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NOTE: This chapter contains a frank and explicit (but not particularly graphic) depiction of the struggle on the soul level to deal
with a physical and emotional addiction to sex. While it may cheapen the concept of “addiction” in some people’s eyes to
discuss this issue using the same terminology as chemical dependence –I liken it more to other addictive, egocentric activities
like compulsive gambling or shopping—it is also my experiential opinion, having been involved in both to various degrees, that
while far less destructive to the body than alcoholism, sexual addiction is no less obstructive to the spirit. Furthermore, the
particular indulgence that I describe here is far more socially acceptable, and readily available to the adult male, than illegal drugs
and probably a bit more than alcohol as well.

Those who feel uncomfortably squeamish at the mere mention of sex or any of its derivatives in public may want to skip this
chapter altogether. But I wouldn’t. It may help you maintain a more sanitized perspective on the author or the male gender if
you are a woman, or steer clear of the need to address similar issues within yourself if you are a man, but you will miss out on
what is ultimately an uplifting message, not to mention the brutal reality and irrefutable beauty of the basic human struggle to
know oneself as God when all indications seem to suggest otherwise –the struggle for which Kanzantzakis offers Jesus as the
supreme example. –HC

19 July
Mooresville, N.C.

If I sounded like I was trying to come across as holier-than-thou at the end of that last chapter, I have a simple way of
correcting that image: I gave in to my porn cravings yesterday. I bought a “Maxim.”

Maxim is one of those “guy” magazines that turned up in the late ‘90s, when marketing people realized that there is a huge
audience of young men like me –many perhaps who are too young to even enter an adult bookstore for instance—who are too
timid to buy real smut 95% of the time but have an insatiable appetite to see sexually attractive women posing provocatively in
various states of undress. There is generally nothing in these rags that would merit anything worse than a PG-13 rating in a
movie, nothing you couldn’t see in a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue –which is part of what makes them successful. They’re
out in the open, as opposed to behind the counter in cellophane; they’re accessible; they’re mild enough that they feature
celebrities, and they’re racy enough to tantalize us and make us want more. Generally our collective conscience approves –it’s
just good clean “guy” stuff.

Personally, for myself, I have to lump it all together as pornography, just as an alcoholic must consider a wine cooler with the
same discretion that he does straight wiskey. Maxim sells sex, or rather, the fantasy of sex, the simulation of a sex that will
never happen, and as I mentioned in Quebec, far from being an issue of morality, fantasy run amok divorces me from my true
self; I become gluttonous for the satisfaction of my own needs, and I don’t give a damn about my brother and sister lest they
can play a role in meeting those needs. At no other point in my day-to-day life do I more acutely feel the limitations of my own
flesh –and hence, no true, transcendent sense of God—than I do when I give myself over to pornographic thoughts, be they
fueled by images within or without. (And again, please note the difference between this fantasized sex and actual sex, actual
love-making, which can be a beautiful, blessed event shared by God’s children, and understand that I’m not poo-pooing sex,
just my own dependence on simulated, isolating, fake sex.) (NOTE: I just thought of this analogy: it is like the difference
between having a great, fulfilling meal with friends, and sitting on a couch alone watching TV and stuffing yourself with
Doritos.)

So why do I go out and buy a magazine that I know is detrimental to my spiritual health? I’m a weak bastard, that’s all. No
rationalization. I’ve been eyeballing this particular one on the shelves for what seems like months, probably more like weeks.
The cover model struck me as particularly attractive. I don't particularly know what attracts me to certain people; there is no
"type," it seems sort of idiosyncratic. I know that in real live people I am most often drawn to intangible features –a warm
smile, transcendent kindness, a subtle rebellious streak in the soul, etc—that highlight, illuminate whatever natural features they
have, and it’s the light that I’m drawn to rather than the features themselves.

How does that translate into photographs of a woman I don’t know? It’s hard to explain, but I think one can tell the difference,
even in a two-dimensional image, between a person who is being photographed because she is sexy and she knows it and it is
her job to be sexy for the masses and she’s just doing her job, and the much rarer person who seems to want to connect with
you, individually, as if she could jump right out of the magazine and be there with you to share souls. If you pay attention, you
can tell in any profession whether the person is going through the motions to earn money or prestige, or have become bored, or
are burning inside to do something else, or are genuinely having fun and would do this for free if they could, because they know
that what they do touches lives that they would otherwise never reach. I believe that modeling is no different; we tend to think
of these people (women and men, let’s not forget it works both ways) as shallow, all about surface appearance, but how
spiritually haughty could I be to write off an entire profession as unable to do God’s work? For instance, I’m sure all models
learn the value of making “eye contact” with the camera for more alluring photos, and most probably do this out of a sense of
professional duty, aloof to the idea that people all over will be making “eye contact” with them once the magazine hits the stands.

