There’'s Everything To Look Forward To
The day I admitted that I was a sex and love addict was the first day of a new life for me. I did not know it at the time. I was too vulnerable and frightened to understand that the trip out to an S.L.A.A. meeting in Newton, Massachusetts, was a beginning. It started a process that would irreversibly change the way I viewed my place in the world, the way I looked at relation¬ships, and the way I felt about myself.
My road to that fateful October night was not unlike others who have told their stories at S.L.A.A. meetings in and around the Boston area. Our addiction is the same; only our individual baggage and circumstances are uniquely ours. My story started after World War II in Germany. My pending arrival was the catalyst for my parents’ marriage. And in subtle ways, I was reminded of that fact for years to come. I don’t think my parents would have married if my mother hadn’t been pregnant. It was a forced marriage. My mother was a Cath¬olic, my father Protestant. The marriage caused a stir in their small town. It became a source of friction between the in-laws. It was not a marriage made in heaven.
Looking back today with the help of therapy, I have come to realize that I was a physically and emotionally abused child. Much of what I remember of my early childhood revolves around memories of my parents fighting. The fights were frequent, and often my mother used me as a foil against my father. If there was love there, I rarely saw it.
I have vague memories of being a happy child outside the home, of being very happy with my grandmother, of being an open and hyperactive child. When I was four, my father left us for America, to find a job and save enough money to send for us. Everyone told me that I would see him again soon. It was more than a year before my mother and I traveled to America and were reunited with him.
While he was away, my mother fought with her in-laws, with whom we lived. So the house was filled with tension. I remember spending a lot of time out of doors with fantasy friends. From the beginning, I was different. Both sets of grandparents remarked on that. But it was my father’s mother who saw into me and was a source of kindness for me for many years to come.
In America, life was no different. My parents fought a lot. My mother was unhappy about being there, away from her family. My father resented being married to a nag. Many times he came home to pick fights with my mother and me. He was always distant in my childhood and adolescence. He was an angry man who took out his frustrations and disappointments on his family.
Whatever I did, it was wrong. The way I spoke, the way I ate, my marks in school, the way I played, or who I played with. Encouragement was rarely offered; criticism came quickly.
Shortly after I came to America, I developed a severe stutter that did not go away until thirty years later. Often, my parents punished me because I stut¬tered. They wouldn’t let me eat until I stopped. They constantly harped on me to improve. Yet, the more attention paid to my stuttering, the worse it got. Not surprisingly, I hated coming home. But I hated school also.
I went to a Catholic grammar school in New York City. Everyone there made fun of me because I stuttered, because I was German, and because I was different. There were few days when I was not bullied or beaten. The teachers joined in the fun by laughing when it was my turn to read a passage, or remained passive when kids were making fun of me in the schoolyard. My only defense was to laugh with my tormentors, to become a clown, and to develop a shield over my hurt that no one could penetrate.
When I was twelve, we moved from a Manhattan apartment to a house in Queens. We were becoming a successful middle class family. By now, we had grown to five, with a six year old and a six month old brother. The move brought no change to my family. The fights, the beatings from my father, and the aliena¬tion continued. The only change was in school. I had decided I was tired of getting beat up. So I beat up the schoolyard bully on the second day in my new school. It was not in my nature to be violent. But that little act kept the kids from bothering me from that point on.
Sexually, I was always an inquisitive person. I played the normal games with my peers. But from an early age, I sensed I was different. I would always go out of my way to take my clothes off or get into situations where I could see other boys naked. I remember purposefully leaving specific school books at home so I could sit together with boys in my class. And while sitting together we would feel each other up. Looking back, I could see that I was obsessed at an early age with male genitals.
Part of my curiosity was natural—what every young boy goes through as he drifts into puberty. But there was an intensity to my curiosity that was not normal.
I never liked being home. After we moved to Queens, I became a paperboy and spent a lot of time delivering papers. The paper route was a good cover for the time I spent with friends my own age “fooling around.” And I could never get enough of it. Eventually, I got a reputation, and was either shunned or sought out, depending on the person’s inclination.
High school didn’t change me. I was accepted with a scholarship to a presti¬gious Catholic high school in Brooklyn. For the next four years, I commuted ninety minutes each way to school. Often, I would meet people on the subway or fool around with fellow students after work. I joined the track team because I wanted to see the other athletes naked.
It was about this time that I realized I was gay. It was not a discovery that I could reveal to my parents. Since even saying hello sometimes caused an angry reaction, I was sure that they would disown me or beat me silly if they found out.
