On the outside, my early life looked like an episode from a Fifties sitcom. I was the third of six kids. My mom stayed at home, organized the family chores, baked bread every week, and had a hot dinner on the table every night when my dad came home. My dad worked all day, came home at six, and was home every weekend. He helped us fix our bikes and do our homework.
I recently celebrated ten years of sexual sobriety in SA, so naturally I have been thinking about how I came to achieve this and what steps I took on the way. I then started to think about sobriety itself. What is sexual sobriety?
When I started my journey of recovery, I was not prepared to call myself a sexaholic. Even though my life was unmanageable, I knew I had a problem with sex, and I was attracted to men, I did not believe I was powerless over lust.
I had been attending SA for two months when I ventured out to Nashville for the January 1990 International Convention. Seeing that sea of people in that ballroom, I was sold on the SA fellowship. But not on what it stood for.
I was at the airport and I was struggling with same-sex lust. Roy was at the airport also. He said, “Let me pray with you.” I said, “I’m struggling with that guy over there.”
I had been in the program for several years before I finally met Roy K., although I believe we talked over the phone during those first years. I remember Roy’s passion for spreading the message, his courage, and his principles. Those qualities came through clearly in his conversations as well as his writing.
Today a fellow in our group received his eight-month chip. I recalled how desperately upset he’d been when he first came to SA—but today he demonstrated a great peace and calmness. I realized that this is also my story.
Recently I met with a newcomer who was inquiring about SA. He had identified five different fellowships dealing with sexual addiction. He wasn’t quite sure where he belonged. He wanted a fellowship that would support his involvement in a same-sex relationship.
I was 18 when I first went to a gay bar. I had to wear a wristband to get in. I stood in the corner on the edge of the dance floor nursing my virgin Rum and Coke. My hair was unkempt. I wasn’t manicured. Every time I tried to connect, all I could say was, “God this music sucks.” I was desperate to make friends, but I couldn’t seem to break through.
My first sexual experience was with my uncle when I was nine years old. This grew into a full-blown homosexual relationship that lasted until I was eighteen. When it began, I was starved for acceptance and love, and I needed to feel wanted. When he chose me, I felt special.
