Dear Anthony: From One Sex Addict to Another

I don’t know if you remember me. I’m the guy who sat across from you at the group therapy meetings back in July 2011 that you joined after you resigned from Congress.


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Dear Anthony,

I don’t know if you remember me. I’m the guy who sat across from you at the group therapy meetings back in July 2011 that you joined after you resigned from Congress. I was the one with what Dr. Sexton called a classic voyeuristic sex addiction because I had watched the same Paris Hilton sex tape 5,000 times in two months and ended up with a form of carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand that was going to take years of physical therapy and got me a 30 percent disability for life. You’ll be happy to hear my hand is a little better. I can use it now for some basic tasks—not that one, I can assure you! But I’m still on a no-computer and no-iPhone regimen at home. I spend a lot of time at the library, as you might imagine.

You might remember me better if you picture that I usually sat beside that woman who dressed like a Japanese sex doll, who Dr. Sexton had diagnosed as having the exhibitionistic form of sex addiction. There was that one day where she yanked up her skirt and—well, you remember. Let’s just say some of us spilled our coffee.

I didn’t write before because I figured you were busy. But then I saw your recent press conference, and knew I had to let you know that we are all rooting for you at the sessions. You are such an inspiration to us.

The fact that you were totally cured after just three days is only the beginning of it. You’ve kept your marriage going with that gorgeous wife. (And no, we don’t buy it when the good Dr. Sexton tries to suggest that she might be enabling you.) You both looked so happy in that People magazine article.

Someone found that issue in the waiting room, and we passed it around at one of the sessions last summer. Huma said you were doing all the laundry—now that’s the way it’s done, Anthony! “The only next dramatic steps I’m planning on are Jordan’s first,” you said then. Gosh, did you think that up on the spot? You’ve got a way with words.

And now you’re running for mayor of New York City, and you have the highest name recognition of all the candidates!

Without ever naming you, Dr. Sexton gave us a lecture about how obsessive sexters have an adolescent amygdala brain issue, coupled with narcissistic personality disorder, and that those issues take years of hard work to resolve. He says you needed to finish the entire program and that without it you will go right back to tweeting blackjack dealers, college juniors and porn stars on the West Coast in the middle of the night as soon as you’re sworn in.

Well, you know what? Everybody needs a little relaxation once in a while.

Really, what does the doc know? Anonymous sex addict, personality disorder, enabler. Enough with the labels, already! I think he’s just annoyed because after you announced you were running for mayor, there was a little mutiny in the group. People were like, Is sex addiction even an illness, Dr. Sexton? What’s really so wrong with getting off on sending pictures of your Anthony out on the internet to some willing and interested babes?

This is America, it isn’t Iran!

A few guys even left the group. Remember Vinny? The guy with the hooker addiction? After the papers reported you were running for mayor, he was all like, “Well, if Anthony could do it, then I sure as hell can,” and he called an escort to meet him in the parking lot before he even left the room—to make his point, I guess. A couple of the other guys, too, have said, Enough with the soul-searching, and it’s time to get back to living!

I guess Dr. Sexton just thinks you’re bad for business. And that’s unfortunate, because when you’re Mayor, the doc could spin it out that you’re his greatest success story ever. Get himself a subway ad with your face on it and an 800 number and all.

Anthony, please don’t pay any attention to all those nasty headlines in the New York Post about getting erected mayor and rising to the occasion and so on. Don’t mind the jokes about “showing my Anthony”—although that one is still pretty funny. That stuff will be gone and forgotten by the time Jordan grows up, wiped out of the public consciousness by your legacy as mayor of the greatest city on Earth. Meagan Broussard’s retweet will always be on the Internet, sure, but, since Bill and Hillary are always saying Huma’s their second daughter, Jordan can call Aunt Chelsea for tips about growing up with that kind of problem.

It’s been a long 12 years with that robot Bloomberg in charge, and before that Giuliani. Look what they did to Times Square, for crying out loud! Not a flashing triple X to be found. No peep shows, no ladies of the night, but Chinese people dressed up like Elmo and Spiderman? And now cops are arresting johns?

This trend has got to stop.

What’s happened to our city under these sex-hating morality police is a crying shame, Anthony. There’s more sex in Davenport, Iowa, these days than there is in Manhattan. I know you’re doing the laundry and walking Jordan in the park, but you and I know that New York wasn’t built to be family-friendly 24-7. Don’t forget your roots, man!

Anthony, only you can put the KY back in the Kink. You can put our city back on the map when it comes to the nasty. We’ve sublimated our urges for way too long, and as you and I and Dr. Sexton know, that always leads to trouble.

I know our time together was brief, and maybe you can’t put faces to the names, but I just want to remind you that you’ve got some hard core supporters right here in our community. If you ever need a few more bodies in a campaign office, we’re here for you.

Personally, I’m happy to go door-to-door for you. I can still press doorbells and hand out flyers with my left hand.

Rock on, man.


[Ed: This letter was written  by our columnist, Nina Burleigh, for the purposes of dramatization. Any resemblance to actual sex addicts, exhibitionists, narcissists or sex dolls is unintentional.]

Dear Anthony: From One Sex Addict to Another