Up to this time I was fairly religious. I went to church often. I was an altar boy. I made frequent novenas. Now, I turned against God. I was angry. How could he make me a stuttering sissy! I thought my life was ruined. I remember staying home one day after a fight with my parents and trying to commit suicide. I felt alone. I had no one to reach out to. My father always hit me. My mother always put me down. And my God had abandoned me.
Despite all the aspirin, I awoke again to face what I thought was hell. Little did I know that hell was yet to break loose. My relationship with my parents deteriorated. I could do nothing right. At fourteen, I ran away from home after spending two months planning my escape. One day in June, I took the subway to school with my father as I always did. Yet, this day was different. There was no school. And in my little gym bag, I had a new pair of jeans, underwear and socks, two shirts, and my coin collection. And $400. I got off at my usual stop, saw my train leave with my father, and took the next train to the bus terminal.
I ran away because I couldn’t take my home life any more. I had become tired of the abuse. And I wanted to meet a man who would be nice to me and take care of me.
I had gotten a taste of “being taken care of.” One of the pivotal points in the growth of my sexual addiction had happened the previous year. I went alone to see a movie in one of those old cavernous movie houses built in the 1920’s. While I was sitting watching the movie, a well dressed older man sat down next to me. Before long he had his hand on my leg, then my groin. I remember clearly today, over twenty-five years later, that I was excited by his touch and by his attention.
He placed my hand on his crotch. From that moment on, I was hooked. I did not realize it then, but that afternoon was the first step in a quarter century of anonymous sexual episodes. Up to that point, most of the important people in my life abused me or were just not there when I needed them. My parents, my teachers, priests, friends, relatives, or my God.
Yet, here was a person who liked me—who was willing to accept me without conditions. I quickly realized that I had something that other people wanted. And what they wanted made me feel good.
When I ran away, I dreamed of meeting someone who would take care of me, love me, and make me feel good. I never did meet that person, even though
I spent nearly three weeks away, traveling to New Mexico, Colorado, Missouri, and Nebraska. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if I had met my man during that time.
I ended up in Boys Town in Nebraska. The priest asked me to reveal my real name and where I was from. He assured me that I could stay there. He just wanted to let my parents know where I was. As with other priests in my life, he was not entirely truthful. The next day my mother was there to take me home. And all the way home on the plane, she let me know how much money I had made her waste on the trip.
After that, I shored up my defenses and kept my distance from people. And I began the hunt for sexual gratification. I had some friends with whom I fooled around. But one by one, they became enamored with girls. And I realized they were no fun anyway. Like an alcoholic, I could sense a drink a mile away. I became astute at finding bathrooms in shopping centers, theaters, and bus stations where I could find what I wanted. I knew how to look at older men on the street to transmit my sexual availability. I had this wonderful sixth sense. Or so I thought.
Until I was seventeen, I never had sex in a bed. I remember working in a department store and cruising someone who returned the attention. I was a senior in high school and he was a freshman at a local college. We made a date for the next weekend and he brought me to his dorm. We took all our clothes off and got into his bed. I was totally freaked out. I thought that two people laying next to each other in bed was perverted. Up to that point I had’ never slept with anyone. All my sexual activity had been furtive, in strange places or dangerous situations.
Even though my parents wanted me to go to a local college while living at home, I knew I needed to escape from them. Against my parents’ wishes and after turning down a scholarship to a local Catholic college, I enrolled al a state university noted for its liberalism. I remember the day my parents dropped me off. They were disappointed and angry. Yet, I felt such a surge of elation and happiness over finally being on my own.
I may have broken away from my parents, but I was now able to feed my addiction with a vengeance. Soon after arriving on campus, I discovered where the hot spots were on campus. I spent much of my time meeting other men in the bathrooms or cruisy areas on campus. And I was able to travel into Manhattan often to meet other gay men. In 1964, these were heady times for me. I was finally coming out and finding other men who were just like me.
Although this was still pre-Stonewall, Manhattan had plenty of bars and outlets for a young, horny gay man. And I took advantage of nearly every one of them. I connected with a lot of men during this time, but only on a sexual level. I never really got to know the person behind the genitals. I look back on my years of cruising and acting out, and I realize that I never gave myself the oppor¬tunity to connect with anyone on a non-sexual basis. That makes me sad.
I did make friends at school. I hung around with a crowd that was friendly and collegiate. On one level I wanted to be accepted as normal. However, I kept the two lives separate. My frequent forays into the “City” were made under the pretense of seeing friends. I never acknowledged anyone I had met in a men’s room on campus if I was with my “straight” friends. Looking back, I’m amazed that I was able to pull this double life off without losing my sanity.
