Dear Sex Addicts Anonymous:
Until now, I’d always said I’d rather hump a goat than attend one of your meetings. I’m sorry if that sounds crude or unsympathetic, but the thought of sitting in a circle spilling my guts about my endless need to circle-jerk isn’t exactly my idea of absolution.
I admit, my obsession with the sexual and the pornographic has haunted me. I’m on my third-and-a-half marriage. I say third and a half because I’m still married to my third wife, but on the verge of separation for sleeping with her sister, who has assured me she’s willing to help save me from my chronic problem of philandering, she’s one-hundred-fifty percent sure she can convert me to a decent man, if we make it official, of course. Somewhere inside myself I do desire saving. I just don’t seem to desire it as much as fornicating.
Don’t wring your hands over the betrayal. The Mrs. in waiting insists the dust will settle between she and her sister, whom she never liked much anyway. Her sister had been the blue ribbon winner, the honor roller, the popular first runner-up at the prom, so her want for comeuppance was, let’s say, heightened. Surely you can at least begin to understand why a sisterhood rivalry such as this might be a turn on for somebody like me, or perhaps every last member of your afflicted fellowship? Did I mention both sisters are an identical 36-D?
I’m going to go out on a limb and say that sleeping with your wife’s sister is perhaps the least of the transgressions committed by your group. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging. I have plenty of additional experience when it comes to the first of God’s seven deadly sins: e.g., I only watch the adult channels and reruns of Hannah Montana; I have lost three jobs for “Desperately Seeking Susan-Sarah-Savannah-Samantha” on Match, eHarmony, Zoosk, Christian Mingle, OkCupid, and yes, even Farmers Only; I consider masturbating a vocation; and I have had more than one run-in with the boys in blue re: my purported visits to Ladies of The Night.
Am I ashamed? Does the Pope believe in Hell? Do Hot Pockets contain meat product?
And maybe you’re thinking I’m nothing but a big fat stereotype. A dirty little cliche. You’d probably be correct in that assumption. But who among us isn’t just another version of somebody else? Another version of the truth. I’ve learned that when it comes to life, well, it really is a sprint. If you don’t figure out how to satisfy yourself fast and often, you’ll be bored or dead.
I’ve no idea why I’m suddenly philosophying about life or writing my ruminations in a letter to you. The only thing I appear to be an authority on is perversion.
I guess, without even attending one of your meetings (yet …), your band of love junkies has managed to give me some pause for reflection. Or perhaps I can trace this change of heart back to that Cheeto I plucked off the floor of my minivan three days ago. (See enclosed photograph. Yes, I will swear on one of your bibles that Photoshop had nothing to do with this cheesy deviance.) Is it not a deadringer for a man arguing with his Henry Longfellow? If that isn’t some kind of omen, then I suppose I’ll never be ready to enter the pearly gates of serial monogamy.
—See You Next Tuesday