The Truth. Neil Strauss

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Cove to Point Dume together and talked about our lives. He’s older than me but faster, always a few strokes ahead. Shirtless, with a long gray beard, he looks like some kind of water mystic leading a young acolyte.

      Our paddles together are a far cry from my conversations with Rick a few years ago. Back then, he was 135 pounds heavier and rarely got off his couch. Every movement seemed like hard labor to him. Now, every day he’s either working out, paddle-boarding, or trying some new exercise regimen. I’ve never seen anyone go through such a rapid transformation. And today, I suppose he’s trying to help me do the same.

      Do you know what kind of people can’t control their behavior, even when they don’t enjoy that behavior anymore?

      Weak people?

      Addicts.

      I don’t think I’m an addict. I’m just a guy. It’s not like I do this all the time.

      Spoken like a true crackhead. Didn’t you just get finished telling me that you lie to the people you love to get your fix, that you don’t even get high from it anymore but still do it?

      Yes. But what if Ingrid just isn’t the right person for me? If she was, maybe I wouldn’t cheat. She gets on my nerves sometimes, and she can be really stubborn.

      You had the same kind of complaints about your last girlfriend. When things get hard for you, you start blaming the person you’re with. None of this has anything to do with her. Just you. Can you see that?

      I don’t know.

      He rolls his eyes.

      Sometimes I feel like I’m an experiment of Rick’s, that he gets off on persuading people to do the exact opposite of what they enjoy, that this is a sadistic attempt to see if he can make the guy who wrote The Game let go of the game.

      I will go as far as to say you probably have never experienced a true connection, sexually or otherwise, before in your life. Rehab may be exactly what you need to cure your fear.

      What fear?

      That in a healthy monogamous relationship, you’re not enough for the person you’re with.

      Either that or he’s actually trying to help me.

      I’ll have to think about that.

      You don’t have time to think. If you ever want to be truly happy in this lifetime, you have to recognize that you’re using sex like a drug to fill a hole. And that hole is your self-esteem. Deep down, you feel unlovable. So you try to escape from that feeling by conquering new women. And when you finally go too far and hurt Ingrid, all it’s going to do is reinforce your original belief that you’re not worthy of love.

      As he speaks, Rick appears almost messianic. His eyes burn brightly and he seems to be receiving the truth from some higher place, a place I’ve never been. I’ve seen him get like this before—and when I ask him later to repeat what he said, he usually can’t remember.

      I see what you’re saying. But I also just like trying new things. I love traveling, eating at different restaurants, and meeting new people. Sex is the same: I like getting to know different women, experiencing what they’re like in bed, meeting their friends and family, and having the adventures and memories.

      Fill the hole and have sex when you’re whole, then see how that feels.

      Maybe you’re right. It wouldn’t hurt to try that.

      There’s a place I know where you can go for sex addiction. It’s a month-long program. If you go now—and write Ingrid from rehab, tell her the truth, and explain that you’re dealing with your problem—I think she’d forgive you.

      I can’t go now. I have a couple of really big deadlines coming up.

      If you got hit by a car today and you were in the hospital for a month, you wouldn’t miss out on anything by not being able to write during that time. That excuse is just the illness having free rein with you. Nothing’s going to change until you take deliberate and committed action to change it.

      I promise myself that I’ll be faithful to Ingrid from now on, that I’ll make sure she never finds out what I did, and that I’ll prove to Rick I’m not an addict. Yet at the same time, there’s a voice inside me, telling me that somewhere out there, like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster, there are smart, attractive, and stable women who want commitment without requiring sexual exclusivity.

      Listen, there’s a lot of truth in what you’re saying. And I’m going to think about it and try to do the right thing. But I really don’t think I’m a sex addict. It’s not like I’m blowing all my money on hookers or fondling altar boys or anything.

      Maybe you’re not ready yet. Like a junkie, you need to hit rock bottom first.

      There are ten chairs pushed against the side and back walls of the room, each filled with a broken man, including my roommate Adam. Charles, who led the twelve-step meeting the previous night, is here. So is Santa Claus, slumped in his chair, his forehead creased with stress, his eyes cinched tight. He’s in the room in body only. His mind is elsewhere, suffering. Against the front wall is a rolling chair, a desk, and a file cabinet filled with the sins of countless sex addicts.

      On the wall is a large chart titled “The Addiction Cycle,” with four terms—preoccupation, ritualization, acting out, and shame & despair—arranged in a circle. Arrows point from one word to the next in an endless loop.

      As I’m studying it, the door swings open and a tall woman with a pear-shaped body walks in. She has brown hair, unwashed and pulled back in a tight bun. She’s wearing a loose-fitting flowered top over brown slacks and flat shoes. The corners of her lips are pulled slightly downward in a permanent frown. She looks the group over, careful not to make eye contact with anyone or acknowledge his individuality. Whatever the opposite of sex is, she embodies it.

      She lands with a thud in the rolling chair. Sifting through a stack of manila folders, she shows no tenderness, no humanity, no humor. She is our doctor and judge, the stern mother we’ve been fucking women to try to escape from and the bitter wife who’s caught us.

      Her name is Joan. And her mere presence ripples through the flesh of each man in the room like a violent chill.

      “Have you completed your assignment?” she asks a man in his mid-thirties. He’s thin and blond, with a sweet, boyish face, ruddy cheeks, and the beginnings of an oddly incongruous potbelly.

      “Yes,” he says nervously. “Should I read it?” His red name tag identifies him as Calvin.

      “Please.” There’s no warmth or caring in her voice, only authority and a drip of condescension. In fact, everything she does and says is so measured that her personality seems artificial, like a mask she puts on before walking into a room to face ten male sex addicts. And she fears that if she drops it, if she gives up any ground, she’ll lose control of these predatory animals she must tame and civilize.

      “These are the ways in which my sexual addiction has hurt my life,” Calvin begins. “I lost my СКАЧАТЬ