in search of a starting point

To all things there is a beginning.

At times I've attempted to remember the exact point at which my addiction made itself known. Is there an event to which it can be traced, a precise moment in time when I started down the path of sexual addiction that would come to govern my life?

I am sixteen years old, a mall parking lot in Chattanooga, TN. I'm in town visiting relatives. We've done all those Tennessee things--the Chattanooga Choo-Choo, for example. Ruby Falls. Rock City. An incline railway to the top of Lookout Mountain. I am bored, bored, bored. The cousins and I have been released from the adults for the evening. We have been sent off to find our own entertainment while the adults dine at some fancy restaurant.

The cousins and I go to a movie. There are two of them-a boy, seventeen, a girl fifteen. The movie theater is located in a mall. We arrive early and decide to kill some time at Banana Republic. This is back when Banana Republic had a jungle theme, tropical plants everywhere and pants in khaki and olive. There's a boy working there, all done up in jungle gear. He looks like a high school football player sentenced to summer employment at the mall. I've never gone in for the bulkier jocks, with their overblown muscles and underdeveloped minds, but something about this guy immediately gets to me. Looking back, I can't remember exactly what it was. Did he have beautiful eyes, nice hair, exceptionally good manners?

I can't recall. I only remember that he came over to the rack where I was trying on belts (I wasn't intending to purchase, as a single belt would have put a serious dent in my meager babysitting income). Without saying a word to me he took a woven leather belt and slid it around my waist, working it under the beltloops of my jeans, so that, at one point, we stood as if in a one-sided embrace, with his arms around my waist, mine straight at my sides, our faces so close we could have kissed.

Then he buckled the thing. In retrospect, I'm rather amazed by him still. How does a boy of that tender age acquire such confidence, such skill in the art of seduction?

He wanted to know where I was going. To the movies, I said. He was getting off work, wanted to know if he could join me. Of course, I said. I told my cousins I'd meet them at the theater. They looked at each other, concerned, as if they hadn't planned for this possibility. What to do with the wayward cousin visiting from afar (well, not so afar)? Did they have some responsibility for my virtue? I guess they decided they didn't, because they agreed to meet me later.

Banana Republic boy and I never made it to the theater. We went to his car instead, in the parking lot of the mall. No fuss or negotiation, straight to the backseat. It was one of those old Ford Broncos, I think, where you had to work just to get up into the seat. He doesn't even start with my shirt, the way most boys his age do--the way, in fact, every boy I've known up to this point has done. No, he goes straight for the zipper of my jeans, I can feel his hand tugging down there--jeans to the knees, followed by underwear--but this is the eighties, the jeans are tight, they must come all the way off. So then he's kneeling in the back seat, pulling off my shoes, yanking at my jeans until they're all the way off, and he's still wearing his shirt, and I'm still wearing mine.

It's summer, the sun stays up late, we are not covered by darkness as we fuck in the back of his Ford Bronco, fucking where anyone can see us, making all sorts of noise. And I love it and hate it at the same time. It hurts but I don't want it to stop. And I'm wondering what happened, how I got here, how at one minute I was shopping at Banana Republic and the next minute I'm fucking a stranger in the parking lot.

That was the beginning, I think. Of a whirlwind, a firestorm, and grand and terrible thing.

Because if you think sex addiction is sexy, here's one thing you may not realize: it runs your life. Eventually it ruins it. And yet, there's that moment in the back seat of a car or in some grimy bathroom or in the woods or at the bar or wherever--that moment when it feels like exactly what you need.

life of bryan

I remember sitting in a restaurant in San Francisco years ago. I was by myself, killing time, waiting for a meeting to start with a client. Behind me, two 40-something gay men were having a conversation, a relationship sort of thing, though not the sort of discussion that straight men and women generally have. The less-attractive, rounder guy was asking for some sort of clarification regarding their relationship. He wasn't being pushy or needy, but rather plainspoken and unemotional, simply trying to come to an understanding of what it was that they had between the two of them. The discussion went on for a while, all very entertaining. I was having a difficult time pretending that I wasn't listening.