But sometimes, I think, you will see a person who seems to make that eye contact because they know it will be returned, and
they want that to happen. Who knows, maybe they’re just better actors, but I don’t think so. I know they want to touch me
just as I want to touch them (giggle, giggle). And I’m an absolute sucker for it. Like I said before, I started young, about nine
years old, a latchkey kid who had an hour-and-a-half of complete independence every day after school and, on days when my
friend Chris and I weren’t shooting hoops or playing whiffleball, an hour-and-a-half of rather acute loneliness. When I
discovered that Playboy magazine was readily available, and I could indulge without consequences, it became a natural pastime
for me and my newly pubescent body. Sure, the simple allure of breasts, hips, thighs, the tuft of hair suggesting that most
sacred place nearby –these all had their own magnetic charm to a young boy for whom the female body was a new, marvelous
mystery, a great wilderness that chemical processes in my own body were compelling me to explore. But I don’t think this
was the primary draw of these magazines. Knowing my personality and observing how it developed through my experiences
over time, I suspect that very early in my career I latched on to the fact that in every issue, you could count on finding at least
one woman who was at least trying to bare her soul as well as her body. I know I did this because I would shoot right past all
the ordinary beauties like they were mannequins, and seek out that one who was seeking me with her eyes, her smile. I
developed mini-crushes; if I could have gotten away with it, I would have torn out these pages and taped them to my bedroom
walls. They were my life preserver in a turbulent sea of emotions where I found myself abandoned, unable to swim, and
fearful of every cresting wave.

This is still in me today. I fought with myself hard for 2 ½ years to stay pure of at least visual stimulation so as not to hurt
Aubray, but as soon as she lifted that external boundary and I had to find an internal one, I knew I was bound to stumble. If
my goal is to eliminate this need completely from my system, I am a long way from reaching it. I have lots of practice at
ignoring it, but almost none at eliminating it.

(And no, the fact that it is a Thou Shalt Not does not help, for the only Thou Shalt Nots that matter to me are written in my
heart, here in the present, not there in a book. “Thou shalt seek to know My will in every moment” is the only external law I
follow, and I don’t get to know right away if I’ve failed or succeeded, but the reward is much greater than the risk.)

The current master of my affections is a young lady named Kim Smith. She is in that new movie “Catwoman” with Halle
Berry. Berry is already an icon in the world of female-gawking, so this movie, with its overt carnal theme, is likely to become a
cult hit, if not classic (depending on whether it is the least bit good, beyond leather get-ups and cat masks); and being as she is
the Fresh New Face of the film, Kim might be ready to become the Next Big Thing in Hollywood if it does go over well. Like I
said, I’d been drawn to the cover photo for quite some time; her eyes seemed to beckon me in a way that other (equally
attractive I’m sure) cover models’ didn’t. ‘Course it doesn’t hurt that she has gorgeous floes of lustrous black hair (the
interviewer called her “raven-haired,” and I’ll accept that, goofy as it sounds) and her body’s got curves ‘til next Thursday (or,
one of my all-time favorite song lyrics, from one of C.W. McCall’s truck drivin’ classics, “This gal’s built like a burlap sack
fulla bobcats.”) But women like that are a dime a dozen anymore in this sex-obsessed culture –sweet and tender eyes are a
timeless treasure.

For a long time I resisted the urge to look inside the magazine,
mostly because I feel like an idiot standing there in the supermarket,
a grown man gawking like a teenager at pictures of half-naked ladies
while real-life, twice-divorced matrons stroll by with their low-carb
groceries, thinking how terribly wrong it is that this God-awful world
worships these stick figure hussies while a real woman can’t keep a
man’s attention for ten minutes. I am all too conscious of the politics
of this problem; it is true and it is sick, and as I just demonstrated
moments ago, I am part of the problem.

