Cult Next Door

By the mid-1980's George's inner circle consists of thirteen, eleven women and two men. In addition to my mother, Lisa, Pauline, Bess, Laura, Nora, Helen, Mike, Beatrice, Caroline, and myself, there are two newcomers: Jan is a divorced, thirty-something, eighth-grade special education teacher from Manhattan. Short and slim, she has black hair and an easygoing personality. Carl, generally nasty and critical, is short, almost bald and fortyish. Aside from a stint in the Peace Corps fifteen years ago, he is careerless and lives off a generous monthly allowance from his mother. With a new man available, George asks Lisa and Pauline which one of them would like to try a relationship with Carl. Lisa says she would prefer not to. Pauline, by default, is left to begin the experiment. George continues to gain additional, outer-circle members from the Englewood Adult School, or through referrals from other group members. At any one time, there are a dozen or so of these short-term clients. George reminds us frequently, "I have been given special knowledge and strength; I am the motorboat, and you are the water-skier; just follow in my wake. But if you leave, you will be lost. You can't make it without me, so don't even try."
George encourages us to socialize together. "You will learn more by spending free time with each other, than with ignorant outsiders. You should only be with family and friends from the past in order to learn how not to live."
Bess responds with zeal, "I am the luckiest person on Earth to have met you. There is no hope for billions of people on the planet, unless one day they find you. When I spend time with others, I see how far I have evolved beyond them. They will never understand unless they do all the difficult work I have done."

George nods his head, absorbing her adoration, smiling with pride at his brood of devoted seekers, "That's right, and the more time you invest, the faster you'll learn."

Thus, we all schedule more frequent sessions. Entering George's den, we seat ourselves purposefully, looking up expectantly like baby birds waiting for mother to place life-giving food into our mouths. Craving George's input, instead of "feed me," we say, "lead me, fill me." Our nourishment is derived from the "new information" presented each day which we hungrily ingest and then compete with each other to cultivate. Our group discussions are lively an orgy of abstract wisdom which saturates us with a marvelous sense of empowerment. As we struggle to fill ourselves, George unnoticeably, but steadily, withdraws. It is as if, a little at a time, he is pinching the air hose which contains our oxygen, leaving us teetering at the edge of suffocation. Thus, our drive for his approval magnifies, rendering us ravenous, emotional beggars with no other goal than to strive for the most coveted prize: a morsel of George's recognition.

The world in George's den obliterates everything outside the "crazy world," as George refers to it, inhabited by "crazy people" or "dead robots." The Energy, solely from George, is our only frame of reference. It has an independent personality and will. The Energy brings good fortune. If you get a raise at your job, The Energy made it happen. If people smile at you on the subway, they feel The Energy. If your cat slept next to you last night, The Energy attracted her to you. Good weather means The Energy has broken through, while bad weather means we are resisting The Energy. When the stock market goes up, the world is feeling and yielding to George's Energy. In a bad economy, the world is afraid of "the good stuff" he is creating. When another secretary in Pauline's office offers to do her xeroxing, we are told that The Energy is using people to do her work for her. After all, we have a much more important job to do. George explains, "When you people grow past your resistance, you won't have to work anymore. Others will be attracted and give you what you need, just like Jesus Christ was taken care of as he journeyed through the land."

Pumped with George's hype, enthusiasm explodes as we rush forth to spread the word. Our efforts are boundless; like Jehovah's Witnesses handing out bible tracts, we appeal to family and friends, coworkers, ex-lovers, bus drivers, repairmen, librarians . . . , just about anyone with whom we come in contact. We hunger to enlist new members, and our willful zeal frequently ignites the interest of some polite stranger as we explain, "It's something special and unique, but you have to experience it to understand." One at a time, visitors flow into our Thursday Night Group. George spends the entire evening teaching the newcomer to focus and explaining the awesomeness of The Energy. Sometimes they get it and begin to attend sessions. Mike receives kudos from George when he brings his friend Richie. A local security guard, fascinated with metaphysics and psychic powers, he seems to fit right in. Soon Richie's girlfriend, Janet, participates. She merges her mastery of Transcendental Meditation with George's Energy, and assuming the lotus position, floats in blissful dissociation for hours. The Group is growing as we know it must, and George's delicious praise for each new recruit fuels us to try even harder.