What I remember best is when the more attractive guy--the one in the Giraudon shoes and perfectly-worn, expensive flannel shirt--identified the twelve stages of a gay relationship. He listed them off quickly, matter-of-factly, and the other guy simply nodded, as if it was all the known and accepted barometer, as though Elizabeth Kubler-Ross had written the book "The Twelve Stages of Gay Relationships," and every gay man had been required to read it. Unfortunately, I can't remember all of the stages, they were moving too fast, though I did catch some: the one-night stand, the two-timer, the fuck-buddy, the good friend, the on-and-off boyfriend, the full boyfriend, the lover, the significant other, and the life partner. I can't recall the other categories, but they were equally well-defined with their own set of pros and cons. Regardless, I liked the definitions, I liked the concreteness of it, I liked the lack of a gray area. I remember thinking that straight relationships needed some sort of similar accepted definitions and parameters--a way to understand where you're at and where you're going, a way to understand if it is sex, love, or both.

An email I received last week got me to thinking about all of this. Bryan. At different points over the years, Bryan had fit into at least four or five of the various categories. Of course, that was a long time ago. The last time I saw him was the last day of graduate school, three in the morning, in the bathroom of one of those awful, prefabricated, two-bedroom, post-dorm apartments. I can't recall whose apartment it was. Just another party, the last party I suppose, probably one of the biggest. For old times sake, Bryan and I had sex in the bathroom. It was something we had done on a regular basis during our first year there, and then off-and-on after that. Generally, it was good sex. Hurried, but not too hurried, the nice added pressure of people with beer-filled bladders waiting in line out front. That time though, it was not so great--the bathroom was a little too dirty, a bit too small, and--probably in a hurry to clean it before the party--the guy had left some Comet on the counter, a substance, which, to no surprise, my butt is quite allergic.

These days, Bryan lives miles away in a boring, large city, working for a boring, large beverage company. His email was short and direct. He was going to be in my area sometime next month and was interested to see if I wanted to get together. Hmmn. No indication as to how we would be getting together. Perhaps, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross should do the twelve stages of ex-lovers meeting years later. The one-night-stand, the we're-just-friends-now-let's-talk- about-our-spouses-and kids, the--well, you know.

I haven't written back yet. It's the day after Thanksgiving, wet here. My husband should be back from work soon, and he has promised an old-time, full, fun-filled weekend like we used to have. He is better looking than Bryan, or at least what I remember Bryan looking like, and he is also more interesting. But, let's be honest, he is around only enough to fill up approximately 29% of my life. There is just too much free time.

So, what should I do?

deck hand

How does anyone manage to blog with regularity? I must confess, the longer I go without writing a post, the more I'm filled with shame, and the more sheepish I feel about returning. My problem, I think, is that I tend to think of it as a chore, when it shouldn't be that at all.

Speaking of chores, I recently ended up in bed with a guy who came over to tackle a dry-rot problem on our deck. It was completely against all my own best instincts--as I was running my tongue over his cock, I just kept thinking, "In my house? I'm doing this in my own house?!"

But he looked so absolutely delicious in his jeans and faded T-shirt, a tad bit sweaty, five-o-clock shadow, messy hair. And he smelled so fucking good. Only in Northern California does the deck-man show up smelling like a walking advertisement for some high-end cologne. It was one of those inspired moments when two strangers look at each other and know immediately what they both want, no fussy negotiations, no shy back-and-forth. He actually lifted me up onto the washing machine, pushed up my skirt, and went down on me in the middle of the day, with the laundry piled up in a basket on the floor beside us, the dryer humming, the deck rotting away while we fucked. Oh, my, what would Martha Stewart think?

The Tivo Test

So a couple of weeks ago, on a fine Tuesday morning, I'm lying in bed in this guy's apartment after he's gone to work. Yes, I broke one of my own rules--the overnighter. It's such an obvious rule, considering my marital status, that I didn't even bother including it in my list of no-nos. But it's so easy to break these days, given my husband's frequent and sometimes lengthy out-of-towners. Not that it's a viable excuse, but I ended up spending the night with this guy because I just didn't feel like going home to an empty house for the sixth night in a row. We'll call him Nate, just to have a name to hang our dirty hat on.

I met Nate at an industry party. He's the client of a client, which breaks another rule I never made but probably should have, which is to never have sex with someone I might have to work with on a professional basis in the future. But that would be a pretty impossible rule to uphold, wouldn't it, given that I'm a working girl who meets loads of quite beddable men through work.

