Every family has a skeleton in the closet.

      You may know your family’s skeleton. You may even be that skeleton. Or you may think that your family is different, that it’s the exception, that you’re one of the lucky ones with a perfect set of parents and no dark family secrets. If so, then you just haven’t opened the right closet door yet.

      For most of my life, I, too, believed I was one of the normal ones. But then I found the right closet door.

      It was in my father’s room. The door was white, with chipped paint along the outer edge and a brass doorknob burnished by my father’s large hand. I twisted the knob, emboldened by the hope of finding pornography, my hand over the mark of my father’s.

      I was a late-teenage virgin, my parents were out, and I craved the female skin I so desperately lacked access to in real life. I’d found a Playboy and a Penthouse in my father’s magazine stack before, so it stood to reason that in a deeper recess of his room, there existed a superior form of pornography: the kind that moves. Real porn.

      In the back of his closet, beneath rows of blue cotton-polyester dress shirts with monogrammed pockets, dulled nearly white from years of washing, I found three brown grocery bags filled with VHS tapes. I sat on the floor and examined each one meticulously, careful to return them in the exact reverse order in which I’d removed them.

      There were no videos labeled as porn, but I knew my father wouldn’t be that stupid with my mother around. So I set aside all the unmarked tapes. Since I was never allowed to have a television set of my own, I brought the videos into the family room, where there was a small TV and VCR, old presents from an old uncle.

      I felt like I was about to explode.

      I loaded the first video, and was disappointed to find a Dizzy Gillespie jazz concert recorded off PBS. I pressed fast-forward, hoping it was just camouflage for a nubile blonde-on-blonde scene. But what came next was an episode of Newhart, followed by Masterpiece Theatre. It was spectacularly unmasturbatory.

      The next tape was a recording of The Philadelphia Story, followed by a tennis match, and then nothing but static.

      I placed the third videotape into the VCR and watched it sink slowly into the machine. I pressed play, and as soon as I saw what was on that tape, my excitement instantly drained, my skin went cold, and my image of my father as a meek, passive businessman changed forever.

      I saw images I didn’t even know existed in this world.

      And suddenly, as if I’d accidentally opened a theater curtain to reveal the rigging, I realized that the reality of my family was very different from the façade.

      “Promise you won’t tell anyone, not even your brother or your father,” my mother instructed when I asked her about what I’d found.

      “I promise,” I reassured her.

      And I never told anyone what I learned that day about my father’s secret life.

      That is, until that secret became an acid, corroding my relationships. Until it burned straight through my sense of right and wrong, leaving me alone and despised. Until it landed me in a psychiatric institution, where I was told that for my own sanity, freedom, and happiness, I needed to break my promise and reveal the contents of that tape.

      And so I faced a decision: How far would I go to protect my parents? Is it better to betray the people responsible for my existence or to betray that existence itself?

      It is a decision that everyone, at some point in life, must make.

      Most make the wrong one.

      Maybe your dad is living a double life. Maybe your mom is. Maybe one of them is secretly gay or cross-dressing or having an affair or paying for hookers or going to strip clubs or watching Internet porn or just not in love. Maybe both are. Maybe it’s not your parents, but you or the person you love. But somewhere, there is a skeleton. And that skeleton has a penis. And it will fuck your life.

      STAGE I

      ▪ Wounded Child ▪

       WHAT WE DO NOT KNOW, CONTROLS US.

       —JAMES HOLLIS

       Under Saturn’s Shadow

      Across the aisle from me on the plane is a thin girl with black hair. She could be anywhere from seventeen to twenty-three. And she has it: dark eyeliner, fake lashes, a small round tattoo on her lower back, pink headphones, and the permanent pout of someone who is angry at Dad but will fuck any insensitive asshole who reminds her of Dad.

      Next to me is a middle-aged woman with large imitation designer sunglasses and a sundress showing milky white cleavage. In just twenty minutes of conversation, and with the artful positioning of a complimentary airline blanket, maybe I could have my hand inside there.

      In front of me is a thin redhead with a beat-up face. Probably an alcoholic. Not my type, but I would.

      Inside my head, there is a map. And on that map, there is a small LED bulb marking where every reasonably attractive or slightly sexually compelling female is sitting. Before the plane has hit cruising altitude, I have already thought of ways to approach each one, stripped her naked, imagined her blow-job technique, and fucked her in the bathroom or the rental car or her bedroom that night.

      This is it: the last time I’m allowed to lust, the last time I’m allowed to even entertain the thought of sleeping with a new woman. And my mind is going crazy. I’m attracted to everyone. Not that I ever wasn’t, but this time it hurts somewhere deep—in the core of who I am, of my identity, of my reason for living.

      I have nothing with me: no computer, no cell phone, no technology. They are not allowed where I’m going. It feels liberating to be alone with my thoughts—most of which involve debating whether to start a conversation with the aforementioned, possibly jailbait girl in the row to my right or the pock-faced redhead in front of me.

      When the plane eases to a stop at the gate, a bespectacled man stands up and makes his way to the aisle. He looks the black-haired girl up and down. He is not hitting on her; he has stared at her too long for that. He’s capturing the image, imprinting it in his memory to save it for later, when he can use it.

      Why am I putting myself through this? I wonder. This is normal male behavior. That guy’s probably worse than I am.

      As I walk through the terminal, I pull a folded piece of paper out of my pocket: Your driver will meet you as soon as you pass security. He will be wearing a badge with a D, so as not to identify where you are going.

      Suddenly, a guy in his twenties—at least six feet tall, muscular, square jawed, basically the opposite of what I see when I look in the mirror—freezes in front of me. His mouth drops open, like he’s seen a ghost. I know what’s about to happen, and I want to get rid of him. He is not my driver.

      “Oh my god, are you …”

      For some reason, he can’t seem to get the next words out of his mouth. I wait for him to spit it out, but nothing happens.

      “Yeah,” I tell him.

      Silence.

      “Well, nice to meet you. I have to go meet a friend.” Fuck, that’s a lie. I swore to stop lying. Lies just roll off the tongue so much easier than the truth sometimes.

      “I read your book,” he says.

      “Just

---

Скачать книгу