The Energy is our invisible guardian angel, a constant companion who will never abandon us, who will award us our heart's desire . . . provided we trust, practice patience, and respect its authority.
"People, I am the custodian of The Energy; we are one and the same. It has evolved me beyond a human man."
The Energy speaks to us only through George, and we must consult him about all decisions. Besides, now that we are seriously committed, every move is critical to our well-being; disaster threatens with even the slightest misstep. . . . Should I look for a new job? Attend a family dinner? Buy this dress? Take my dog to the vet? Purchase health insurance? How should I have sex with my husband?
Everything relevant to our lives is discussed in The Group. We know more intimacies about each other than we ever could have wanted to.
"My body is being used as a refinery because the raw Energy which enters is too painful for you people to handle." George never says who or what has chosen him as the channel. He has no idea.

"All I know is that someone, a long time ago, made a big mess out of the whole human race by creating resistance and a universal crazy thought process. Why the hell am I, George Enoch Sharkman, responsible for putting an end to this stupidity? I wish I weren't, but I have no choice."

George strives perpetually to piece information together, to solve a riddle whose answer will illuminate the escape route from the sticky web of The Program. He also receives frequent, profound messages about an impending spiritual catastrophe. "We must all begin to prepare today. There is no time to waste." His wide, frightened eyes instill terror, making us desperate to continue training before it is too late.
"The human species is headed toward extinction if we don't do something fast. We are destroying the planet with pollution. It is only a matter of time until The Earth says, 'Next species,' and wipes us out, just like the dinosaurs. Respecting The Energy is our only hope. All the Crazy People are doomed unless they smarten up fast. I have been getting messages that we're nearing the end. Next year we might not be here anymore. By then, The Energy ship will have landed and carried us out of this crazy thought system into total joy."
I believe that George has special powers. I believe that he will live forever. Only he can understand The Energy our only source of hope in a necessarily dark and horrible future.

I enter the den one winter day and sit quietly. George shakes his head vigorously while Bess stares out the window at falling snowflakes, reporting how his headshaking is affecting the snow. "Yes, The Energy is getting stronger. Snow's letting up a little."
George replies gravely, "That's good." Keeping his eyes closed to concentrate, he doubles his headshaking speed. I stare out along with Bess, following her reports closely, my chest soon swelling, now soaring as if swept away on a magic carpet, propelled by Beth's confidence. Soon she widens her eyes and smiles winningly, "It's really disappearing now, thanks to The Energy. In fact, it's almost gone and I see a glow in the trees behind your back yard. You are glowing too! George, you did it again!"
"It's going to get warmer now. The Energy broke the resistance in the weather," he answers.
"We sure are lucky to know you, George."
"This is really exciting," he utters with misty-eyed awe.

There are new and wonderful things like this happening every day. George's den is the best place to be, as long as you are willing to cooperate. . . .