At any rate, I'm lying in Nate's bed, a full cup of coffee--with cream and sugar--on the bedside table. This is how wonderful a one-nighter Nate is: he actually ground and brewed coffee before he left for work, poured a cup to my specifications, and brought it to me in bed. "Stay as long as you want," he said. I have to admit I found this a little weird. Why would he be so trusting of a woman he'd met the night before? Was it a client-to-client thing? Did he assume that I assumed it would get back to my client if I absconded with his cuff links or his favorite reproduction Ming vase? (Yes, I'm sorry to say he had one of those, never a sign of good taste).

So I'm enjoying my coffee when I notice the remote control on the bedside table. The guy has a big flat-panel on the bedroom wall--another sign that Nate and I could never be compatible any place other than in the sack. I decided to check out this guy's recording pattern. Here's a sampling of what Nate had in the TIVO pipeline:

Six episodes of Pimp My Ride
Two episodes of Lost
Nine episodes of that Hawaii private-I show starring Tom Sellek, the name of which escapes me
Five episodes of Real Sex, three of which he'd already watched but hadn't deleted
An interview with Gwen Stefani...

the green button beside the title was evidence that he'd already watched it--was he planning on watching it again? When I checked his options for this particular program, I saw that he'd instructed TIVO to "save until I delete" I'm all for Gwen Stefani, but how many times can you watch an interview with her? I mean, does she really have that much to say?

In his preferences list I found Mel Gibson alongside Jessica Simpson . He hadn't recorded, nor did he hope to record, a single documentary or hard-hitting piece of journalism. Now, I believe in TV as entertainment, and I like the occastional trashy show as much as anyone. But to have an entire TIVO list devoid of anything even vaguely intellectual is evidence of something lacking.

Remember that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry goes through the medicine cabinet of a woman he's dating and finds the fungus cream? Word to the Wise: your TIVO list is the modern-day equivalent of the medicine cabinet. You never know who might be snooping there, so it might serve you well to consider what your TIVO list says about you.

Friday Q & A: When Opportunity Knocks

I've decided to start a Friday Q&A, where I attempt to answer one or two questions that came my way by email during the week. This one from Scotti:

Do you think guys with sex addictions have a harder time finding willing females? Do you think opportunity is easier as a female?

Well, I'm no gender studies expert, but I imagine it's easier for women. Because most men are probably less accustomed to being offered casual sex than most women, men (speaking in very general terms) as a group are probably more likely to be flattered, dumbfounded, and ultimately tempted by the offer. Men are more apt to view an offer of sex from a stranger as an opportunity that shouldn't be missed.

Most women who exhibit some degree of confidence find themselves constantly fielding offers for sex--some subtle, some not. A decent-looking woman at a well-populated party might logically surmise that, were she of a mind to do so, she could go home with any one of a number of willing fellows. A man at the same party, however, probably has fewer options. For women (I'm referring to the non-addict population here) it's probably much easier to decline any given offer of sex, because we know another offer is just around the bend.

As a woman, I know that I can walk into a supermarket, a bookstore, a Laundromat, a bank, a restaurant, even the DMV--and find at least one man with whom to share a tender moment. I'd venture that men don't have it quite so easy.

A bit of anecdotal evidence: recently I walked into Tully's. This was in the Castro, where my chances of hooking up with a guy were diminished by roughly 98%. I went in because I wanted a cup of coffee--just a simple dose of caffeine, nothing more. It came as some surprise, then, to see a guy sitting at one of those very tall cafe tables, half-hidden behind a copy of the Chronicle, checking me out. He was about 27, medium height, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and an old concert T. The place was packed, so I asked if I could share his table. He said I could. "Want part of the paper?" he asked.

"No," I said. "You can just tell me the highlights."

"Too depressing," he said.

"You live around here?" I asked.

"No, I'm housesitting for a friend."

"Where's the friend?" I asked.

"In Lisbon."

"Where's the house?"

"Over on Diamond, a couple of blocks up the hill."

Which is when I asked the question no guy in a similar situation could have gotten away with. I said, "Can I see it?"

His eyes lit up, and I knew he was thinking, "What are the chances?" He was considering the improbability. He was thinking that a very unlikely gift had just fallen in his lap from the blue. "Now?" he asked.

"Now," I said. That was that. (It was a lovely place, by the way, although a little too Victorian for my taste. It looked like one of those houses that had been color-coded by Bob Buckner).

Imagine a guy just a few sentences into a conversation with a woman he's never met before asking to see her place. She'd size him up for dangerous weapons and start looking for the nearest exit.

