In the elevator up to the Sexually Compulsive Anonymous meeting I am shamelessly cruised by three comically out of shape black men who talk about me as if I weren’t there.
“Well ain’t she looking fine in them tight pants, mmm hmmm, all right now.”
I sigh and roll my eyes for effect, then realize they can’t see my eyes since I am wearing a pair of oversized tortoise shell sunglasses. The meeting is held at a drug rehab aftercare joint in Chelsea, and the loud black men get off ahead of me on the fourth floor, undoubtedly heading to their own life-saving counseling. The room designated for s*x fiends is at the end of a drab dirty hall which is lined with ancient, tattered and greasy posters with slogans like Silence=Death and Fight for the Cure. The whole thing is too Keith Harring, I thi