George lectures fervidly one sunny Saturday afternoon as we eagerly group around him in the den.
"Gravity is bullshit, a lie we believe collectively. If we could release ourselves from this illusion, we would be able to fly around the room like they did in the movie, Mary Poppins. Remember when they floated up and had a tea party on the ceiling?"
An unanticipated surge of rage rises from deep inside my chest, reddening my cheeks. I tilt my face downward to hide, but George catches my reaction and makes an example of me. "Elizabeth, do you have a problem with what I just said?" He glares, rising from his seat and approaching me threateningly.
"Y-y-y-yes," I stammer, cursing myself for wearing my emotions on my sleeve, as usual . . . now forced to admit my lack of faith publicly.
"See everybody," he turns to face the rest of my comrades, "this proves my point. Elizabeth is defending the lie that we can't fly, and that lie is precisely what holds us all on the ground."
I recede into my chair in humiliation. His accusations make me feel personally responsible for keeping the entire human race weighted down on the Earth's surface. Soon, another surge of rage passes through me, commanding me to jump up and argue, even attack him, but I suppress it, gluing myself to my seat. Nonetheless, George senses my continued opposition and glares, filling me with terror. . . .
"You still seem to have a problem. What is it?"
"Nnnothing," my voice squeaks from the depths of my throat.
"You're lying," he bellows, "I can see it in your face. . . . See what I mean people? Elizabeth is showing us something very important how not to live. Gravity was created by our minds and our minds make it real. If we would release the true potential of our brains, we could do anything. We could fly; we will fly; I will find a way, you'll see, and when I do, it'll be too late for Elizabeth. She'll miss out on the fun, because she'd rather hold onto her stupid thoughts."
Bess, seated on the floor near his feet, looks up at him in gratitude, experiencing once again how fortunate she is to be part of it all. Stinging from his public scolding, I try to examine his viewpoint. What if George is right, and there are things I don't know about yet? I learned the Law of Gravity in eighth grade, but science is always developing existing theories are modified, and new laws defined. Isaac Newton had the last word, until Albert Einstein came along. Perhaps there is more beyond Einstein, and maybe George has the vision.
The following week George reasserts that we will be able to fly soon. Again, that familiar rage swells automatically. Right away I correct myself. There's the resistance again a reaction to stop progress. This always happens when someone has a new idea. People fight change from fear. I must get rid of the anger, so I can be open to new ideas. After all, a hundred years ago no one would have believed that we could visit the moon, or fly in an airplane! They say whatever man can conceive, he can achieve. If all scientists possessed my negative attitude, they would never accomplish anything. Someday, what George predicts . . . could happen.
When George mentions flying again later that week, the rage is still there, but I push it back down, so deep now that it's almost out of view. Nevertheless, these rages are regular companions in my life with George. When they erupt, I try to squelch them, but they reject silencing. My stomach twists as I attempt to distract myself with the conversation in George's den or office. Unable to believe many of his extraordinary claims, I feel like a traitor. He stresses almost daily that we must all be in agreement on the same wavelength. As a team, focused on our collective commitment, we will cut through resistance like a laser beam and break free of oppression. Basking in delirious visions, George rarely notices my trouble being a team player. But when he senses my opposition I am reprimanded. "Elizabeth is making the intention, on purpose, to impede the mission and destroy the rest of our lives."
My other friends jump on board, adding support to his accusations. With the entire group against me, I believe that my negative thoughts are wrong, although try as I might, I remain powerless to evict them from my mind. . . . I sit through their castigations, adrenalin pumping, hands shaking and mouth parching. George criticizes me further for these physical signs of defensiveness, accusing me of receding because I am cowardly and refuse to grow up. Trapped, I focus only on surviving these minutes. Retreating into numbness, I wait for the session's end, when thankfully I will be released.

