I believe this alter ego was born in a beauty supply store. It had to be behind the glass case, under the “Human Hair” sign. This is where I must have become trapped between the weaves and wigs that immediately gave birth to Callie. Fortunately I’m not schizophrenic, not even bipolar. Those disorders take control; I control Callie. I put her on like my most deviant wig, and return her to the shelf when the party’s over. I’ve even given her a last name, Lives, since I’m still holding on to her. She has freed me from judgment, shame, and guilt. So why would I want to get rid of Callie Lives? Besides if I’m not Callie, the uninhibited bare-breasted model with fine hair, long lashes, and perfectly formed ass cheeks, then how can I become a celebrated writer? If I’m not writing erotica, getting readers drunk with my bottle of sex, then how can I lie naked writing my biographical truth about sex? Better yet, if I can’t speak my truth to my students, then how can I model that very idea to a class of adolescent writers? Even the least cultivated mind knows the answer to these questions: Tell the Fucking Truth. Well, the truth I’ve been hiding is having been sexually abused as a child by my father’s brother. The worst part is it feels like the secret did more harm than the abuse itself. Since I didn’t tell anyone, I never received the immediate treatment to start nipping at the effects early. Thus growing up, I had no way of understanding my intense sexuality and was ashamed. I believe this shame and guilt gave rise to Callie. Finally, I am ready to share my cautionary truth about the effects of keeping childhood sexual abuse a secret. Should you be so inclined to share your truth, I’m all ears. You’d never believe how much most of us have in common.