But earlier last week, on my first trip from upstate New York to
western Carolina, I walked into a virtually empty truck stop late at
night and there she was, staring at me again from another magazine
rack. O, cruel temptress! why do you spare me no quarter? I
looked around, and there was no one else but a couple of truckers
and a teenage boy working the register. I reached over and picked
up an issue from the rack, found her article in the table of contents,
and then turned to…oh no…no…..NOOOOOOOOO!!!!

There were several shots that drew me to the bait, but it was the Close-Up that hooked me. Close enough to see small birth
marks on her upper right arm, two little-bitty ones on her chin. Her head is tilted to the left, and much of her hair with it,
leaving an inviting open approach to her right shoulder, neck and jawline (it is real women, thank God, who have taught me the
heavenly pleasures of this region). Toward the bottom of the frame, a white lace bra holds maybe the lower third of her
breasts, the shadowy realm of cleavage between, nipples hidden, waiting for the man with nimble fingers who can unhook with
one hand and caress with the other. (Sorry, is this making you squirm? Is there no room for this kind of material in writings
of the spirit? I beg to differ –check out Song of Songs in the Old Testament of the Christian Bible. And remember, the author,
King Solomon, had over 100 wives, so you know that dude was knockin’ some serious boots.) Going back up: her lips, full
and parted, a little from the Angelina Jolie mold, could be forming a smile, or a kiss…or better yet, asking for one.

And then, her eyes…laser beams, fixed on the camera, piercing the lens and reaching for my heart, shimmering pools of white
surrounding baby blue; yes, as God is my witness, baby blue eyes!

I closed the magazine and put it down. Quick, distract yourself! Ah-ha, sports! I picked up a football magazine, Street and
Smith’s 2004 NFL Yearbook. Yeah, this’ll work; you don’t have enough cash to buy both –buy this instead. And it made
sense, because I wanted a good resource to help me prepare for my first football Fools’ Pool I was planning to launch soon.
There’s nothing to fear in a magazine about football…

(Well, come to find out, each of the team pages had a photograph of one of the team’s cheerleaders. Football and sex packaged
together –who knew?)

I left in the morning and made my delivery in Charlotte, feeling all good and proud I’m sure for overcoming temptation. But,
um, well, as I AM often does when we’re proud, God had other plans. For I could not get that one picture out of my mind!
The cover was one thing, but the close-up looping through my consciousness on a regular basis was completely unfair. (“So,
you overcame temptation didja, Shorty?” says God, reaching for the volume knob. “Well overcome this!”)

I mean, men and women, gay or straight, tell me: you all must know that feeling when, say you meet someone or even just see
them in passing, and you have some degree of interaction, acknowledged or not, for some short period of time –a few seconds,
minutes, hours, a day or two—and then your paths separate, and you figure that person who drew your attention is out of your
life, possibly forever…until sooner or later you realize they’re not out of your life, because you’re carrying them around with
you. Maybe it happens sometimes because that person is going to play a greater role in your life than you thought –maybe this
is the first encounter with your future spouse, the person you’ll be sitting with on a front porch sixty years later and
reminiscing about that chance encounter at the college dining hall or the ski lodge. That certainly happens.

But most of the time, in my experience, it’s nothing so dramatic or romantic. It simply means I’ve attached myself to another
person, and their image is taking place of the part of me that’s stuck wherever they are. It’s just like the scenario I described in
Quebec –I never wrapped up that line of discussion about lust and possession, maybe I should. The answer does lie in God –
not “Thou Shalt Not,” but “Thou Art That,” the ultimate antidote for temptation. (I’ll have to elaborate in another
chapter, I want to bring this one back home before it fills the notebook.)

When it comes to these kinds of attachments to people who stir up curiosity or outright lust, I tell ya, it’s a lot easier to put it all
aside when you’re in a committed relationship, and you know it’s a big no-no. That’s when it’s easy, when you have external
regulations to buttress whatever spiritual reserves you feel within. I’ve been in one of two committed relationships almost
continuously for over nine years, since I was 22, and now suddenly, according to Aubray (who is technically still my wife) I’m
not. And look what’s happened: in 2 ½ weeks since leaving Ashland I’ve already attached myself to an attractive woman twice,
and one of ‘em isn’t even a freakin’ person, she’s a picture in a magazine!

My point is that I think God wants me to confront this issue head-on, no denial, no external regulations, no net. If I need to
stumble from time to time to get it right, God wants me to hit something hard, and I AM knows there is nothing harder in
this world than one’s own self-judgment. God also knows I can take the pounding, for Christ is within me, and Christ’s
mercy and forgiveness are infinite. Jesus told us to forgive our brother 490 times a day for his sins, but that isn’t even the
tip of the iceberg of the forgiveness Christ has for our failures and shortcomings.