Having successfully seduced me and my mother, George begins to break in the others. Lisa and Pauline don't seem to question his motives when he first suggests they sit naked with him during a session. They are agreeable girls whose priority is to please others and to be perceived as nice. They have spent their lives in classrooms and libraries and believe like me that cooperating with the authority is all that is necessary to succeed in life. Also, like me, they accept his concept breaking barriers leads to personal growth. Soon he is sitting between them, kissing and fondling. Nora gives in willingly as well. She and her husband share no intimacy and she enjoys viewing herself as a sensual being, ready to explore new territory. Beatrice, although married and old enough to be George's mother, would do anything for him. He is her protege and she praises him constantly. Her husband unwittingly pays thousands for her "therapy," unaware that while he conducts business at his Manhattan office, his wife is playing hostess to George at their Westchester vacation home. He's never there to see her therapist standing on the deck behind the house and shaking his entire body, stark naked. He never hears George encouraging his wife's hostility toward the man who supports her lavish lifestyle. In The Group she speaks of her spouse with open contempt, emasculating him with references to his emotional insecurities and his woes over erectile dysfunction.
Beth's insecure, little girl personality is easily manipulated by George, and he engages her in sexual encounters whenever he pleases. Caroline is the only one who turns him down. Besides defending her commitment to her spouse, she doesn't understand what sex has to do with stress reduction therapy. Nonetheless, George, intolerant of disobedience, persists in trying to convince her. For more than a year Caroline resists him, and finally he gives up, informing us behind her back that she was "very stupid to give up the opportunity of a lifetime."
Finally there is Mary, one of George's students from the Englewood Adult School. From the first moment they meet, a magnetic attraction engulfs them. Mary attends The Group on Thursday nights, but after a few months she disappears and George begins to visit her house several times a week, in the late morning after her husband leaves for work. He recounts their glorious sexual sessions which often last over four hours. "Incredible discovery is happening when I make myself totally vulnerable to the female program at the most intimate level."
He doesn't charge her for all of his time; she could never afford it; he's willing to sacrifice the money to take advantage of this exceptional growth opportunity.
George's children, Christopher and Serena, now in high school, know all about his relationship with Mary. George trains them to hide it from their mother. He has taught them about The Program and his wife's Female Game since they were old enough to speak. "Your mother is too stupid to give up her destructive relationships with her family and go for something real. You kids must make your choice: to live like her and ruin your lives, or to go for the good stuff and become big."
One Thursday night, after several years of failed attempts, George finally convinces his wife to attend The Group, so she can "understand the importance of our work." For an hour Doris rocks in her chair, silent, shaking her legs restlessly, a stern look frozen on her face. Halfway through the session, she sighs with frustration and leaves the room, never to return. The following day George brands her hopeless. "She's too dumb to get it."
In fact, Doris hates The Group with a vengeance. She avoids the house whenever sessions are held and passes a law forbidding their children to take part in The Group's activities or to have contact with us. But each Thursday night, the kids join our meeting after Doris leaves. At 9:25 P.M., when the headlights of her returning car shine down the driveway, he motions them silently, but urgently. They catapult from their seats, sneaking from the den, noiselessly closing the door behind them. In the adjoining family room, they dive toward the couch. From my seat, I hear the remote click on the TV as the front door opens.
"Hi Mom; can we help you with your packages?" They greet her politely with feigned sincerity. "We were just watching a really good show. Do you want to hear about it?"
One day George asks Christopher to explain to the rest of us how he handles the conflict of living with such contradictory parents.
"I was following my mother for a very long time. My father was trying to warn me about the danger, but I thought I had all the answers. Finally I realized he was right and quickly changed direction. I was so stupid; I almost destroyed my life; but I'm OK now. My father is special, and I'm sticking with him. My sister was always smart, she knew my father had the right way and my mother was way off base. George is not only my father, he is father to us all, and we are a family."
According to Serena, "My mother is stupid; she just never learns that Dad knows what's going on for real, and she should give up her games and let him lead."