The summer after my freshman year, I worked at the Post Office in Queens at night. Every day before work I’d stop at the bus station men’s room for a look around. One evening I met someone, went into one of the stalls with him, and within minutes was under arrest by vice police who were watching behind a wall. In that one moment, I felt totally devastated. I thought my life was over. I was now a criminal. At nineteen, I was caught with a man with my pants down. And no one in my family knew that I was gay. Not the best way to come out to your parents.
I was able to delay the inevitable for several months. The day of my arrest my parents and brothers had left on a two-week vacation. I couldn’t see calling them for help. (I had stopped asking for help years ago.) I would “spoil their well deserved” vacation. So I called the father of a friend. I told him I had gotten into a fight and he came to bail me out. I found my own lawyer, went to court alone twice. On my third appearance, the judge asked my lawyer where my parents were. He responded that they were not aware of my arrest. Because I was underage at the time, the judge instructed me to have them with me at my next appearance.
I almost fainted. I couldn’t talk to my parents about the simplest of life’s problems. How could I tell them I was gay? I gave my parents’ phone number to a court official and asked him to be the bearer of the bad news. All the way back to school on the train, I realized that when I walked into my dorm room the phone would ring and they would know. There was no way out.
The phone did ring, and my parents were not pleased. We arranged to meet that Saturday in the Bronx where I was running in a cross country track meet. I remember seeing my mother on an overcast November day with sunglasses covering her red eyes. There was more shock than anger; more disappointment than compassion; more why’s, when’s, and how’s, than understanding.
At my next and final court appearance, my father was at my side in support. The judge gave me a suspended sentence and said I didn’t belong in court and that he didn’t want to see me there again. I knew that I didn’t belong there, but I was yet to learn that I didn’t belong in men’s rooms, in the bushes, and in the other hunting grounds of anonymous sex either. That realization was still twenty years away.
The rest of my college years was much the same. I never did go back to that bus station john. But my arrest didn’t keep me out of others. I just became a little more cautious, a little more streetwise. During my college years, I spent three summers traveling around Europe. The first time, at nineteen, I spent almost ‘the entire three months traveling from country to country from one bed to another. I never connected with the person behind the genitals.
At college, I was well known. Editor of the school newspaper, resident assistant in the dorms, on the cross-country team. As a cover for my being gay, I had a girlfriend. At that point, I felt I needed all the trappings of the straight world to be accepted. Eventually, my girlfriend and I had sex, and she became pregnant. Like little adult, we discussed our options. I was willing to do what¬ever she wanted, including getting married. We decided upon an abortion—a difficult choice for both of us.
When I look back, I realize we almost put ourselves in the same position as my parents. The marriage would have been a disaster. I would have been guilty about being in the closet and angry with my girlfriend because I had to get married. I would have repeated the same mistake that my parents made and I would have been just as angry. Through the grace of God we were steered to the right decision.
My sexual acting out continued at graduate school in Ohio. But my acting out became much more compulsive. I spent hours going from men’s room to men’s room on campus, seeking brief encounters with men. And occasionally I would bring someone home. I found my life taking on a pronounced split. By day, I was a graduate student/teacher, respectable, intelligent, and urbane. By night, I was a driven sex addict. I hung out in the bathrooms; I drank at the bars. I couldn’t get enough. How I managed to have an active “straight” social life and an even more active cruising life without having a breakdown—mental or physical—is a miracle.
Part of my graduate program required spending six months studying in Europe. I think that was the main reason I accepted the scholarship at the school. Before long I was in Europe again. And in Berlin. Having become a connoisseur of sexual acting out, I picked a city to study in that was notorious for its sexual and political openness. In Berlin, I discovered a new arena for sexual escapades—the big, beautiful outdoors. Soon I was traveling to the forest almost every other night to have sex with shadows next to trees. My studies suffered and so did I.
This was now the age of gay liberation. I felt I had a right to express my sexual desires. They were just as valid as any straight person’s. I used my sexual orientation and the liberation of the times as excuses to act out. And when I got VD, I proudly accepted that as a badge of battle.
During my college years, I had occasional, short-term relationships with other men. They never lasted more than a few months though. And they usually ended because I got bored, or because the other person discovered my promis¬cuity, or because a relationship was getting too intimate for comfort.
Eventually, I finished my degree, came back to the U.S., and settled in New York City. I could think of no better place to live. (I hadn’t discovered San Francisco yet.) I could satisfy my addiction on almost every corner. I found a job as a journalist on a good publication and soon went about establishing myself. I was twenty-four, gay, living in Mecca, discovering the bars and bath¬houses. Often, I spent a long lunch hour at the baths, at the YMCA, or at various and notorious men’s rooms in Midtown looking for action.
