The Guinea Pig Diaries by A. J. Jacobs Read Free Book Online Page B

five hundred women and about a half-dozen men,” he tells me. “I’ve had a whole bunch of threesomes”—one of which involved a hermaphrodite prostitute equipped with dual organs.
    What about animals?
    Blanton thinks for a minute. “I let my dog lick my dick once.”
    If he hadn’t devoted his life to Radical Honesty, I’d say he was, to use his own phrase, as full of crap as a Christmas turkey. But I don’t think he is. I believe he’s telling the truth. Which is a startling thing for a journalist to confront. Generally, I’m devoting 30 percent of my mental energy to figuring out what a source is lying about or hiding from me. Another 20 percent goes into scheming about how to unearth that buried truth. No need for that today.
    “I was disappointed when I visited your office,” I tell Blanton. (Earlier he had shown me a small, cluttered single-room office that serves as the Radical Honesty headquarters.) “I’m impressed by exteriors, so I would have been impressed by an office building in some city, not a room in Ass Crack, Virginia . For my essay, I want this to be a legitimate movement, not a fringe movement.”
    “What about a legitimate fringe movement?” asks Blanton, who has, by this time, had three bourbons.
    Blanton’s legitimate fringe movement is sizable but not huge. He’s sold 175,000 books in eleven languages and has twenty-five trainers assisting in workshops and running practice groups around the country.
    Now, my editor thinks I’m overreaching here and trying toohard to justify this essay’s existence, but I think society is speeding toward its own version of Radical Honesty. The truth of our lives is increasingly being exposed. Sometimes it’s voluntary— think Facebook pages or transparent business deals. Sometimes it’s involuntary—think Googleable political contributions or just ask Christian “Do Not Enter My Sightline” Bale. For better or worse, we may all soon be Brad Blantons. I need to be prepared. [Such bullshit.—
Ed.]
    I return to New York and immediately set about delaying my experiment. When you’re with Blanton, you think, Yes, I can do this! The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth. But when I get back to bosses and fragile friendships, I continue my lying ways.
    “How’s Radical Honesty going?” my boss asks.
    “It’s okay,” I lie. “A little slow.”
    A couple of weeks later, I finally get some inspiration from my friend’s five-year-old daughter, Alison. We are in Central Park for a playdate. Out of nowhere, Alison looks at me evenly and says, “Your teeth are yellow because you drink coffee all day.”
    Damn. Now that’s some Radical Honesty for you. Maybe I should be more like a five-year-old. An hour later, she shows me her new pet bug—a beetle of some sort that she has in her cupped hands.
    “It’s napping,” she whispers.
    I nudge the insect with my finger. It doesn’t move. Should I play along? No. I should tell her the truth, like she told me about my teeth.
    “It’s not napping.”
    She looks confused.
    “It’s dead.”
    Alison runs to her father, dismayed. “Daddy, he just said a bad word.”
    I feel like a miscreant. I frightened a five-year-old, probably out of revenge for an insult about my oral hygiene. I postpone again—for a few more weeks. And then my boss tells me he needs the essay ASAP.
    I start in again at dinner with my friend Brian. We are talking about his new living situation, and I decide to tell him the truth.
    “You know, I forget your fiancee’s name.”
    This is highly unacceptable—they’ve been together for years; I’ve met her several times.
    “It’s Jenny.”
    In his book, Blanton talks about the thrill of total candor, the Space Mountain-worthy adrenaline rush you get from breaking taboos. As he writes, “You learn to like the excitement of mild, ongoing risk taking.” This I felt.
    Luckily, Brian doesn’t seem too pissed. So I decide to push my luck. “Yes, that’s right. Jenny.