Chapter 3

Your name is James, and you’re dead. On the fifth day of your death, those indifferent yet still self-righteous bystanders shifted their focus from the tragic sudden demise of a gay porn superstar to your sex addiction, your depression, and the fragmented words you left behind in life.

Your sex addiction, in the eyes of those with dull libidos, was nothing more than perpetual erections, the thrill of black stockings tightening around your neck, the pleasure of being bound with sturdy ropes and hung from a solid wooden frame while a leather-clad daddy whipped you.

When you were still alive, you sometimes shrugged it off with a laugh and said, “For fuck’s sake, what you’re describing is sexual deviance. Me? I’m just a sex addict.” And you were.

But usually, your expression would darken when they asked if Anthony could fully satisfy you. Clenching your fists, you’d reply coldly, “Go fuck yourself.”

Truthfully, you believed that as long as you could control yourself from randomly getting hard in public, your sex addiction wouldn’t affect you too much. But things started deteriorating before you broke up with your second boyfriend. Even after you resolved to end things with your already emotionally distant partner, you’d still wake up the next morning, overwhelmed by your addiction, crawling into his bed and begging him to touch you. Even though it only fed your Napoleon-complex boyfriend’s possessiveness and chipped away at what little self-respect you had left. You hated yourself even more for it.

Your identical twin brother, who once struggled with alcoholism, told you: “James, you should try the Twelve Steps.”

Your casual acquaintances, who barely knew you well enough, all suggested: “James, you should try the Twelve Steps.”

Even in the filthy messages from gay men jerking off to your porn—filled with photos of erect cocks and swollen assholes—you found a few earnest suggestions: “James, you should try the Twelve Steps.”

So, goddamn it, you actually went and tried the Twelve Steps.

The first step was admitting your powerlessness, honestly acknowledging your addiction. That’s what the supposedly recovered leader of the meeting told you. But all you understood was that you had to accept you were already a hopeless wreck who could never steer your own life.

The moment your ass hit the chair, you regretted it. You forced yourself to listen as each person confessed their history of sex addiction—their low-toned remorse and their utterly fucked-up lives. The only thing you gained was learning a few new kinks. Like sticking your grandmother’s crochet needle into your urethra. Or breathing through only one nostril while ejaculating. Or tightly wrapping your balls in a two-inch-wide leather cuff so you could shove your entire package inside your partner.

By the end, the young man in the baseball cap sitting next to you brushed his fingers against the side of your thigh. His eyes were a translucent amber, his lips a pale pink that made you want to see them stretched around something hard. He withdrew his fingers from the rough fabric of your jeans and asked, “Did you fucking understand any of those five steps? What’s the nature of our wrongs? How do we admit them to God and everyone else?”

Your throat bobbed. One hand slipped into your jeans pocket, fingers grazing the thin edge of a condom wrapper. Licking your lips, you smirked—an ugly expression amidst the group’s solemn masks. “I think I got it better than you did.”

The two of you slipped into the men’s bathroom beside the meeting room at a discreet distance. The young man had well-defined deltoids and sculpted abs. He lifted his shirt, proudly displaying his body before pressing your broad, muscular back against the stall door, forcing your face against the wood. Instinctively, your ass arched. You had to admit, the guy gave great head. Between gasps, you muttered, “The nature of our wrongs… is that we know too many tricks and can never be satisfied.”

The young man bit your ass cheek, then slid two slick fingers inside you. “Keep going,” he rasped.

You said, “Maybe we’re not wrong. Maybe it’s just because we’re the minority, so the majority wants to suppress us. Or erase us.”

The guy fished the condom from your pocket, tore it open with his teeth, and rolled it on with one hand. He smacked your ass. “Keep talking.”

Your shirt was bunched under your armpits, your jeans around your knees. To muffle your moans, you bit down hard on your own fist. Between ragged breaths, you begged him to fuck you—roughly, if possible.

Thanks to the Twelve Steps, your short, no-name actor boyfriend found out about your post-meeting escapade. It finally freed you from that torturous relationship—though it also deepened your depression. You couldn’t shake the loneliness, the desperate craving for embraces, skin-on-skin friction, and whispered sweet nothings. You were sure you’d die alone. And you did.

Your identical twin brother, who once spiraled into mania after a bad breakup, told you: “James, you should see a therapist.”

Your concerned colleagues at the gay porn studio all suggested: “James, you should see a therapist.”

Even in the filthy messages from men jerking off with replica dildos molded after your cock—begging to stuff their dicks up your ass or calling you “daddy” while pleading for you to come in their mouths—you found some earnest advice: “James, you should see a therapist.”

You tried it once. Under the therapist’s gentle coaxing, you nearly lowered your defenses. You were about to confess your profession, your pain—but then you looked into his eyes. They held that unbearably smug pity, like he was God himself judging you with a glance. So you swallowed every word you were about to say. Fuck this, you thought.

You never went back. Not until the day you died.

Your depression invited another flood of well-meaning noise. Some told you to quit your goddamn porn job, keep your legs shut, and stop trading sex with strangers. Others advised you to shut the hell up and stop whining like a teenage girl fishing for sympathy. Some even suggested you seek solace in a bar full of elderly lesbians—somewhere quiet and accepting, free from the trauma of gay male subculture.

But your favorite suggestion? Lock your windows, draw the curtains, tie a thick rope to the chandelier, and hang yourself. Beneath your bare feet, leave an open black trash bag. When the chandelier finally gives way under your corpse’s weight, you’d drop right into it. By the time someone found you, they could just drag the bag out and dispose of you. All that’d remain: a broken chandelier, the lingering stench of piss and shit, and the lovers and family who’d abandoned you. When the world no longer needs you, it can toss you out like trash—crushed, buried, just like the ashes you’ve already been reduced to.

The “saviors” love overanalyzing the dead and their words. They say James died because the porn industry exploited gay men’s bodies and minds. They say the viewers are complicit, just on the other side of the screen. They say everyone wanted to fuck him, but no one wanted to love him.

They say the same thing about every porn star who dies young—whether from overdose, AIDS, suicide, or any other reason.