Action I may have gotten. But my self respect, esteem, and self worth suffered. I never felt people would like me—for me. I had gotten used to people liking me for my sexual prowess. And I had long ago become an addict to the sexual hunt, to men’s genitals, and to using acting out as a way to “pleasure over”/plaster over my feelings. I had a perverted sense of values.
During this period in New York, I did meet a man. I fell in love with him. We established a household together. While he was the first man who loved me for my looks, for my smile, for my ability to love and enjoy life, his love came with too many conditions. He was jealous and possessive—traits that I had a difficult time handling. It wasn’t too long before I was back in the bathrooms, back to my addiction. We fought a lot, which I hated because it reminded me of my parents. After nearly three years, I walked out of the relationship.
I moved into Manhattan, into my own apartment. And I tried to forget him with a continual parade of men I would pick up on the streets, in Central Park, or in the bars. My cruising took on dangerous overtones as I spent more and more of my time at night in unsafe areas. I was not happy. I wanted a relation¬ship. Yet, I did not know how to have one or how to let someone get close to me. My acting out papered over the pain.
I was offered a job in Boston and took it. I was ready for a change. Even though I thought I could never leave New York, I figured a change in geography would lead to a change in my life. How wrong I was. The bars had different names and the people had a different accent. But that was the only difference. I moved into an apartment on Beacon Hill, just steps away from a prime cruising area. Nearly every night before I went to bed I would go out to the river, no matter what the weather was, for a midnight snack. Without my fix, I would toss and turn and have a hard time going to sleep.
After two years in Boston, I met my second lover. This time it was love at first sight for me. We dated. I swore off anonymous sex. We had a courtship. We’ moved in together. But when the honeymoon wore off, I was back in the Combat Zone (a seedy district in Boston) during my lunch hour acting out. My old patterns resurfaced. Whenever there was conflict, I ran for a fix. I would go to the Zone to make me feel good when I was depressed or to make me feel bad when my ego was inflated. I always found some excuse to go.
This relationship lasted five years. He became the critical deprecating parent and I became the unfaithful one. We had many arguments, yet I stayed and hoped for the best. In this relationship I was very much a love addict, taking whatever abuse was dished out and coming back for more in the name of love. It was not a relationship made in heaven for either of us. This time he took the walk.
Within weeks of our split-up, I was amazed at how happy and relieved I felt. I didn’t go around depressed or pouting for months like after my first relation¬ship. I did continue my acting out, however.
Three years ago I met my present lover. Although my addiction continued, I was able to confine it largely to other cities when I went on business trips. I was like the faithful husband at home. But once I got onto that plane, I couldn’t wait to act out on my addiction. Many times I carried it to extremes, traveling great distances to get to a particular bar in another city or staying up nearly till dawn until I was finally satiated or exhausted from the hunt. How I was able to put in a full day’s work after my marathon acting out sessions still amazes me.
During this time, the AIDS epidemic began to make headlines in the media. Although I was concerned, it did not stop me from continuing my sexual binges. My sexual practices were getting more bizarre and, in light of AIDS, unhealthy. Despite the epidemic, I was unable to stop. During this time I was in therapy and my therapist mentioned S.L.AA. to me. He had given me the 40 questions pamphlet. I answered the questions and didn’t like the frequency of my positive responses. I threw it away and chose to ignore the obvious.
On a trip to New Orleans in September, 1984 I vowed to stop acting out. For health reasons, I had come to realize it was not safe. But despite my firm resolve, I spent the week in some of my most outrageous acting out episodes. I was not in control of myself. I was addicted. I was not able to help myself, despite the risk to my health and my life. I felt scared. I was depressed. On the plane back, I knew that I needed help.
I told my therapist about my experiences and my inability to maintain my resolve. He again mentioned S.L.A.A. and gave me the number of a member whom I called that night. He told me about the meetings in the Boston area. I went to my first S.L.A.A. meeting a week later.
The last eight months of my life in S.L.A.A. have not been easy. It took me two months before I stopped acting out. I said a lot’ of goodbyes to slippery places. I experienced withdrawal. I was angry about coming to meetings. I spent much time comparing rather than identifying.
But then I began to get in touch with my emotions and feelings. Listening to others share their experiences brought up many feelings and memories. I could no longer avoid them through acting out. Now I was experiencing my emotions—the good and the bad. I found a tremendous amount of support in the Fellowship, from people who were going through the same pain and from those who had gone through the same feelings. I found a sponsor. I began to work the program. The first time I qualified was a cleansing experience for me. It helped me to understand that I was not alone. There were people who identified with my story and with my pain.
