The Truth. Neil Strauss

else that will violate my celibacy contract for the rest of the time I’m here.

      I hurry out of the art room with Henry like Lot escaping Sodom. If I look back, I’ll turn into a pillar of addict.

      When we get to the meeting, two women are already there: Dawn, my other temptation, and a sickly looking freckle-dusted brunette in her thirties. Henry arranges us into a square of four chairs. He picks up a binder with instructions and readings for twelve-step meetings, then sets it aside. “Let’s not do this,” he says, speaking slowly, as if each word requires effort to utter. “Let’s just talk. I can begin.”

      He pauses for five long seconds, the corners of his mouth trembling, then continues. “I snuck out to the street last night. I stood there and looked at the cars passing by in the dark. And I thought about throwing myself in front of one. I stayed there for an hour. I wanted so badly to end it all. It wouldn’t take much effort. Just a little bit of courage to take that leap.”

      Not only did he almost get himself killed, I think, he almost got himself sued for violating the Promise Not to Commit Suicide form he signed.

      “You don’t worry about losing your life when you don’t have one, when it was taken from you,” he continues. He’s silent again for several seconds, his brow furrowing and unfurrowing. “I remember the first time my brother raped me. I was in my room, and he came in and held me down. He choked me while he did it and said he was going to kill me if I made a sound or ever told anyone.”

      Henry goes on to talk about an evening, years later, when his father caught him molesting a horse in the barn and beat him. “For a long time, I’d seek out prostitutes, usually men, to whip me and beat me,” he continues. “I got into some dangerous situations. My wife doesn’t know any of this. Not even about my brother. When I told her I was going to rehab for post-traumatic stress disorder, she just looked at me and said, ‘That explains it.’ That really hurt me.”

      Dawn volunteers to speak next. Her story is also horrifying. She tells us about two memories of her father fondling her. A decade later, he was arrested for sexually abusing other underage girls. She testified against him and now he’s serving time in prison. Then the freckly woman tells us how her adoptive father would come home drunk, stagger into her room, and molest her.

      “I called him last night and asked him to come for family week to help me heal,” she says, her eyes and nose filling with tears and mucus. “And he actually agreed to come.”

      As a culture, we voraciously consume horror movies about vampires, ghosts, zombies, and other supernatural beings. But people are much scarier than any monster we can make up. It’s not just the acts of horror they perpetrate on each other, but even when they spare the person’s life, they still take their soul, their spirit, their happiness. These offenders are the kinds of people I used to think of when someone mentioned sex addicts, not guys like Adam and Calvin.

      “I just want me back,” Henry is saying, his eyes ringed red. “I want to know who I am.”

      Then he looks at me and waits. I’m the only one who hasn’t spoken. And I haven’t been an incest or rape victim. But then I remember: One day, when I was in seventh grade, the school bully fondled me, then tried to have anal sex with me. The next day, he and his friends began a relentless bullying campaign against me. I lived in terror for the rest of the school year.

      “I’m not supposed to talk to women,” I tell the group. “But I guess this is okay.” I then share the story, which I’ve never told a single person before. It was my first sexual experience, I conclude, and perhaps my obsession later in life with seduction was a way of overcompensating and proving to myself that I was straight.

      As the three of them respond supportively, I still feel like an impostor: My trauma is woefully inadequate compared to theirs.

      Even here, in a hospital of misfits, I don’t fit in.

      Chicago, Twenty-Six Years Earlier

      Take off your shoes.

      I know, Mom.

      And put them on the mat, not the carpet like last time.

      Yes, Mom.

      Now go wash your hands before touching anything. It’s too hard for me to keep cleaning your dirty fingerprints off the walls.

      Okay, jeez.

      And don’t forget: Dinner is at six o’clock sharp. Don’t be late or you won’t get dessert.

      I walk to my room to wash my hands. There is no television there, no phone, and no technology except a small stereo. It used to be the Beatles whose music soothed me, but now that I’m a little older and my voice is starting to change, hardcore seems to fit my temperament better.

       I’m in the mood to play the Damned’s “Smash It Up,” but I smashed the record in a fit of anger after I was grounded for a weekend for putting my feet up on the kitchen counter. So instead I crank Suicidal Tendencies as loud as I can without getting into trouble: “They just keep bugging me and they just keep bugging me and it builds up inside.”

      And I wash my hands. Like a good son.

      A few minutes before six, I hear my mom’s voice:

      Dinnertime.

      I enter the kitchen and see her sitting at the far end of the table, my father on her left, and my brother at the end closest to me. I’m the last to arrive, as usual. The black sheep. I sit down in my appointed seat.

      Neil, elbows off the table. Ivan, you too!

      Her voice is gentle for me, but harsh for my father. He is the blacker sheep. I feel bad for him. But my mom constantly tells me, “You’re your father’s favorite,” as if that’s a bad thing, so I try not to show him any sympathy.

      You’ll never believe what your father did to me this time. He told Robin in his office that we were going to Sarasota for vacation. I have half a mind to just cancel the trip. You two haven’t told anyone, have you?

      No, Mom. Of course not. But it isn’t …

      When everyone in school brags about where they’re traveling for Christmas break, it’s hard not to tell them where I’m going. But my mother forbids it. She’s worried that while we’re gone, someone will break into the house. Before every trip, she hooks up lights to timers to fool all the criminals she imagines lurking outside. My father and I then leave the house and pretend to wave goodbye to my mother and brother. Afterward, they wait until the coast is clear, then sneak into a taxi to follow us. Even at my age, I know we have very little to steal: just two small television sets, two stereos, and one VCR.

       I’m also not permitted to know my mother’s age, where she went to school, what her past jobs were, or why her leg is deformed. And I’m not allowed to have keys to the house—and never will be—because she’s worried I’ll lose them. However, my brother is sometimes trusted with the keys to the house. It doesn’t seem very …

      … fair. Sam’s going to Jamaica and he’s allowed to tell everyone.

      I’ve always been jealous of Sam. His parents are divorced and he’s a latchkey kid, which means he gets the keys to his house. He can also stay up as late as he wants. Until recently, my bedtime was seven thirty.

      Well, Sam’s parents don’t care what happens to him. And he’s just like his parents. I don’t want you hanging out with Sam, Neil. He has a big mouth. Anything you tell him, everyone in the neighborhood is going to know. Do you understand me?

      Yes, Mom.

      He’s not your real friend anyway. Now what did I tell you about switching your fork to your other hand after cutting your meat?

      …

      That’s better. Who’s your mother who loves