain they were gonna kill me right there,” he says. “Then they started screaming, ‘Police!’”

“I was relieved!” admits Dellentash. “I thought it was a take-down. I thought I was gonna get killed.” In handcuffs, Dellentash figured it all out. Lenny had been busted, he figured, and turned him in for a lighter sentence. He watched a cop take $10,000 from his stash and hand it to the two crooks. “It was a total setup,” he says.

From East Baton Rouge police station, Dellentash was taken to the local jail and locked up alone. He was charged with criminal conspiracy to distribute heroin and firearms offenses. They allowed him just one five-minute telephone call, and it was a miracle Bonnie picked up. “It’s me. I’m locked up in a dungeon — I’m in federal. Just tell everyone I’m okay.” he said. The money ran out just before he added: “I love you.”

“I thought he could beat anything,” Bonnie tells me. “The arrest made me realize I couldn’t imagine life without Al. He just… got me. He understood me. No other man did. Al didn’t need money or planes to win me. He thought he did, but he didn’t.”

Dellentash was arraigned to appear in Baton Rouge state court. The judge was an elderly Southern gentleman who ordered Dellentash to stand and make his plea.

“Not guilty,” he said, defiantly.

The judge sighed and slowly put on his spectacles.

“You’re from the north, I believe?”

“Yes, sir. New Jersey.”

“Well let me explain in terms you’ll understand. Imagine you are at a barbecue,” he said, as sniggers broke out among the clerks, “and you’re the chicken.”

* * *

Jack Dampf was a popular Baton Rouge defense attorney who had practiced law in the area for eight years. He was thirty-four and kept a busy office thanks to his captivating turn of phrase in the courtroom. He was expensive, Dellentash recalls, but worth every penny.

“I thought Dellentash was toast,” Dampf told me on the telephone. “The cops tested a sample of the heroin he was holding in their lab, and they had never seen anything quite like it. I mean, it was off-the-scale pure. They knew just by the purity of the heroin that Dellentash was involved incredibly high up the chain — or he was Mafia.”

Dampf says he was summoned to a confidential room in the U.S. attorney’s office, where he met a group of Organized Crime Strike Force officers from Chicago and New York. The officers showed him black-and-white photos of Dellentash with various celebrities. “There was Dellentash with organized crime figures, rock stars, and I think I saw one with Frank Sinatra. I was taken aback,” says Dampf.

“He is a very well-known person,” the officers explained. “He’s part of an organized crime gang.”

“And there I was thinking he was toast,” says Dampf.

That night, Bonnie held his hand in the prison visiting room, where they sat among the terrorists, arms dealers, their wives and children.

“You’ll work it out. If anyone can dodge this, you can,” she said.

Dampf pushed for a proffer, an agreement that allows a person under criminal investigation to provide information about crimes with assurances of protection against prosecution. Dampf requested total immunity for his client, because testifying about organized crime and drugs would mean signing his death warrant. And though it broke his heart, Dellentash told Bonnie, “You can date other people, you know. You can’t wait around for me. I’m gonna be gone a long time.”

Gotti’s Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act (RICO) trial began in August 1986, with the prosecution relying heavily on testimony by convicted felons. “I had to stand there and give my evidence, and the courtroom was packed with wiseguys, staring straight at me,” says Dellentash. Dressed in their Sunday best were John Gotti, Gene Gotti and their crew. In the gallery, Dellentash says he saw one thug mime the unloading of a pump action shotgun in his direction.

The trial was a farce. One witness committed perjury by accusing the prosecution of offering him drugs in prison in return for testimony, while other witnesses admitted that their testimony was buying them shorter sentences. After a long and rancorous trial in which the defense repeatedly traded personal slurs with the prosecutors, Gotti was acquitted in March of 1987.

Dellentash received fifteen years for conspiracy to distribute heroin and ten years for possession of felony weapons. His wife divorced him as he languished in a high-security jail where he paced an isolation cell in his underwear. Bonnie reluctantly moved on. After he was released in July 1988, having served just five years, Dellentash tried to make a new life for himself. He ran a restaurant in Rutland, Vermont, before a federal agent tipped off a journalist who wrote the front-page headline: “Mob Man in Mendon.” But all he really wanted was to get Bonnie back.