I now know that there are others out there who are making their imperfect way through life as I am. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I have everything to look forward to. I have one day at a time. I have myself. I have the opportunity to get to know people as I have never known them before and to enjoy the rewards of sobriety. I thank my higher Power every day for that opportunity.
My road to that fateful October night was not unlike others who have told their stories at S.L.A.A. meetings in and around the Boston area. Our addiction is the same; only our individual baggage and circumstances are uniquely ours. My story started after World War II in Germany. My pending arrival was the catalyst for my parents’ marriage. And in subtle ways, I was reminded of that fact for years to come. I don’t think my parents would have married if my mother hadn’t been pregnant. It was a forced marriage. My mother was a Cath¬olic, my father Protestant. The marriage caused a stir in their small town. It became a source of friction between the in-laws. It was not a marriage made in heaven.
Looking back today with the help of therapy, I have come to realize that I was a physically and emotionally abused child. Much of what I remember of my early childhood revolves around memories of my parents fighting. The fights were frequent, and often my mother used me as a foil against my father. If there was love there, I rarely saw it.
I have vague memories of being a happy child outside the home, of being very happy with my grandmother, of being an open and hyperactive child. When I was four, my father left us for America, to find a job and save enough money to send for us. Everyone told me that I would see him again soon. It was more than a year before my mother and I traveled to America and were reunited with him.
While he was away, my mother fought with her in-laws, with whom we lived. So the house was filled with tension. I remember spending a lot of time out of doors with fantasy friends. From the beginning, I was different. Both sets of grandparents remarked on that. But it was my father’s mother who saw into me and was a source of kindness for me for many years to come.
In America, life was no different. My parents fought a lot. My mother was unhappy about being there, away from her family. My father resented being married to a nag. Many times he came home to pick fights with my mother and me. He was always distant in my childhood and adolescence. He was an angry man who took out his frustrations and disappointments on his family.
Whatever I did, it was wrong. The way I spoke, the way I ate, my marks in school, the way I played, or who I played with. Encouragement was rarely offered; criticism came quickly.
Shortly after I came to America, I developed a severe stutter that did not go away until thirty years later. Often, my parents punished me because I stut¬tered. They wouldn’t let me eat until I stopped. They constantly harped on me to improve. Yet, the more attention paid to my stuttering, the worse it got. Not surprisingly, I hated coming home. But I hated school also.
I went to a Catholic grammar school in New York City. Everyone there made fun of me because I stuttered, because I was German, and because I was different. There were few days when I was not bullied or beaten. The teachers joined in the fun by laughing when it was my turn to read a passage, or remained passive when kids were making fun of me in the schoolyard. My only defense was to laugh with my tormentors, to become a clown, and to develop a shield over my hurt that no one could penetrate.
When I was twelve, we moved from a Manhattan apartment to a house in Queens. We were becoming a successful middle class family. By now, we had grown to five, with a six year old and a six month old brother. The move brought no change to my family. The fights, the beatings from my father, and the aliena¬tion continued. The only change was in school. I had decided I was tired of getting beat up. So I beat up the schoolyard bully on the second day in my new school. It was not in my nature to be violent. But that little act kept the kids from bothering me from that point on.
Sexually, I was always an inquisitive person. I played the normal games with my peers. But from an early age, I sensed I was different. I would always go out of my way to take my clothes off or get into situations where I could see other boys naked. I remember purposefully leaving specific school books at home so I could sit together with boys in my class. And while sitting together we would feel each other up. Looking back, I could see that I was obsessed at an early age with male genitals.
Part of my curiosity was natural—what every young boy goes through as he drifts into puberty. But there was an intensity to my curiosity that was not normal.
I never liked being home. After we moved to Queens, I became a paperboy and spent a lot of time delivering papers. The paper route was a good cover for the time I spent with friends my own age “fooling around.” And I could never get enough of it. Eventually, I got a reputation, and was either shunned or sought out, depending on the person’s inclination.
High school didn’t change me. I was accepted with a scholarship to a presti¬gious Catholic high school in Brooklyn. For the next four years, I commuted ninety minutes each way to school. Often, I would meet people on the subway or fool around with fellow students after work. I joined the track team because I wanted to see the other athletes naked.
It was about this time that I realized I was gay. It was not a discovery that I could reveal to my parents. Since even saying hello sometimes caused an angry reaction, I was sure that they would disown me or beat me silly if they found out.
Up to this time I was fairly religious. I went to church often. I was an altar boy. I made frequent novenas. Now, I turned against God. I was angry. How could he make me a stuttering sissy! I thought my life was ruined. I remember staying home one day after a fight with my parents and trying to commit suicide. I felt alone. I had no one to reach out to. My father always hit me. My mother always put me down. And my God had abandoned me.
