Should I attend Sex Addicts Anonymous?

Where did I leave off? Oh, right… my personal assistant job and trying to decide if I should attend my boss’ Sex Addicts Anonymous (SAA) meeting, or just call it quits – on my first day on the job, no less. I kept waiting for my boss (we’ll name him Dean) to call me back and say he was kidding, “Gotcha, Avery.” But he didn’t. Silence (except for my nervously beating heart, which I never knew could pound so loudly).

All I could do was weigh my options. It was now a little after 5 p.m. I have until 5:59 to decide whether or not I go to the 6 p.m. meeting. I don’t want to be fired – especially not on my first day, of my first industry job ever. On the other hand, there must be a job where I wouldn’t be asked to go to my boss’s SAA meeting, right? Then again, I did sign on to be a “personal” assistant and vowed to the old assistant that I would do “anything and everything” the boss wanted me to do. How could I have been so stupid? I have morals, damnit. And standards. (Someone in L.A. had to.) But it took me six months to find this job… and a million other kids would kill to get it; I didn’t want to give it to them. And I don’t want to go back to working at a diner, serving chicken fingers…

Maybe I could suddenly get sick? Flu? Cough? I know… food poisoning. That’s always an easy one to fake – after all, someone who doesn’t believe you’re stuck in the bathroom throwing up is a very sympathetic-less person. Then again, suddenly getting sick seemed awfully coincidental. I mean, Dean saw me healthy all day… not like he actually saw me, but still. I had sounded fine on the phone with him…

I talk to myself like this until about 5:49 p.m., then get into my car and do what any moral, determined girl would do: I go to the meeting.

I arrive at the meeting, in the basement of some nondescript building. There is no “SAA” sign, just a handwritten “Meeting” one, with an arrow pointing to a room. Kudos to them for their anonymity, I think. I walk in at 5:59 p.m. – I’d hate to be late for my first SAA meeting (let’s hope it’s the last, too). I cautiously enter and look around to see about ten people, I’m guessing from 35-50 years old (I’m certainly the youngest), sitting in chairs in a circle. I take a seat next to a woman in her 50s (she doesn’t look like a sex addict, I think) and a guy in 40s with lots of piercings and leather (who looks more like what I think a sex addict would look like; now we’re talking). The moderator, a guy about 60 (ew), welcomes all the “newcomers” and looks right at me. I want to tell him I am not here for “me,” but I don’t. Not yet, anyway. He reminds us that we should feel free to be as open as possible – this is a “safe space.” People then start going around the circle and sharing stories about their weeks and “deviant behavior,” stuff like, “I finally sold all my porn on eBay” (says a meek guy in his 30s) and “I wanted to walk into the party (a swingers party, by the way, readers), but didn’t” (says the woman in her 50s!). Everyone claps after each person’s achievement.

Next to me, Shark (I know) is in the middle of talking about his S&M addiction (as he tears a paper cup into shreds), while I am panicking that I am next (as well as trying to subtly scoot my chair away from him). In my head, I keep reciting what I’m going to say: “Hi, I’m Dean and I’m a sex addict. It’s been a day since my last voyeuristic activity and I’m happy to report (or “proud to report”?) that I’ve only masturbated fourteen times today.” Or maybe I should say, “I am down to masturbating just fourteen times a day”? What is the best adjective? Like anyone here is going to care. I then think that they’ll be too focused on my turning 99 shades of red as I faint from embarrassment. I start practicing my speech again – while trying to listen to Shark’s account of bondage devices and how he keeps having nightmares about them (which I am not supposed to be telling you, so shhh), hoping there will not be a Q&A afterwards (especially since who am I to give these fellow sex addicts advice; wait! “fellow sex addicts” – I’m not a “fellow” one of them; I’m practically a virgin in comparison).

“And I just couldn’t look at the rope… hanging there in my closet, all alone…” Shark went on. Wow, and to think my boss had problems. He should feel lucky. It’s not like his closet is full of whips and chains, too… then again, how do I know it’s not? After all, I have yet to go to his house. Suddenly, it’s quiet. “Miss… miss?” the moderator says, breaking me out of my X-rated daydreaming. I look around. Everyone is staring at me. Shoot – my turn.

To be continued…