Anyway, I just didn’t want you to think I was getting all religious on you by talking about God’s will as though it were
something I could define. But enough high-falutin’ talk, let us allow this subject to rest and get back to the narrative so I can get
to bed.)

So where was I? Oh yes, leaving Charlotte. Somewhere between my next pickup (the beer load) and the destination in
Braintree, I decided enough was enough: next time I see that magazine, I’m gonna buy the damn thing and get it over with. I
don’t care who’s watching, who’s working the register, it’s time I confront this pornography issue like a man! (In other
words, give in completely.)

Of course, once I decided that, she was nowhere to be found. I checked all the truckstops where I parked, the Mass Pike
service plazas, and they all had reasonable substitutes, but none of them had my girl. I went to Connecticut and picked up a
Texas-bound trailer, took it as far as New York State before Camerado got sick and needed a quick organ transplant
(alternator), so I swapped my load to another driver and took his empty up to the Albany area to pick up for –well whataya
know!—right back to western Carolina, just 20 miles from Charlotte up the same interstate where I first got to know Ms.
Smith. Alright then, if I haven’t found ‘er before I reach North Carolina, I’m going right back to Dobson to git ‘er.

Sure enough, none of the places I checked out on the way had that Maxim issue. I was beginning to wonder if it had cycled
off the shelves and a new issue would be replacing it; it had seemed to be an awfully long time since she started turning my
head. Whoa, I thought: maybe this will be the ultimate message of restraint. Let me get all worked up over this one pretty girl
in a magazine and then yank her away before I can get my hands on her: what a glorious way to show me how lost I was
getting! And that was when I started to say it, somewhere in southern Virginia as the moment drew closer: “Whatever God
wants, that is what will happen.” If she isn’t there, I will accept this lesson and praise You for showing me the way, Lord! If
she is, well, I’ll seek Your will and search for the lesson You have in store for me with that, Lord, and praise you yet! It is in
your hands, God, show me your will for me."

As you already know if you’ve been following the story, she was there, waiting for me, eyes baby blue as ever. And maybe
God’s will was that I be able to write this whole chapter, ugly parts and all –see what is sprouting off of this seed already!

So yes, after writing all those wonderful things about Jesus and Christ, I spent part of my afternoon pretending the lovely Ms.
Kim Smith was in the bunk with me. She’s still back there now. It’s an interesting relationship we have. She just lies on the
bed while I drive, and we never talk. I go back there sometimes when we stop, and we’ll just stare into each other's eyes.
Sometimes we have sex, other times we just cuddle. Sometimes it helps abate the emotions of loneliness, sometimes it is just a
reflex action that actually creates loneliness when I felt fine before and didn’t know it. Who knows how long it will last. You
know how celebrity relationships tend to go. I’m sure someday we’ll get bored with each other and I’ll have to put her aside –
give her proper burial in a recycling bin of course—and go on to grapple with my lust for another woman, maybe a real one this
time.

I had gone back and added the last part of one of the lines about Christ in the last chapter: “This is the Christ…the one into
whom I wish to disappear, when I no longer have need for myself.” Kazantzakis said it another way, rather beautifully, talking
about his fictional Jesus: “He clutched sin, desperately, as a means of keeping himself on the earth.”

Important part to remember: someday, God willing, I will be handed the key to unlock the shackles in my mind that keep me
wanting to validate myself with affections from others, the gentle touch of a woman, and I will be able to show God’s love
equally to everyone I meet, everyone I see, regardless of the color of their eyes, the shape of their lips or the contour of their
body. Until then, it is best to be honest, and admit that I NEED, and rest in God’s infinite forgiveness.

You are welcome, of course, to consider everything I have said or will say about God, Christ, and matters of the spirit
invalidated by this episode, just as you may consider my new girlfriend with the same disdain that the Pharisees had for the
adultress at the Mount of Olives. But I should warn you not to expect too much perfection from your authorized
spokespersons for Christ or the Christian faith, lest you disqualify yourself and thereby scuttle your entire premise. And be
careful when you cast that first stone at a working girl too –it may be a boomerang in disguise. –HC Dayton, Ohio

© 2004 by Hermit Crab
a Fish Out Of Water production

N ext --Chapter 9