Despite all the aspirin, I awoke again to face what I thought was hell. Little did I know that hell was yet to break loose. My relationship with my parents deteriorated. I could do nothing right. At fourteen, I ran away from home after spending two months planning my escape. One day in June, I took the subway to school with my father as I always did. Yet, this day was different. There was no school. And in my little gym bag, I had a new pair of jeans, underwear and socks, two shirts, and my coin collection. And $400. I got off at my usual stop, saw my train leave with my father, and took the next train to the bus terminal.
I ran away because I couldn’t take my home life any more. I had become tired of the abuse. And I wanted to meet a man who would be nice to me and take care of me.
I had gotten a taste of “being taken care of.” One of the pivotal points in the growth of my sexual addiction had happened the previous year. I went alone to see a movie in one of those old cavernous movie houses built in the 1920’s. While I was sitting watching the movie, a well dressed older man sat down next to me. Before long he had his hand on my leg, then my groin. I remember clearly today, over twenty-five years later, that I was excited by his touch and by his attention.
He placed my hand on his crotch. From that moment on, I was hooked. I did not realize it then, but that afternoon was the first step in a quarter century of anonymous sexual episodes. Up to that point, most of the important people in my life abused me or were just not there when I needed them. My parents, my teachers, priests, friends, relatives, or my God.
Yet, here was a person who liked me—who was willing to accept me without conditions. I quickly realized that I had something that other people wanted. And what they wanted made me feel good.
When I ran away, I dreamed of meeting someone who would take care of me, love me, and make me feel good. I never did meet that person, even though
I spent nearly three weeks away, traveling to New Mexico, Colorado, Missouri, and Nebraska. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if I had met my man during that time.
I ended up in Boys Town in Nebraska. The priest asked me to reveal my real name and where I was from. He assured me that I could stay there. He just wanted to let my parents know where I was. As with other priests in my life, he was not entirely truthful. The next day my mother was there to take me home. And all the way home on the plane, she let me know how much money I had made her waste on the trip.
After that, I shored up my defenses and kept my distance from people. And I began the hunt for sexual gratification. I had some friends with whom I fooled around. But one by one, they became enamored with girls. And I realized they were no fun anyway. Like an alcoholic, I could sense a drink a mile away. I became astute at finding bathrooms in shopping centers, theaters, and bus stations where I could find what I wanted. I knew how to look at older men on the street to transmit my sexual availability. I had this wonderful sixth sense. Or so I thought.
Until I was seventeen, I never had sex in a bed. I remember working in a department store and cruising someone who returned the attention. I was a senior in high school and he was a freshman at a local college. We made a date for the next weekend and he brought me to his dorm. We took all our clothes off and got into his bed. I was totally freaked out. I thought that two people laying next to each other in bed was perverted. Up to that point I had’ never slept with anyone. All my sexual activity had been furtive, in strange places or dangerous situations.
Even though my parents wanted me to go to a local college while living at home, I knew I needed to escape from them. Against my parents’ wishes and after turning down a scholarship to a local Catholic college, I enrolled al a state university noted for its liberalism. I remember the day my parents dropped me off. They were disappointed and angry. Yet, I felt such a surge of elation and happiness over finally being on my own.
I may have broken away from my parents, but I was now able to feed my addiction with a vengeance. Soon after arriving on campus, I discovered where the hot spots were on campus. I spent much of my time meeting other men in the bathrooms or cruisy areas on campus. And I was able to travel into Manhattan often to meet other gay men. In 1964, these were heady times for me. I was finally coming out and finding other men who were just like me.
Although this was still pre-Stonewall, Manhattan had plenty of bars and outlets for a young, horny gay man. And I took advantage of nearly every one of them. I connected with a lot of men during this time, but only on a sexual level. I never really got to know the person behind the genitals. I look back on my years of cruising and acting out, and I realize that I never gave myself the oppor¬tunity to connect with anyone on a non-sexual basis. That makes me sad.
I did make friends at school. I hung around with a crowd that was friendly and collegiate. On one level I wanted to be accepted as normal. However, I kept the two lives separate. My frequent forays into the “City” were made under the pretense of seeing friends. I never acknowledged anyone I had met in a men’s room on campus if I was with my “straight” friends. Looking back, I’m amazed that I was able to pull this double life off without losing my sanity.
The summer after my freshman year, I worked at the Post Office in Queens at night. Every day before work I’d stop at the bus station men’s room for a look around. One evening I met someone, went into one of the stalls with him, and within minutes was under arrest by vice police who were watching behind a wall. In that one moment, I felt totally devastated. I thought my life was over. I was now a criminal. At nineteen, I was caught with a man with my pants down. And no one in my family knew that I was gay. Not the best way to come out to your parents.