“She slammed the door on my face whenever I called,” he says. Though her heart was elsewhere, Bonnie tells me she could never forget about Dellentash: “I’d listen to the radio, and every song would remind me of Al.”

When Bonnie was rushed to the hospital with acute stomach pains in 1988, doctors thought it was life-threatening. A mutual friend told Dellentash, who ran to the hospital. “Seeing him there was magical,” Bonnie tells me. Though it was only a burst appendix, the drama reunited the couple. “You can’t help how your heart feels,” she says. Bonnie agreed to take him back, if he quit his hustling for good.

“You’ve got to have a real life now,” she told him.

“I don’t even know what a real life is,” Dellentash said.

And then one day he woke up and she had run away to California without leaving a note. Dellentash followed her.

“I booked the first ticket out of New York. One way. I had no money left and I had no idea what I was going to do,” he says.

“Luckily he brought only his good side to California,” Bonnie says. “He left the bad guy back East.”

* * *

Dellentash with Bonnie at their house in the Bahamas at the height of his drug-importation success.
Dellentash with Bonnie at their house in the Bahamas at the height of his drug-importation success.

Our last interview takes place at a busy chain restaurant in a shopping mall in Los Angeles. Bonnie is here too, and she is beautiful and fun. She tells the stories better than Dellentash. It is a Friday night, and there are cocktails — Dellentash is in a reflective mood. He finally tells the truth about his motivations for telling his story: He is in remission from stage-four cancer. But this is a now-or-never mea culpa.

He concludes that he spent his life on the run, and his pursuits all followed a common theme: Escape. There were planes, drugs and rock ’n’ roll, but they were all just means of getting higher, faster and richer than the rest. He ran from the domestic boredom of New Rochelle, becoming a modern-day Peter Pan: He refused to grow up and instead flew to mysterious islands, battled pirates, lost his Wendy.

“I stopped running when I took a job as a car salesman,” he says, “being told how to sell a car by a teenager.” Of course the phone still rang: Would he like to produce a rap record? Hire some planes for a trip to Colombia? Move some goods to the Midwest? But all this would mean losing Bonnie.

His supervisors watched with wonder as this mysterious East Coast transplant made sale after sale, quickly becoming one of the area’s best sales managers. Now he mentors young salesmen with criminal pasts. When he married Bonnie they filled a pretty suburban home with nice furniture and had two kids, now grown up. What he was running from all that time turned out to be the very thing that made him feel so complete.

“The prosecutor in the Gotti case said that it was suspicious how Salvatore died in my plane,” says Dellentash. I suggest it was a hell of a coincidence, to which he responds: “If I killed one of the Gambino guys, then testified against Gotti, do you think I’d be sitting here eating dinner with you?”

Whatever the truth is, he still prefers to sit where he can see the door.

The waitress hovers, refilling his coffee after almost every sip, it seems. He takes a bite of his omelet and says, “I’m living a second chance.”

* * *

*Some names have been changed at the request of the interviewees.

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40 Years Ago, an Alabama Jury Proved White Supremacists Could Be Brought to Justice

The long-delayed trial of the KKK bomber meant white southerners like me—and my aunt, who was on the jury—could no longer ignore the evil around us.

Uncle Bobby sat on my grandmother’s couch with a hangdog look and a brown paper sack. I wasn’t used to seeing him this way. Tall, lanky, bearded, and gruff, Uncle Bobby dispensed orders and opinions. On Monday, November 14, 1977, he delivered tampons.

His wife, my Aunt Nell, was sequestered for a jury. A bailiff called with her request: clothes, her Bible, and a large bag of feminine hygiene products.

Searching through the Birmingham Public Library archives 40 years later, I find a photograph of Aunt Nell, Juror 149, leaving the courtroom of the biggest case in the city’s civil rights history. I note first that Uncle Bobby brought her white slacks. Next, in her right hand, I see a crumpled tissue. She’s crying.

