Are Orgies a Sober, Sane and Sound Sex Ideal?
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Are Orgies a Sober, Sane and Sound Sex Ideal?


This post was originally published on January 13, 2015.

The Big Book says on page 69—ha ha—that our sex powers are good, neither to be used lightly or selfishly, neither to be despised and loathed. Until recently, I thought I knew what this meant.

I found my new obsession in the rooms. It was after a meeting and I was talking to John—a good longtime friend—about politics when Adam interrupted. He zoomed in on me, hijacking the conversation, launching into a theory he had about anti-gay sentiment from religious fundamentalists. But it wasn’t what he was talking about that grabbed me; it was the way he said it.

“The best way to disabuse the theory that it’s a choice to be gay is to ask one of these religious douchebags if they could choose to fuck a dude” were his exact words.

The way he said “fuck,” the guttural force he put into that four-letter word with his sexy but brainy baritone voice, the way “disabuse” rolled off his tongue—He’s much smarter than the average sober dude, I thought. I was turned on.

We became Facebook friends. I asked him to dinner, he blew me off, I was upset, I avoided the meeting, I returned to the meeting, he hugged me, we kept talking, I sent him a message, I told him I was interested, he responded sweetly that he wasn’t dating people in the rooms, I avoided the meeting, I returned to the meeting, we kept talking and he hugged me longer and tighter that time, months went by, we saw a movie and shared a burger, and we ended up sleeping together.

“Now, I’m going to talk this to death,” he said reclining on his bed before we ripped each other’s clothes off. “I’m not looking for a relationship.”

“That’s totally fine,” I responded. It was a big black lie. A big black lie that I didn’t realize I was telling myself. Like the guy who pours whiskey in his milk in the Big Book, I sensed in some vague way that I wasn’t being all too smart but I pushed the idea out of my head. I figured this wouldn’t burn me. I had the steps to fall back on, didn’t I? No way I would drink over this.

It was rough, porn-like sex, and I didn’t dig it. Then I did. Then I didn’t. He kept repeating, “God you’re beautiful, look at yourself” as he pounded me on my knees in front of his closet mirrors. I adored the compliments and was thrilled he could see me after months of remaining aloof. It got rougher and ended up killing my bladder—I had to pop some amoxicillin to ward off a UTI when I got home.

A week later, we were ripping each other’s clothes off again. But this time he kissed me slowly, caressing me gently. He was softer the whole time and I began to melt. Surely, I thought, this meant he was starting to feel something. But then I didn’t hear from him for two weeks—total morbid silence. I refused to contact him. I audited SLAA, and asked the question that women ask themselves over and over and over again: “Why isn’t he calling me?”

I avoided the meeting where we’d met but, despite the fact that he hadn’t propositioned me again, texted him that I couldn’t keep sleeping with him because I didn’t have casual sex; he responded that he respected that. Then I avoided the meeting for months but when I returned, he hugged me. I started going back to the meeting again and his hugs turned more seductive. My next move was avoiding the meeting again and his was to text me. That progressed to him inviting me over. I hesitated.

“Whiskey and milk,” I reminded myself but went there anyway. When I arrived, though, he asked me if I wanted to meditate. But once we were meditating on his bed, it became clear we would end up in bed. This time I talked it to death.

“I can’t have sex with you unless the idea of me having feelings for you doesn’t freak you out,” I said.

A pregnant pause.

“It does freak me out a little, just because I’m not really wanting a relationship,” he said.

“Then I can’t have sex with you,” I returned.

His face flushed red and he blasted out a semi-irritated, “Fine.”

But my body was raging, hungry for him, and that insidious, imperious urge overcame me. To go along with this meant heartache, but I just couldn’t control myself. He intoxicated me. We ended up ripping each other’s clothes off again, then cuddling and watching Bill Maher in bed while he kissed my shoulder blades and held me. It was heavenly. I told myself that he was starting to have feelings for me.

“I would love to see you fuck another dude” were the words that came out of his mouth. “It’d be so hot.” Then he invited me to a sex club. “You can wear a leather bikini,” he added, “and I’ll wear a suit.”

“That’d be hot,” I said. It was another big black lie that I told him—and myself. I sensed it wasn’t a good idea but then thought, To hell with it. This is how I’ll get him to fall for me. Still, knowing that we alkies are only as sick of our secrets, I called up Angela, my best friend in the program. I had no intention of heeding her advice but did share my plan.

“Do you really want to sleep with all those people who have slept with thousands of other people?” she asked incredulously. Now, Angela’s a lesbian who frequented leather bars and once had a hardcore S&M lover. If she had a problem with this…

“They have strict rules about using protection,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter. None of that is 100% safe. And besides, it’s obvious this guy has no respect for you.” That hadn’t occurred to me. “Listen, if some chick told me she’d love to see me go down on another chick, I’d be offended.”

I wanted to say, “But we’re a generation of free sex, casual sex, threesomes, orgies, porn, more porn, hardcore porn, and frequenting strip clubs with boyfriends!” Surely, she was just being a prude? Still, her words sank in. I thought about it. No, I didn’t really want to go to the sex club. What I wanted was Adam in bed, alone, his deepest darkest secrets whispered in my ear, his deep black eyes gazing into mine, his strong long arms wrapped around my waist.

Porn star sex and casual sex and threesomes and orgies were fine when I was drinking, but I can’t handle them now, and I can finally admit that to myself. Maybe I’m a prude, maybe I’m an ice princess, but screwing just anyone with XY chromosomes isn’t for me. I can’t use my sex powers lightly—I’m a real, feeling, vulnerable woman. Blame it on oxytocin, blame it on biology, but that’s my truth.

Finally, after wanting to drink, after wanting to die, after picking up cigarettes again, after talking to my sponsor, after doing some writing about it, I sent Adam a final message: “I don’t want to go to a sex club, mainly because of diseases, mainly because it will destroy me, mainly because I know I’d be doing it for your affection. Now stay the fuck away from me.”

He did.

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About Author

Tracy Chabala is a freelance writer for many publications including the LA Times, LA Weekly, Smashd, VICE and Salon. She writes mostly about food, technology and culture, in addition to addiction and mental health. She holds a Master's in Professional Writing from USC and is finishing up her novel.