I was able to delay the inevitable for several months. The day of my arrest my parents and brothers had left on a two-week vacation. I couldn’t see calling them for help. (I had stopped asking for help years ago.) I would “spoil their well deserved” vacation. So I called the father of a friend. I told him I had gotten into a fight and he came to bail me out. I found my own lawyer, went to court alone twice. On my third appearance, the judge asked my lawyer where my parents were. He responded that they were not aware of my arrest. Because I was underage at the time, the judge instructed me to have them with me at my next appearance.
I almost fainted. I couldn’t talk to my parents about the simplest of life’s problems. How could I tell them I was gay? I gave my parents’ phone number to a court official and asked him to be the bearer of the bad news. All the way back to school on the train, I realized that when I walked into my dorm room the phone would ring and they would know. There was no way out.
The phone did ring, and my parents were not pleased. We arranged to meet that Saturday in the Bronx where I was running in a cross country track meet. I remember seeing my mother on an overcast November day with sunglasses covering her red eyes. There was more shock than anger; more disappointment than compassion; more why’s, when’s, and how’s, than understanding.
At my next and final court appearance, my father was at my side in support. The judge gave me a suspended sentence and said I didn’t belong in court and that he didn’t want to see me there again. I knew that I didn’t belong there, but I was yet to learn that I didn’t belong in men’s rooms, in the bushes, and in the other hunting grounds of anonymous sex either. That realization was still twenty years away.
The rest of my college years was much the same. I never did go back to that bus station john. But my arrest didn’t keep me out of others. I just became a little more cautious, a little more streetwise. During my college years, I spent three summers traveling around Europe. The first time, at nineteen, I spent almost ‘the entire three months traveling from country to country from one bed to another. I never connected with the person behind the genitals.
At college, I was well known. Editor of the school newspaper, resident assistant in the dorms, on the cross-country team. As a cover for my being gay, I had a girlfriend. At that point, I felt I needed all the trappings of the straight world to be accepted. Eventually, my girlfriend and I had sex, and she became pregnant. Like little adult, we discussed our options. I was willing to do what¬ever she wanted, including getting married. We decided upon an abortion—a difficult choice for both of us.
When I look back, I realize we almost put ourselves in the same position as my parents. The marriage would have been a disaster. I would have been guilty about being in the closet and angry with my girlfriend because I had to get married. I would have repeated the same mistake that my parents made and I would have been just as angry. Through the grace of God we were steered to the right decision.
My sexual acting out continued at graduate school in Ohio. But my acting out became much more compulsive. I spent hours going from men’s room to men’s room on campus, seeking brief encounters with men. And occasionally I would bring someone home. I found my life taking on a pronounced split. By day, I was a graduate student/teacher, respectable, intelligent, and urbane. By night, I was a driven sex addict. I hung out in the bathrooms; I drank at the bars. I couldn’t get enough. How I managed to have an active “straight” social life and an even more active cruising life without having a breakdown—mental or physical—is a miracle.
Part of my graduate program required spending six months studying in Europe. I think that was the main reason I accepted the scholarship at the school. Before long I was in Europe again. And in Berlin. Having become a connoisseur of sexual acting out, I picked a city to study in that was notorious for its sexual and political openness. In Berlin, I discovered a new arena for sexual escapades—the big, beautiful outdoors. Soon I was traveling to the forest almost every other night to have sex with shadows next to trees. My studies suffered and so did I.
This was now the age of gay liberation. I felt I had a right to express my sexual desires. They were just as valid as any straight person’s. I used my sexual orientation and the liberation of the times as excuses to act out. And when I got VD, I proudly accepted that as a badge of battle.
During my college years, I had occasional, short-term relationships with other men. They never lasted more than a few months though. And they usually ended because I got bored, or because the other person discovered my promis¬cuity, or because a relationship was getting too intimate for comfort.
Eventually, I finished my degree, came back to the U.S., and settled in New York City. I could think of no better place to live. (I hadn’t discovered San Francisco yet.) I could satisfy my addiction on almost every corner. I found a job as a journalist on a good publication and soon went about establishing myself. I was twenty-four, gay, living in Mecca, discovering the bars and bath¬houses. Often, I spent a long lunch hour at the baths, at the YMCA, or at various and notorious men’s rooms in Midtown looking for action.
Action I may have gotten. But my self respect, esteem, and self worth suffered. I never felt people would like me—for me. I had gotten used to people liking me for my sexual prowess. And I had long ago become an addict to the sexual hunt, to men’s genitals, and to using acting out as a way to “pleasure over”/plaster over my feelings. I had a perverted sense of values.