Jury members leave the courtroom. Aunt Nell wears white slacks, and in her right hand is a crumpled tissue. (Photo courtesy the Birmingham Public Library Department of Archives and Manuscripts)

At 16, I thought only of myself. Nell was the cool aunt, the party aunt who packed a large green Impala full of giggling teenage girls each Friday night and drove to football games, past cute boys’ houses, or to rock concerts. How long was this sequester? Would we miss KISS?

My cousin Tracy, 14, and I pestered her dad with questions. Could we ride downtown with him? Could he drive by Penny Pet Food billboard, so we could watch the dog’s tongue loll and its tail wag?

Maybe we could get on television!

“No!”

Uncle Bobby dashed our hopes with a bark. He wasn’t taking girls to any courthouse where Dynamite Bob was on trial.

* * *

On the morning of September 15, 1963, Addie Mae Collins, Carole Robertson, and Cynthia Wesley, each 14, and Denise McNair, 11, were busily primping in the basement ladies’ room of Birmingham’s Sixteenth Street Baptist Church for a special Youth Day program when a dynamite blast tore out the church’s east side. The explosion’s force blew off their frilly Sunday dresses and sent concrete fragments flying through their skulls. Relatives identified them by their ash-covered patent-leather shoes.

A local Ku Klux Klan faction targeted the church for its visible presence in the civil rights movement. Protestors had gathered at Sixteenth Street multiple times earlier that year for mass meetings of the Birmingham Campaign to confront one of segregation’s most violently defended bastions. In April, Martin Luther King, Jr. penned “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” after his arrest in a downtown march. In May, a protest called the “Children’s Crusade” left from the church to face Jim Crow. Birmingham’s Commissioner of Public Safety, Theophilus Eugene “Bull” Connor ordered police to attack the young demonstrators with dogs and firemen to hit them with water cannons. Photographs and video footage shocked the world. Embarrassed civic leaders agreed to hire black workers and desegregate downtown stores and businesses.

But the chaos was not yet over. In early September, not long after the March on Washington and King’s “I Have Dream” speech, a few city schools admitted the first black students. A violent backlash ensued. White students at three high schools rioted. Local civil rights activists’ homes were firebombed. Governor George Wallace did nothing to help. Earlier that summer, he famously blocked the way of two black students trying to integrate the University of Alabama, making good on words from his inaugural address, “segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.”

On Tuesday, September 10th, President John F. Kennedy bypassed Wallace, federalizing the Alabama National Guard and sending the troops to schools to keep order.

On Friday the 13th, the city remained awash in hot-rods flying Confederate flags on their radio antennas and hanging signs from their windows that said “Keep Birmingham Schools White.”

On Sunday the church exploded.

The blast resonated across the nation. The “four little girls,” as the victims were collectively known, inspired poetry, fiction, visual art, and music. Their deaths galvanized support for the movement, leading to passage of the 1964 Civil Rights Act and the 1965 Voting Rights Act.

Back in Birmingham, the FBI and local police chased each other’s tails around a slipshod investigation that went nowhere. Fourteen years passed before Robert “Dynamite Bob” Chambliss, the Sixteenth Street bombing’s ringleader, was brought to trial.

* * *

My grandmother, a recent widow and a newly employed nurse, brought her children to Birmingham in the late 1940s from Alabama’s Appalachian foothills. Granny was excited to find a place to live near her job at Hillman Hospital downtown, in the city’s first housing project for whites. Elyton Village sat on Center Street, ten blocks south of an emerging civil rights showdown.

In 1947, a federal judge ruled Birmingham’s 1926 race-based zoning laws unconstitutional. Middle class black families began purchasing bungalows from white owners along north Center Street. Then their bungalows blew up. Between 1947 and 1965, more than 50 racially motivated bomb attacks occurred.

Neither Aunt Nell nor my mother remembered the explosions that gave Birmingham its nickname, “Bombingham,” although many took place close to where they lived. Perhaps to shield her girls, my grandmother said the rumbling came from “danny-mite,” as she pronounced it, in local coal and iron ore mines.

Down the road from what later became known as “Dynamite Hill,” my mother fought her own battle. One morning, a neighbor girl called her “poor.” After school, Mom waited for her behind a bush. When the girl roller-skated past, Mom jumped out and pummeled her face into the concrete. Not long afterward, my grandmother got a better job and moved her daughters from Elyton Village to East Lake, a working class community five miles east of downtown. Even though Mom got a spanking for her violence, she told the story proudly.