Of course, I realize that there are millions of men out there who aren't the least bit interested in casual sex, and millions of women who are. But in making a very generalized comparison between the sexes here, it seems to me that the answer to Scotti's question is yes, male sex addicts probably have a harder time finding willing females.

What are your thoughts on the matter?

angry reader strikes back

Today, I received this vitriolic missive from one C.C. Greene. Now, I'm all for backtalk, and I'm willing to take a walk in any shoes that fit. This did, however, seem a tad bit harsh:

hope it's your husband the next time. You're smug, calculating (even with all your 'spontaneity'), indecisive (even with all your immediate, impulsive hookups), judgmental (even with all your own obvious stupidity right there for you to look at), and feline. You take joy in deception. You think of yourself first. And then you blog about it so that you can feel sexy and get just a little more attention for being cold and cruel.

I hope he gets free of you soon, and finds happiness, and I hope you continue down this road until you realize no one cares to follow you anymore.

Your blog is toxic. I hope no one is inspired by it to become equally repugnant. It's not even the morality...sex is sex. It's that you can't even be real about who you are.

Your secrecy tells us everything we need to know about how much you really like yourself.

I'm curious what my readers think. I understand C.C.'s sympathy for my husband. I even understand C.C.'s disdain for those of us who parade our bad behavior on blogs for all to see. I will agree that diary-style blogging is ultimately a self-serving practice, one based on the often incorrect assumption that people give a damn what's going on in one's small, uneventful life.

Yet, I find myself wondering, if C.C. is so opposed to public confessionals, why is he/she trolling sex blogs? And does his/her significant other know?

I must also take issue with C.C.'s assertion that I'm judgemental. I'm not saying I never am, but really, shouldn't C.C. remove the mote from his/her own eye first? (That's not me talking, buddy, it's the Bible.)

June 28: Busted, Part 2

So I was saying…The elevator doors open, and there stands Miss Casual Acquaintance. Surely I have a guilty look on my face. Her eyes travel from my skirt—wrinkled—to my hair, which looks like I just got out of bed. What’s a girl to do? I did just get out of bed. Normally, I don’t go out without a few key grooming items, just in case I see a guy I like and things get messy. Today, though, I’m toting an itty bitty black and white polka dot purse, no room for a brush.

As I was putting myself together up in the room, Highly Delectable Reader of Short Story Collections offered to call down to the front desk for a hairbrush. “Don’t bother,” I said. “It’s windy out anyway.”

Now, I’m thinking I should have taken time for the brush. (I’m reminded of the creepy stepfather of a guy I dated in college. Once, the stepfather told me that my hair always looked somewhat suggestive, like I’d just had a roll in the hay. He wanted to know if I planned it that way.) Miss Casual Acquaintance is obviously taking in every detail, jotting down the mussed hair and the wrinkled skirt and the tell-tale glow in her mental ledger. I wonder who she’ll tell first, what mutual acquaintance will be the first stop on the grapevine.

“What are you doing here?” she says. She doesn’t even bother looking at me when she says this. She’s got her eyes on Highly Delectable.

I’ve often thought I should have a stock response for this sort of thing. I’ve even gone to the trouble of writing down a list of excuses I might use when caught in compromising situations. But every excuse on the list escapes me now. For lack of any better idea, I blurt, “Business meeting.”

“Sure," she says, grinning.

That’s when I notice she isn’t alone. The guy who steps into the elevator behind her, the guy she’s obviously with, is wearing a wedding ring. Maybe I’m safe after all. She can’t really tell on me without telling on herself.

Still, I leave feeling sheepish, and more than a little concerned. I know I should be more careful. I know domestic disaster is waiting around every corner. My husband is not the type who would tolerate such a blatant flaunting of the marital vows, and the city is teeming with people just like Miss Casual Acquaintance, people who know us well enough to raise a suspicious eyebrow should they see me in a hotel with a someone who is not my husband.

On the street, Highly Delectable and I part ways. As soon as he's out of sight, I take a look at the bookstore receipt on which he wrote his phone number. I memorize the number and throw the receipt in the trash. I had hoped to see him very soon--maybe tomorrow--but the encounter with Casual Acquaintance has me feeling nervous. I know it will be a while before I give Highly Delectable a call.

