It was Saturday night. Friday, I’d got out of rehab. Someone called me and said did I want to go to a meeting of sex addicts. Probably be full of men who’re addicted to internet porn I thought.
“Sure,” I said; what else was I going to do. “Will there be girls there?”
It was being held in the basement of some church in Islington. I was sitting in the back row watching the girl in front of me touching her neck. There were young, old, women, men. Someone lit a couple of candles and set them on a low table in the centre.
“Lights,” said a voice from the front.
The crypt was darkened; some people kept talking, finishing their conversations in low voices.
The secretary spoke up: “We’re very lucky to have Roy here who’s agreed to share his experience, strength and hope with us for about 10-15 minutes, at which time I’ll open the meeting for general sharing. So, Roy, I’ll hand the meeting over to you …”
Roy said thanks. I looked over the heads to see him. He was tall and thin and bald. It was hard to tell his age in the half-light.
After a pause he said, “Some of you who know me will remember … when I came into these rooms it was in a wheelchair.” Continue reading “The Love Addicts, by January McCormack”