“We fought our way out of nothing,” she said. “Don’t let anyone try to drag you down to their level.”

A group of African Americans view the bomb-damanged home of Arthur Shores, an NAACP attorney in Birmingham, September 5, 1963. Explosions became so frequent that Birmingham earned the nickname, “Bombingham.” (Photo by Trikosko, Marion S., courtesy the U.S. Library of Congress)

I had been a civil rights educator for two decades when Aunt Nell mentioned the little black girl my late mother beat up.

I heard this story all my life and missed the obvious.

“Of course the girl was black, baby.”

Aunt Nell, now in her 70s, is the kind of Southern lady that calls everybody “baby.” The kind that cooks supper for her Baptist church on Wednesdays, prepares the programs for Sunday service on Thursdays, and visits shut-ins on Saturdays. Still the cool aunt, but no longer the party aunt, Nell has silver hair, which complements her steel blue eyes. Her walker, named “Mr. Walker,” goes with her everywhere after Uncle Bobby’s passing.

Aunt Nell and Mr. Walker have been through all Twelve Steps. She does not shy away from honest answers.

“Baby, your momma wouldn’t have hurt a white girl so bad for calling her poor.”

Flashing into my mind: the scene from Spike Lee’s 1997 documentary “4 Little Girls,” where Maxine McNair shows the director the piece of concrete that was embedded in her daughter Denise’s head.

* * *

The news media focused on shoes. The Associated Press circulated a photograph of Maxine McNair’s father, F.L. Pippen, and another man running from the church carrying Denise’s shoe. Pippen had just pulled Denise’s body from the rubble.

Eugene Patterson, editor of the Atlanta Constitution, published a column the next day that used the image to create a sense of empathy – and shame – in his white readership. “A Flower for the Graves,” read later that night on the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite, argued that the responsibility for the bombing did not lie only with the act’s perpetrators but with all white Southerners who, as Patterson stated, “created a climate for child-killing.” He described a grieving mother holding a shoe that belonged to her dead child. “Every one of us in the white South holds that small shoe in his hand,” Patterson stated. “Let us see it straight and look at the blood on it. Let us compare it with the unworthy speeches of Southern public men who have traduced the Negro; match it with the spectacle of shrilling children whose parents and teachers turned them free to spit epithets at small huddles of Negro school children for a week before this Sunday in Birmingham; hold up the shoes and look beyond it to the state house in Montgomery where the official attitudes of Alabama have been spoken in heat and anger.”

Patterson urged his readers to do better, to “plant a flower of nobler resolve” on the girls’ graves. “We created the day,” he said. “We bear the judgment.”

* * *

The FBI and local police knew who bombed Sixteenth Street, but the investigation dragged on for years with no prosecution.

Bob Chambliss topped everyone’s suspect list. A craggy faced drinking and fighting man, Chambliss learned the explosives trade in Birmingham’s iron ore mines. In 1963, the 59-year-old Chambliss officially worked in Birmingham’s city garage. Unofficially, he worked for Bull Connor setting fuses on Dynamite Hill.

Robert E. Chambliss’s mugshot. (Photo courtesy the Birmingham Public Library Department of Archives and Manuscripts)

The FBI had been monitoring Chambliss and his KKK cronies through an informant, Gary Thomas Rowe. A black female eyewitness named Gertrude “Kirthus” Glenn reported seeing a 1957 Chevy (later traced to Chambliss’s friend Thomas Blanton, Jr.) near the church the night before the bombing, and a man matching the description of either Chambliss or another suspect, Bobby Frank Cherry, inside the car. But her testimony alone could not be the foundation for a trial against white men, especially considering that another potential eyewitness, the white police officer on duty that night was Floyd Garrett, Chambliss’s nephew. Chambliss and two other men, John Hall and Charles Cagle, were picked up for possessing and transporting dynamite. They paid a $100 fine and received a suspended sentence. No other arrests were made. In 1965, local authorities named Cherry, Blanton, and another man, Herman Cash, as primary suspects, with Chambliss as the ringleader. Yet in 1968, the FBI closed the case, and director J. Edgar Hoover sealed the files.