As group members crave more time with George, he begins to invite us to sit in on each other's private sessions. On a typical Friday evening, I take bus and subway to reach his office on 71st Street between Park and Lexington Avenues. The heavy metal street door, swollen in the jamb, squeaks and groans as I throw my entire body against it and force it open. I bound into the narrow waiting area where I seat myself expectantly. There are two offices opening off this room, both sublet by practitioners in the mental health field. George's tiny office is on the left. About fifty square feet, a love seat and two chairs leave little floor space. Muffled voices leak through the wall. George is expounding excitedly on a new discovery. I strain to listen to the dialogue; anything George has to say, I want to know. I also want to know where everyone else is at, the gossip, so I can evaluate my current status in our family. Soon the office door opens, and he beckons with a friendly "Come on in."
Mumbling goodbye to George, Laura, the nurse, rushes by, almost slamming against me, eyes downturned. She is out on the street in a heartbeat, and then I am invited into the inner sanctum. Brimming with anticipation, I seat myself quickly on the couch, snuggling gratefully into the comfort zone of my now thrice weekly ritual of two-hour stress reduction sessions.
George nods amicably, then immediately queries authoritatively, "What's doing?" I scramble to report a positive experience at work or expand on my growing awareness of one of his most recent truths. He nods his head continuously while I chatter excitedly, finally rewarding me with an encouraging "Oh boy, you're getting smart."
Lisa and Pauline arrive shortly thereafter. Discourse between George and each of The Girls is similar to mine, although Pauline generally whines and then eventually sobs hopelessly over her inability to put our leader's teachings into effect. Lisa doesn't usually have a lot to say, but appears serious and very apprehensive. When his three young girls have finally settled in, George proceeds by inquiring suggestively, "How about if I take my clothes off?"
It is the same sweet voice he used that first day, about six years ago, when he invited me to try removing my shirt. Effortlessly undressing, he regains his seat, closes his eyes, and begins headshaking. His body shows no sign of sexual arousal. George has explained many times that the wonderful feelings he obtains from the headshaking are "beyond sex." He no longer needs nor desires this primitive activity. "However," he tells us, "because I care about you, and I am the only man on the planet who can do this, I will lend you my body. You can experiment with your feelings. Do anything that you want. This will help you grow."
We focus on his spinning head and soon perceive clouds of colored light floating around the room. Lisa's arm jolts with electricity, and Pauline's head leans awkwardly to one side, pulled there by The Energy. This familiar exercise slows us down, preparing us to concentrate on the work we must each now begin to overcome our personal resistance. Painstakingly, one of the three girls removes an article of clothing from her body. There is no cue from anyone. It is entirely up to each of us to choose what she wants to do and when. Nevertheless, we all feel that we must push ourselves in this direction in order to take advantage of the therapy. In fact, if you do not eventually strip and ultimately participate in the group activity by at least placing your naked body against the bodies of the others, you will be labeled as "holding back," which in our circle, where you only get praise when you "go for it," is a sin. I grit my teeth, close my eyes, and slowly unbutton my shirt. The silence in the room is deafening while George's chair squeaks relentlessly from his shaking motion. I want to know what The Girls are doing, but I don't want to know. . . . I strain to listen and hear more clothing rustle. I know that Pauline and Lisa, crammed next to me on the couch, are continuing their undressing. Internal conflict increases as the minutes lag, but leaving the room is not an option. Half an hour later, there are three additional piles of clothes on the floor, and three naked, slim young women in their mid-twenties sitting terrified, silent on the couch while the naked man, eyes closed, continues headshaking. The overhead light in the room burns bright, painfully exposing us.
There is only one thing left to do now approach George the prize. The air is charged with emotion: anticipation, competition, and confusion. Each of us focuses on George alone. We race against each other to get close to him. This contest takes nearly an hour to complete, and every agonizing minute feels like ten. One of the three girls drops off the couch and onto the floor. With total focus, she yields to The Energy which drags her body across the carpet, limb by limb, an inch at a time. It takes fifteen minutes to cross the seemingly infinite span of three feet between the couch and George's chair. The other two follow suit, and rivalry develops quickly as we sense each other's actions. The first girl finally reaches his chair and remains there for a while, her head resting on his feet. George continues shaking. The silence gets louder. The other two move along the carpet too, toward the oasis. Girl number two squeezes behind him, while the first girl lifts herself up toward his chest. The chair creaks in response, and she pulls back a little, shamed to have broken the silence. There is no room for the third girl, the competition's loser, to be right next to George, so she crouches on the floor behind the first girl. She must be satisfied with being next to the person who is next to George. The second girl now becomes a little more bold and lifts herself up toward George's face. Her lips find his mouth, and she rests them there. The head shakes relentlessly, while the girl focuses on moving her head with the same rhythm as his, so that their lips can remain together. Soon her mouth becomes irritated red and sore from the constant friction of George's five o'clock shadow.
This action gives the first girl courage, and she slides her head slowly down his chest, finally resting it on his thigh. Her hand creeps toward his crotch, which she begins stroking softly, trying to convince herself that this is what she wants to be doing. Diligently forcing herself, a fraction of an inch at a time, toward the ultimate, about ten minutes later, she finally goes down all the way. George's rhythmic shaking doesn't miss a beat, but his body responds, betraying his frequent assertions that he is "beyond sex." Over the next several minutes, girl number one does what is required to finish him off, assisted by the third girl, who has managed to maneuver herself into a position where she can assist. Sometimes their lips even touch as they apply themselves to their task. When it is over, George always says the same thing, "Whew, that was really big." He refers to The Energy, released from his climax, which will propel him to the next higher spiritual level. During the entire time, he has not touched any one of the girls. According to him, the goal is to face uncomfortable feelings and learn from them work, not play. Our infinitely patient tutor explains, "It was difficult for you girls to fight your resistance and move toward me and The Energy, but you did. Today you have made tremendous progress."
Soon, George turns scientific and asks us collectively, "So, what's going on? What did you feel?"
We each describe our reactions and thoughts, and it usually comes out that one, or more, of the girls was competing game-playing. The crime admitted, George scolds. In addition, one girl is deemed the most courageous; she is envied by the other two. It is unimportant which one is girl number one, two, or three. We are all swimming in the same cauldron, exchanging roles and actions randomly. Pauline often ends up crying, "I can't stop holding back. I am a failure."
George encourages the person he has selected as winner to advise her valuable suggestions such as, "Just go for it next time."
Pauline replies tearfully, "But I don't know how to stop resisting," and the helpful answer comes quickly,
"You stop; you make a decision and do it."
Sometimes George berates her further. "If you don't get wise fast, you will get left behind."

