Some people love a committee. They hear the words ‘group decision making’ and swoon. I myself have been on several committees only to discover they’re really not for me.

It always starts out promisingly enough. A great idea, enthusiastic people, a vision, but then another element appears; the professional committee member. Sometimes there are a few of them.

I’m the sort of committee member who I imagine you would want on your committee. I’ll be there on time, I will have done the required work, I will contribute fully and then I want to get the hell outta there. This is the sort of committee member I want to be surrounded by as well.

However, there are also people like Jim, the secretary of the last committee I belonged to, and Jim had a very different modus operandi. Jim seemed to think being on a committee meant you had to impersonate Phillip Adams. His voice grew deeper, his chin grew double, and haughtiness, earnestness and pomposity all vied for equal attention every time he opened his mouth.

There are only two reasons committee meetings run over time.  One, and this is rare, something exciting is actually happening; or two, someone is droning on: usually, the professional committee member. And so, after one such meeting, after hearing just one too many references to Jim’s previous life as a New York Times journalist, I decided the next group I would join might offer a different kind of people.

Along came Sluts Anonymous.

Sluts Anonymous, much like Alcoholics Anonymous, is a 12-step program for sex addicts. I was first introduced to this group by a girl I met at a conference.

The girl in question advised me she would not be coming back to my room, as not only did she have a girlfriend, but she was on the path to redemption in the form of monogamy; a lifestyle that had eluded her so far. She said that this weekend away was her first big test, and a tough test I imagine it was; because let’s face it, what happens on conference stays on conference. After telling me all this, the girl scootered off to call her support person and handed me the Sluts Anonymous business card.

I would advise anyone who suffers from self-consciousness to never attend a Sluts Anonymous meeting. It’s a similar experience to walking into a restaurant in Italy: the entire establishment checks you out.

The group members at a Sluts Anonymous meeting are hardcore sluts who show limited signs of seeking genuine recovery. It will come as little surprise that most participants are actors. To my crashing disappointment, the sluts were much like the professional committee members; they took themselves far too seriously.

They seemed to be very interested in discussing their problems in detail, while any offer of a solution was hastily glossed over.  Masturbatory obsession led to public break-downs, chronic infidelity led to a lot of group hugging, and of course pornography was a monkey on everyone’s back.

At this point I once again found myself walking out on the group, because unlike the sluts, my monkey and I walk hand in hand.

I haven’t seen any of the sluts for a long time, but the other day, reading through a list of a particular organization’s board members, it was no bombshell to see who the president was.

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