* * *

My grandmother told me that the Sunday of the church bombing, friends called her from the hospital where she worked, warning her not to come downtown. The dead and wounded had come there, and “they” – meaning black people – were rioting.

Granny said that she gathered me, a toddler, into her arms and headed to the hallway in the middle of her house, where we sheltered during tornadoes, singing hymns while waiting for the storms to pass.

Sixteenth Street Baptist’s minister, John Cross, tried to calm the unrest by reciting Psalms 23, the Lord’s Prayer, from a bullhorn in front of the church.

Two youths died in the day’s violence. A white police officer shot Johnny Robinson, 16, in the back. White teenagers shot Virgil Ware, 13, at random.

Younger activists such as Diane Nash and James Bevel grew so angry over the continuing miscarriage of justice that they challenged King’s stance on non-violence. After much soul-searching debate, a consensus emerged to fight for the right to vote and get men like Bull Connor out of office.

The strategy worked. The tangled emotions—the grief, the shame, the rage—that fueled Eugene Patterson to write “A Flower for the Graves” and thousands to converge on places like Mississippi in 1964 and Selma in 1965, manifested themselves in two pieces of civil rights legislation. Both put Dynamite Bob on a collision course with a Birmingham courtroom.

The 1965 Voting Rights Act changed who voted, which changed who served on juries, and who got elected to judge and prosecutor positions. A young white law student named Bill Baxley vowed in 1963 that he would one day do something about the church bombing. When he became the state’s Attorney General in 1970, he immediately started digging into the church bombing case.

The 1964 Civil Rights Act changed who had access to public space. The church bombing sent a message that black citizens had no rights to public facilities, no rights to stores, no rights to schools, no rights to the most sacred places. Voting shifted the city’s demographic from one that was majority white and dominated by Jim Crow violence to one that was primarily black and ready to tell a new movement story. That storytelling process would start with the 1977 Chambliss prosecution and reach its fruition in 2013 with a monument to the four girls on the fifty-year anniversary of their murder. “Four Spirits,” by locally born artist Elizabeth MacQueen, features bronze statues of each girl – one beckoning visitors, another releasing doves – and a bench for rest and reflection. The monument sits at the center of a large memorial complex that includes the church, the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, a walking tour, and multiple works of public art in a park that used to be famous for police dogs and fire hoses. Such a space sends a very different message from that of 1963: that the story about the fight for justice, equality, and freedom will occupy a significant portion of the city’s newly defined civic identity.

* * *

The 1977 Chambliss case was shaky, but Baxley pushed ahead because the time was right. Old-guard civil rights warriors tired of justice too long delayed. New Birmingham looked forward to words like “closure” and “healing.”

The trial opened on November 14. The charge was the murder of Denise McNair. Baxley told me in an April 2013 interview, “you can murder someone without knowing them if you set a bomb intending to do harm.” The state made four separate murder indictments, one for each girl. The judge, Wallace Gibson, ruled that the trial would go forward on one indictment only, an odd decision that would prove decisive. The jury was made up of nine white and three black members. Aunt Nell was an unlikely choice. She went to high school with defending attorney Art Hanes, Jr., and Hanes’s secretary Suzy was my mother’s best friend. I asked him in a May 2013 interview about the selection. He said that because his father had been Birmingham’s mayor (from 1961 to 1963) it was hard to find jury members he didn’t know. I asked Baxley also. He did not remember Juror 149 specifically, but he had a definite trial strategy that Aunt Nell fit. She was a Christian, a homemaker, and a mom. Her daughter (my cousin Tracy) was in 1977 about the same age as Addie Mae, Cynthia, Carole, and Denise when they died.

The evidence against Chambliss: he purchased a case of dynamite; he knew how to construct the specific, and rare, kind of fishing-bobber and metal bucket detonator used at Sixteenth Street; he was seen near the church the night before. But more important than any of that was Chambliss himself. Aunt Nell said she based her decision to convict on “his arrogance, his hatred, and his niece.”

