Right to the Catch

“Sex, food, or sleep: If you could eliminate the need for one, which would it be?” my childhood friend asks me as she pours us both a glass of white.

“Sex,” I reply. She winces, instantly remembering my … issue with the stuff. After a round of apologies she needn’t have made, I manage to get her back on topic. I have no problem discussing the context of my life as a sex addict — not anymore. Before I’d actually come to grips with it, yeah, it was difficult. As long as we’d known each other, we’d never really gotten into the psychological mechanics, and now seems a fine enough time.

At this point, I trust her not to get weird.

She already knows a little about it. For example, I’ve told her that the shame in the sex with “randoms” is only the beginning. Compile the disgust from the general public, the comparisons between your life and that of, say, a pedophile’s, and the need to constantly hide yourself away as a guilt-addled werewolf might upon an impending full moon, and it gets pretty dark inside. She knows about the sex-addict’s response to a sneering society as we feed the beast in defiance, telling ourselves that it’s our nature to sexually abuse our bodies (and make no mistake, that’s what it is), and who is anyone to judge? I’ve told her about coming unhinged and needing to disappear for awhile, so she already knows that part.

She also knows that was before, when things weren’t as stable. Now, I’m fine opening up about my recovery process.

“What do you think the repercussion should be?” she continued. I was confused. “The theme in my story revolves around people taking drastic measures to rid themselves of their vices only to unwittingly trade them for another. The people who give up food endlessly bite their nails and chew wads of gum way too big for their mouths. The ones who give up sleep end up scheduling themselves for more work and it only compounds to the pressure they were hoping to eliminate. With your insight, what repercussions do the sexless face?”

Aha. “They’re extremely isolated,” I tell her. “If you’re walking down the street in this dystopian future of yours, you can tell the ones who gave up sex as a vice by the way they quickly close the curtains when you lay eyes on them.”

She was intrigued. “They have all their food ordered in and they don’t make eye contact with the delivery person. They rarely communicate with the outside world, but when they do, it’s via some cold, impersonal messaging system. No human contact. They’re aware of its corruption.” Her aura is flat.

“Why?” is all she can ask.

“Because sex addiction has nothing to do with getting off,” I tell her. “At least not in my case. For me, it’s about bringing someone close. Getting into them; getting them into me. It’s a connection that I just don’t feel when I’m interacting with people in non-sexual ways. And I’m addicted to that primal sense of literal, physical connection to go with the skewed emotional one. I feel as though I’ve absorbed some of the life they willingly gave me.”

“What’s so wrong with that?” she asks.

“Because it’s fleeting. You need larger doses of stronger stuff to even come close to warding off the need.”

“So you think these people would be tempted to revert to their old ways if they had human interaction?” she asks, clearly taking mental notes.

“I wasn’t thinking so. Why would they do that?”

“They sound so unhappy,” she says.

“Isn’t everyone in some way?” She agreed. “Without the need for intimacy, there’s no point in engaging other people; it’s just asking for trouble. Unless you really deal with the issue at its roots — which, for me, is truly just a need for intimacy — you’ll either let it become you, or you’ll cut the sex off at the source.”

“What’s the source?” [quote]Sex is the way we speak. It’s also the way we avoid speaking, at times. How easily could I download Tinder and have crazed animal sex in a matter of moments?[/quote]

“The modern world,” I insist. “It’s a sexual playground. Look at every billboard, every commercial, every magazine: Sex is the way we speak. It’s also the way we avoid speaking, at times. How easily could I download Tinder and have crazed animal sex in a matter of moments? No need to wine and dine, no “what do you do for a living?” — just cut to the chase. As a matter of fact, cut past the chase, and get to the catch. That’s what we were looking for anyway, right?”

I can tell she doesn’t agree, but she’s not upset.

“Think of it as not only trying to recreate the feeling of your first drink, perhaps, but of knowing you can better the experience and take it to the next level because you didn’t quite get it right the first time. Or the second. Or the hundredth. But inside each experience, there’s something of value, and that’s the problem. You’ve found a tiny piece of a giant puzzle and maybe one day, you’ll complete it, sip by sip, encounter by encounter. Of course, that’s a delusion, but does that ever stop anyone?”

“What kinds of things does a sex addict get up to?” she asks before: “If that’s ok to ask.”

I look at her, knowing I’ll never be able to give her the true answer — I’d lose her company for good.

“Think about the people who engage you in any kind of way. The tattooed bucket drummer who thanks you for the tip, the well-read barista who likes your bag, the woman at work talking to you about her sick kid, the lawn-care specialist selling his services door to door, nearly anyone who pulls you into his or her world. Now imagine that instead of a laugh you offer, or a kind word, it’s something sexual. You latch onto this person in the strangest of ways and can see nothing but their sexuality and how you can get inside of it. Instead of sympathy, sex. Instead of regret, sex. Instead of any other reaction to their interest in you, you’d like to give this person sex.”

“Even if they’re unattractive?” she quietly reels.

“At times, absolutely. It’s not about that,” I tell her, becoming a bit exasperated but trying to be patient. I’m certain I’ll never be ready to tell her the gory details, so I soften my tone. “If they’re beautiful, though, that’s a nice bonus.”

“So basically, as an addict, your favorite way to communicate with another human being is through sex?” she asks, unable to hide a foreign emotion in her voice.

“Essentially, yes.”

“Are you thinking that about me?”

We make eye contact, then both look away.