June 26: Busted

To Jack, Rusty, the Tigers fan, and everyone else who wrote in my absence to express your concern, or simply your prurient interest in my return: Thanks for the emails. Guess what: I'm back.

And to answer your question: yes, I got caught. It really comes as no surprise, does it? If one goes around fucking men at will, one must expect to get busted at some point. The good news is, my husband isn't the one who happened to be standing in the hotel lobby just as I was stepping out of the elevator with a fellow I'd met at a reading. (Yes, a reading! Know what I've discovered? Literary-minded men tend to be better in bed. Maybe they get their between-the-sheets techniques from the pages of contemporary novels, or maybe their sexual aptitude can be attributed to vigorous imaginations.)

So I'm leaving Unnamed Hotel with Unnamed & Highly Delectable Reader of Short Story Collections. It's 3:00 on a Wednesday afternoon. Earlier, we'd happened to be sitting side by side at a nearby bookstore, listening to the author of a recently released story collection read what turned out to be a less-than-intriguing selection. The fellow bought the book and had it signed ("When it's a relatively unknown writer," he said, "I always buy the book. I feel sorry for the author. It must be painful standing in front of an audience you can count on one hand.")

Point one for Highly Delectable Reader of Short Story Collections: he has a heart.

We walk out of the store together and spend a couple of minutes talking about the reading. We happen upon a cafe. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" Highly Delectable asks. "Or maybe a double nonfat half-calf soy latte?"

I tell him I'll settle for a cappuccino. Whole milk. I tell him I'm not the kind of gal who watches her figure to the detriment of oral pleasures. He has an Americano, two packets of sugar, no cream.

For the next half hour, we discuss the state of American letters. He's been reading Michael Cunningham's new novel (who hasn't?). I tell him I'm a lover of Southern lit, then confess I have a soft spot for Nick Hornby. "Guilty pleasure," I say.

"Not so guilty," he says. "At least it's better than sex, drugs, and rock and roll."

"What's wrong with sex and rock and roll?" I ask.

"Now that you mention it, nothing."

Well, it doesn't take long after that to get ourselves to a hotel. He picks the most expensive one within comfortable walking distance: point two for Highly Delectable. He orders champagne to be brought up to the room, a very lovely bottle. Okay, I admit it's a bit cheesy, but hey, sometimes cheesy is good, if it's done with the proper sense of irony. So there we have point three.

He happens to be sporting an absolutley spectacular, unforgettable, and completely reliable cock. Points four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. And he has actually taken the trouble to trim the whole delicious area so that it is nearly nude and just right for sucking. That's the thing that puts me over the edge. Any guy who gets over ten points is subject to a return visit.

"Want to do this again?" I ask as we'retaking the elevator down. (Sloppy, I know. One should never share the ride down on a hotel elevator with someone she's just fucked. No telling who might be waiting in the lobby to take the elevator UP.)

"Name the date and time," he says.

"I'll email you."

"I'll be waiting."

We exchange a very hot kiss as the bell goes ding, ding, ding. The metal cage makes a soft thudding sound, there's that split-second suspension of gravity. The doors open, as elevator doors inevitably do. And there she is, Miss Casual Acquaintance-- a woman I know through work who also happens to have had dinner with me and my husband at a popular Thai restaurant less than a month ago. It was a double date. We'd set her up with a recently divorced friend of my husband's.

"Joy?" she says. At first she looks pleasantly surprised to see me. Then she notices Highly Delectable--we're standing a little too close, arms touching, and he's looking a bit rumpled. The pleasant surprise turns to barely disguised shock, and, if I'm a decent judge of character (I think I am), a bit of evil glee. At which point I remember with horror a conversation we had over dinner that night at the Thai place, how Miss Casual Acquaintance spilled the beans about a mutual friend's addiction to painkillers. "She made me promise I wouldn't tell," Casual Acquaintance said. "So don't let on you know."

"Hi," I say, trying to sound nonplussed. But I'm thinking I've done it now. Not only did I get busted; I got busted by an incurable gossip.