For Aunt Nell, the niece Elizabeth Hood Cobbs’ testimony was the trial’s turning point. In 1963, Elizabeth Hood was in her early twenties. By 1977, she was divorced, a mother of one, and a Methodist minister named Elizabeth Cobbs. She stated under oath that she came to Chambliss’s house during the school riots and found him noticeably agitated, cursing, and using racial epithets. “Just wait till after Sunday morning,” he told her. “They will beg us to let them segregate.”He had enough dynamite “to flatten half of Birmingham,” he claimed. Cobbs was at the house after the bombing, when news reports stated that murder charges might possibly be filed. “It wasn’t meant to hurt anybody,” Chambliss told the television. “It didn’t go off when it was supposed to.”

On November 17, 1977, Baxley made his closing argument. He noted that the day would have been Denise McNair’s 26th birthday, and by then she likely would have been a mother herself. He told the jury that it was their “duty” to convict.

At 4:10 pm they went into the jury room to begin deliberations. Five hours went by with no verdict. The judge allowed them to retire for the evening so they could get some sleep and start fresh the next morning. What happened during those five hours?

Aunt Nell told me that she had no doubt how she would vote.

“Baby, that man was guilty as sin,” she says. “You could see it in his face the minute he strolled into that courtroom like he owned it. You could see it in the way he stared at his niece.”

Not all jury members saw what Aunt Nell did. They spent their five hours reviewing the evidence piece by piece: witness testimony, intricate details about bomb building, Chambliss’s whereabouts in September 1963, morgue photos. Then they voted: 11-1. One white man remained unconvinced. The deliberations were exhausting and painful, Aunt Nell remembers, but not acrimonious. The man needed more time. The jury ate dinner: something from room service that Aunt Nell doesn’t remember. She does recall marking her Bible. Jeremiah chapter 29, verse 11: “For I know the thoughts I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, not of evil, to give you an expected end.” Aunt Nell slept well trusting that her Lord had a plan. The jury started up the next day a little after eight a.m. Two hours later they voted again.

On November 18, 1977, at 10:40 a.m. the jury returned a guilty verdict and set the sentence at life in prison. Chambliss served his time in a solitary cell.

The conviction established a new precedent for civil rights era crimes. Cold case prosecutions became increasingly common over the next few decades. In 1994, a Jackson, Mississippi jury convicted Byron de la Beckwith for the 1963 murder of Medgar Evers. In 2005, another Mississippi jury found Edgar Ray Killen guilty for the murder of three voting rights activists during 1964’s Freedom Summer. Such “atonement trials,” as historian Jack Davis calls them, were important to people in places like Birmingham, who wanted to leave a violent past behind.

Some people have a different take on redemption. Chambliss died in 1985, still saying his Klan brothers did it, not him.

Ten years after Chambliss’s death, the F.B.I. reopened their investigation files. With new evidence unavailable to Baxley in 1977, Doug Jones, then the U.S. Attorney for Alabama’s Northern District (and now a candidate in the special election for Jeff Session’s vacated Senate seat) successfully prosecuted the co-conspirators who remained alive, Thomas Blanton in 2000, and Bobby Frank Cherry in 2002. The other suspect, Herman Cash, died in 1994. After Cherry’s conviction, news headlines nationally spoke of “healing” and “closure.”

* * *

In “A Flower for the Graves,” Eugene Patterson claimed that the moral responsibility for the church bombing lay not with men like Chambliss who planted the dynamite at Sixteenth Street but with white Southerners who, by their overt actions or their silence, created fertile ground for violence. Both Art Hanes and my Aunt Nell taught me a lot about justice and accountability.

Hanes said that he lost the case in the defense. During the prosecution, Hanes was aggressive, objecting to anything related to the use of words such as “dynamite” or “bomb.” He even got the judge to cut those words out of the coroner’s report with a penknife. During the defense, as Hanes called up one motley character witness after another, his attitude shifted. He stopped pushing. He stopped objecting. He seemed resigned. I asked him what happened. He told me that he had planned to call only one witness: Chambliss himself. When it came time, Chambliss said, “I ain’t gettin’ up there.” Hanes said that was his epiphany.

