"Just put your penis inside the ziplock bag, and wrap the Velcro around it. And make it tight, we don't want any slippage." Deep in the bowelly basement of the Southern American University Addiction Center, (named changed to protect the wicked) white-coated Lab Man says it like he's telling me to tie my shoes, or tuck my shirt in. I don't know if anyone's ever told you to put your penis in a ziplock bag, but it's one of those moments where you can't help but think, How the hell did my life bring me here? In my case, the answer is that the good people at the 48 Hours news magazine show: they're doing on addictions, and now, suddenly, SHAZAM, I'm the poster boy for sex addicts.
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Or, Problematic Hypersexuality, as it's called at the Southern American University Addiction Center. And why, you might ask, would I be willing to expose not just my johnson, but the depths of my raging demons, to a nation hungry for titillation? Because I wrote a book called Chicken: Self-Portrait of a Young Man for Rent, about my time as a teen-age gigolo, servicing rich, bored, desperately lonely or desperately dysfunctional women in Beverly Hills. And after my time as a gigolo, I became, yes, a sex addict. Or problematic hypersexualist. And once you've come out to the world as a skanky ho, being a sex addict seems like a Saturday night stroll through the red light district. But back to my penis. The Velcro I'm wrapping tight around it is, in fact, attached to a phallograph. |