The competition we feel among ourselves, for a prize that none of us truly wants, rises like an angry demon, twisting our guts, asphyxiating our spirits. What rage we suppress! We, unlike Mary, pay for every minute that we spend with George, no matter how many times we pleasure him. . . .
Even beyond the sanctuary, in the Lexington Avenue diner where we three former college roommates share Swiss burgers, cheese omelettes, gyros, and coffee after our sessions, we no longer feel comfortable together. As if obeying some invisible dictum, we never discuss what occurred or how much we paid. Personal connections and our previous friendships are long gone. We monitor everything we say (and think), as if spies are all around. Although we want to desperately, we never dare to question George's actions. Any negativity will be uncovered and reported. Public humiliation, or worse, is what we fear above all.

These days, George's pants spend more time draped over the office chair than on his body. From 10:00 A.M. to 7:00 P.M., an almost hourly changing of the guard takes place. Beatrice visits first, replaced by Bess, then Jan, next Beatrice or Bess once again, and to wind up the day, a grand finale of me, Lisa and Pauline together. Sometimes, George even adds in Beth a group of five. The additional female competitor escalates our distress. I shut my eyes tightly, and I am sure the others are doing the same. Bodies touch and hands probe with hesitation as we struggle to figure out how to win George's approval. We know we must push at the envelope; it is in our own best interest the whole point of these sessions, but the terror of failure is ever-present, along with overwhelming confusion. It is in this blackness that one day I feel a hand on my wrist. There is intent in the grasp, and I shiver. Slowly it pushes down along a belly, inch by inch, until finally I reach the top of a feminine thigh. Revulsion bolts through my mind, freezing me in terror, but I am captive to momentum. When my fingers, shoved ever forward by George's decisive grip, finally reach the private parts of my friend (I soon realize it is Pauline), thoughts plead, I don't want to be doing this. Please stop. It takes all of my strength to stifle my aversion, but somehow I manage, praying for this thousand-year moment to end. When twenty minutes later George calls for a bathroom break, I say nothing to anyone. It will be several days before I can look directly at Pauline; I am so mortified. . . .

George has no problem sharing details about his intimate life with his wife either. "This is how I have sex with Doris. I put my cock into her, and stay motionless; then I focus. The Energy comes out of me. This should give her pleasure, but my wife is impatient. She wants me to thrust, like all the other dumb, jerk men who are just performing for Mommy. I refuse. Doris hates that she can't control me. Someday, if she decides to be smart, she'll learn how to have sex the right way."

But Doris is smart, smarter and more present than her husband thinks. . . . One Friday evening, Lisa and Pauline are in George's city office. All three are naked. Unexpectedly, George hears the outer street door opening. Doris was supposed to meet him at the end of their session, but she is very early.
"Holy Shit," he mutters under his breath as he hastily shoves his body back into his clothes, motioning for Lisa and Pauline to do the same. Unfortunately, they haven't sufficiently practiced subversive clothing removal and redressing, and they do not move as quickly as he does. Doris's footsteps echo up the short hall and into the tiny waiting room. While politely waiting for George to finish with his clients, a sound enters her ears the jingle of her husband's belt buckle. Instinctively, she bolts from her seat, and without knocking, grasps his doorknob and turns firmly, opening the door. George has just made it back to his chair. Although he has missed a couple of buttons, he looks pretty much in order. The Girls, however, have managed only to put their slacks and bras back on. Their shirts still remain crumpled on the floor. Upon viewing the scene, Doris's face reddens with the rage of a woman scorned. "What is going on in here?"
George dons his Mr. Innocent mask and explains "sincerely," "Nothing. It's just that it was too hot, so the girls decided to take off their shirts for awhile."
As if dragging an unruly schoolboy out by his ear, Doris commands George to follow her to a private meeting in the waiting area.
"Did you have sex?" she asks directly.
"Oh no," he replies looking so sincere and grasping at explanatory babble which ends up contradicting his previous statement, "we were only experimenting, breaking barriers created by society's training."
Doris exits the office in an angry huff, and when George returns to The Girls, he lets them know that this is their fault. Lisa and Pauline guiltily accept blame; they apologize profusely for having been too slow. For weeks, they beat themselves up for committing that terrible crime. Due to their inadequacies, they have jeopardized George's marriage. Doris bans them from her house in Teaneck, and like disgraced outcasts, they must sneak in for therapy sessions while she is at work.

The encounter with his wife does little to interrupt George's schedule of creative experimentation. About a week later, he suggests that Nora and I remove our clothing and sit naked during an afternoon group session in his Teaneck den. "Society has programmed us to be ashamed of our bodies, but everything's natural. Sit through your embarrassment until it lifts, and you'll feel very comfortable in your own skin," he directs.
Dropping my head in shame, I stare at the floor, praying for my panicked thoughts to end while I imagine the others, Beatrice, Carl and George, ogling me. Nora, in contrast, comfortable with exhibitionism, continues her stream of intellectual chitchat. But it only gets worse, because a few moments later the doorknob turns, and I freeze. George's 16-year-old daughter, Serena, enters unannounced. She appears mildly surprised at the scene before her but hides her reaction with a slight smirk. George laughs at this unexpected intrusion while she quickly finds a seat. Conversation resumes with no explanation offered to the teenager. I can't understand how Serena can accept it all so nonchalantly. . . .