One needs his backstory to understand. Art Hanes, Jr. was a Princeton educated partner in his father’s law firm. The firm defended the worst of the worst: Chambliss, the white men who killed Selma civil rights worker Viola Liuzzo, and, briefly, James Earl Ray for killing Martin Luther King, Jr. Hanes claimed that he came out of law school “idealistic.” He told me, “Jefferson says that, ‘You judge a society not by how it treats its privileged but how it treats its meanest wretch.’ I came out of law school saying, ‘I can represent the meanest wretch.’” But in that courtroom, he said that he changed his mind: “I was not going to spend the rest of my life bleeding on those counsel tables.” He still worked in murder trials, but when Medgar Evers’s murderer Byron de la Beckwith tried to hire him in 1994, Hanes said no. No more being “on the wrong side of history.”

I asked him if he thought Birmingham had redeemed itself from the wrong side of history. Not nearly enough, he said, despite the prosecutions and the memorials: “We can’t adjust to a new society until all of us who were raised in a segregated America are gone… To me, all those things are current events. You can’t put them behind you and think of them as past.”

* * *

Aunt Nell and I also talk a lot about the past and change. Sometimes we drive past the places she has lived since moving to Birmingham. In 2013, the county just south of Birmingham where much of the city’s white population took flight after integration, received word from the U.S. Supreme Court in its Shelby County v. Holder ruling. The court stated that federal election monitors were no longer necessary in places with a history of Jim Crow, even though voter discrimination might still persist. We could not help but notice the wealthy extravagance of the lavish malls and sprawling gated communities we saw in Shelby County’s northern suburbs compared to the fast food restaurants, pawnshops, and bail bondsmen in predominantly black East Lake and Elyton Village.

Who needs KKK dynamite when you can just turn your back?

Yet Birmingham’s civil rights memorial complex, just west of the city’s central business and shopping district, is lovely – all green space and public art. Aunt Nell and I visited near the church bombing’s 50th anniversary. I asked her what she was doing while the famous “dogs and fire hoses” incidents were taking place downtown. “I cared and I didn’t,” she said, “because it didn’t affect me. I was into my own life, doing my own things. I was a young mother. But when I sat on that jury, it really opened my eyes.”

We stood at the corner where “Four Spirits,” the memorial to Addie Mae, Cynthia, Carole, and Denise now stands, diagonally across from the church. Off to one side, the artist set a small pair of bronze shoes.

Maxine McNair kept the ash-covered patent leather shoe, along with the bloodstained piece of concrete that she showed to Spike Lee, in a box for decades after she lost eleven-year-old Denise.

My cousin Tracy and I survived our teens, went to plenty of rock concerts and football games, had children of our own, enjoying all the rights and privileges Birmingham daughters deserve.

Aunt Nell looked over at the church then out at Birmingham’s sleek skyline and sighed, “It makes you wonder how all that could go on and you just didn’t know. I guess you could call it ignorance.

“But it wasn’t.”

The Elizabeth MacQueen statue, “Four Spirits” statue at Kelly Ingram Park, across the street from the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church. (Photo by Ted Tucker, courtesy the Greater Birmingham Convention and Visitors Bureau)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That Time I Tried Topless House Cleaning

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

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

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

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

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

Ayep,” Possum replies in his drawl.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awright.” He hangs up.

“Will you touch it?” Jim asks.

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

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

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

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

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

“A hundred?”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t.”

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

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

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

“Oh my god,” he says.

I giggle. “No, goddess.”

“Oh my goddess.” He smiles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

The Day My Therapist Dared Me to Have Sex With Her

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That.”

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

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

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

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

I shrugged my shoulders, only half looking up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nailed it.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There were two ways to find out:

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

2) Keep going to therapy.

* * *

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

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

“I don’t know.”

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

Here we go again.

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” I respond, flustered.

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

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

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

“Of course not.”

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

“I wouldn’t do that.”

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isn’t therapy supposed to ameliorate my anxiety?

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lori’s great at forcing me to reflect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

See the complete list of Editors’ Picks here. 

* *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

“What’s your favorite porn scene?”

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

The possibilities run through my head.

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

They’re also lies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

“Go on.”

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

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

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

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

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

And so I tell him.

* * *

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

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

And then realizing that person is me.

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

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

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

I was out of control.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

That’s why I need to tell my husband.

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

* * *

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

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