The Truth. Neil Strauss

adolescence, we’ve been trained as men—by our friends, by our culture, by our biology—to desire women. It seems unreasonable to expect us to just shut it off forever once we get married. Legs are long, breasts are soft, and forever is a long time.

      After everyone else shares, Charles asks if anyone is attending their first meeting. I raise my hand and he passes around a coin for me. I’ve seen friends who were junkies get these coins for sobriety and treat them like Olympic gold medals. Now I’ve got one. I look at it. It means nothing to me, except that today I’ve become one of them. One day sober.

      Never in my lifetime did I think I’d be a patient in a place like this. In fact, I always thought that I was normal, that I was lucky to have parents who stayed together and never beat me, that my father’s secret had nothing to do with me, that I had no use or time for therapists, that I was a journalist who wrote about other people’s problems. I’m not sure what made me finally realize I was the one who was crazy.

      Maybe it was Rick Rubin.

      Pacific Ocean, Five Months Earlier

      So let me get this straight: You love your girlfriend, but you went and had sex with someone else?

      Yes.

      And you knew that would hurt her, so you lied to her about it?

      Yes.

      Well, look on the bright side: If she finds out and breaks up with you, you’re not really in a relationship anyway. With all the lying, you’ve been in your own world the whole time.

      Rick and I are paddleboarding in the Pacific Ocean. He’s one of the best music producers in the world, and for some reason he’s taken me under his wing. At first I thought he befriended me so I would write about him in Rolling Stone, but I soon realized that nothing could be further from the truth. He doesn’t like to be written about, to go to parties, or to be in any situation outside his comfort zone. Yet at the same time, he has no problem telling bands like U2 that some new song they’ve recorded sucks.

      So do you think I should just tell her what happened?

      Of course. If you’d committed to always telling her the truth in the first place, you would have thought twice before cheating on her. So start now, and maybe it’s not too late to include her in your relationship.

      I don’t think I can do it. It would hurt her too much.

      Well, was it worth it?

      Definitely not.

      Every other day for the last year, Rick and I have paddled from Paradise 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