During this period in New York, I did meet a man. I fell in love with him. We established a household together. While he was the first man who loved me for my looks, for my smile, for my ability to love and enjoy life, his love came with too many conditions. He was jealous and possessive—traits that I had a difficult time handling. It wasn’t too long before I was back in the bathrooms, back to my addiction. We fought a lot, which I hated because it reminded me of my parents. After nearly three years, I walked out of the relationship.
I moved into Manhattan, into my own apartment. And I tried to forget him with a continual parade of men I would pick up on the streets, in Central Park, or in the bars. My cruising took on dangerous overtones as I spent more and more of my time at night in unsafe areas. I was not happy. I wanted a relation¬ship. Yet, I did not know how to have one or how to let someone get close to me. My acting out papered over the pain.
I was offered a job in Boston and took it. I was ready for a change. Even though I thought I could never leave New York, I figured a change in geography would lead to a change in my life. How wrong I was. The bars had different names and the people had a different accent. But that was the only difference. I moved into an apartment on Beacon Hill, just steps away from a prime cruising area. Nearly every night before I went to bed I would go out to the river, no matter what the weather was, for a midnight snack. Without my fix, I would toss and turn and have a hard time going to sleep.
After two years in Boston, I met my second lover. This time it was love at first sight for me. We dated. I swore off anonymous sex. We had a courtship. We’ moved in together. But when the honeymoon wore off, I was back in the Combat Zone (a seedy district in Boston) during my lunch hour acting out. My old patterns resurfaced. Whenever there was conflict, I ran for a fix. I would go to the Zone to make me feel good when I was depressed or to make me feel bad when my ego was inflated. I always found some excuse to go.
This relationship lasted five years. He became the critical deprecating parent and I became the unfaithful one. We had many arguments, yet I stayed and hoped for the best. In this relationship I was very much a love addict, taking whatever abuse was dished out and coming back for more in the name of love. It was not a relationship made in heaven for either of us. This time he took the walk.
Within weeks of our split-up, I was amazed at how happy and relieved I felt. I didn’t go around depressed or pouting for months like after my first relation¬ship. I did continue my acting out, however.
Three years ago I met my present lover. Although my addiction continued, I was able to confine it largely to other cities when I went on business trips. I was like the faithful husband at home. But once I got onto that plane, I couldn’t wait to act out on my addiction. Many times I carried it to extremes, traveling great distances to get to a particular bar in another city or staying up nearly till dawn until I was finally satiated or exhausted from the hunt. How I was able to put in a full day’s work after my marathon acting out sessions still amazes me.
During this time, the AIDS epidemic began to make headlines in the media. Although I was concerned, it did not stop me from continuing my sexual binges. My sexual practices were getting more bizarre and, in light of AIDS, unhealthy. Despite the epidemic, I was unable to stop. During this time I was in therapy and my therapist mentioned S.L.AA. to me. He had given me the 40 questions pamphlet. I answered the questions and didn’t like the frequency of my positive responses. I threw it away and chose to ignore the obvious.
On a trip to New Orleans in September, 1984 I vowed to stop acting out. For health reasons, I had come to realize it was not safe. But despite my firm resolve, I spent the week in some of my most outrageous acting out episodes. I was not in control of myself. I was addicted. I was not able to help myself, despite the risk to my health and my life. I felt scared. I was depressed. On the plane back, I knew that I needed help.
I told my therapist about my experiences and my inability to maintain my resolve. He again mentioned S.L.A.A. and gave me the number of a member whom I called that night. He told me about the meetings in the Boston area. I went to my first S.L.A.A. meeting a week later.
The last eight months of my life in S.L.A.A. have not been easy. It took me two months before I stopped acting out. I said a lot’ of goodbyes to slippery places. I experienced withdrawal. I was angry about coming to meetings. I spent much time comparing rather than identifying.
But then I began to get in touch with my emotions and feelings. Listening to others share their experiences brought up many feelings and memories. I could no longer avoid them through acting out. Now I was experiencing my emotions—the good and the bad. I found a tremendous amount of support in the Fellowship, from people who were going through the same pain and from those who had gone through the same feelings. I found a sponsor. I began to work the program. The first time I qualified was a cleansing experience for me. It helped me to understand that I was not alone. There were people who identified with my story and with my pain.
I now know that there are others out there who are making their imperfect way through life as I am. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I have everything to look forward to. I have one day at a time. I have myself. I have the opportunity to get to know people as I have never known them before and to enjoy the rewards of sobriety. I thank my higher Power every day for that opportunity.