(to be continued)

June 1: Fishing

When I was kid, we spent summers at a sad, run-down lake in the middle of nowhere. My family couldn't afford a real home in the city, so my parents tried to compensate with a "summer home." Our cabin was pretty rough, though in comparison to the neighborhood, the lake, and the town, it qualified as a near-mansion. The lake was so nasty that you had to "shallow dive," always trying not to go down to deep for fear of cutting yourself on some rusty mower, or truck, or third-rate Seadoo. Being the smart egg, I didn't swim much--but I did love to fish. It didn't even matter that I never caught anything. I just liked the whole process--the game, the hunt. It didn't matter that the polluted lake probably couldn't even support any complex life forms, like catfish or trout. I could spend hours alone on the edge of the lake, fishing. Then, one year for my birthday, my dad paid to get me a day fishing pass at this man-made lake nearby. The thing was stocked with brown trout--so much so, that you probably could've just reached in and pulled them out by the armload. And here's the thing--I hated it. It was too easy. Where was the challenge? Where was the thrill of the hunt? As soon as your line hit the water, a fish was there, waiting to be reeled in.

I got an email this week asking about one of my personal rules--no sex with anyone I meet on the internet.I suppose the reader was surprised that someone with a sexual addiction could relegate thousands of potential partners to the "no" pile with no apparent remorse. Well, finding sexual partners online is much the same as fishing in a stocked pond. Where's the fun in that? Where's the challenge? No, I'll take the run-down, dirty lake anytime, that's fine with me, even if the fishing is sometimes nearly impossible.

Notice I said nearly. Even the most impoverished lakes have at least one fish that's good for the taking. Take yesterday afternoon, for instance, I was at Safeway, in the soup aisle, contemplating the glory of chicken corn chowder, when I ran into a boy named named John. Boring name, nice flannel shirt. His apartment was clean, his roommate was gone, and his bed was made. I liked that. Did he somehow know that I'd be visiting? Was he a Safeway lurker, a soup aisle stalker? I'll never know. Ultimately though, surfers are just a little too salty for my taste.

May 30: Bacon for Breakfast

So this morning I wake up to the smell of bacon, and I wander sleepy-eyed into the kitchen to find my husband at the griddle, cooking Memorial Day breakfast. In addition to bacon, he's making his locally famous French toast-- the three secret ingredients of which I cannot divulge, for fear of being identified by friends and neighbors. I do a quick run through the shower while he's cooking, and when I come out, towel-clad and steamy, the table's set with French toast, bacon, OJ, fresh raspberries, and Martha Bros. coffee that he ground just minutes ago. And I remember, there is a reason I married this guy. Many reasons, really. He is indeed far more marriageable than the average bear.

We polish off our breakfast slowly, taking time to talk about his past week, my past week, our upcoming weeks, plus a divorce party we just attended for two friends of ours who are amicably parting ways. They got married not that long ago in New Paltz, New York, two guys who'd been living together for going on ten years. Turns out, marriage really can be a romance-killer, but that's another story for another day, because on this particular day in this particular neighborhood of one very fine West Coast city, marriage was hot, hot, hot.

It's a holiday thing, really. The nice thing about a long-term relationship is that it gives you something to count on. For me, what I can count on with my marriage is holiday sex. It doesn't matter what holiday--Christmas, Easter, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, Labor Day, you name it--holidays in our house are always an occasion for sex. It's always been that way, since our dating days. It's one thing that, gloriously, did not change when we said our vows.

So we took our breakfast nice and slow, knowing what delights loomed on the horizon. Maybe I've given the wrong impression here, by the very nature of my blog. Perhaps you've been led to believe that, because I have sex with strangers, and because my husband and I do not always connect, our sex is less than exemplary. Quite the contrary. It's not the quality of our sex that disappoints, merely the quantity.

After the bacon and the OJ and the French toast and the coffee, we washed the dishes together. We brushed our teeth. We even made the bed, because, hell, it's fun to mess it up. We pretended to be interested in the Sunday SF Chronicle, which is not that much better than the Chronicle on any other day. It's a flimsy paper, but at least it's printed with non-smudge ink, which is a definite bonus.

After griping about the offerings in Datebook, we made our way to the bedroom-- which, all things considered, really is the most comfortable place to do it. As a sexual adventurer who takes her pleasure where she may--bathrooms, backseats, movie theaters, etc.--it's nice every now and then to get back to the basics, a plush bed with nice down comforters, plump pillows, good music, i.e., all the comforts of home.

We did it to Morrissey. We went slowly. H. unwrapped my towel, I pulled his T-shirt over his head, we started with some mutual oral action, then moved on to phase B. With H., actual intercourse is always the main attraction. Foreplay is nice, but I'll take the feature over the trailers any day of any week (or perhaps I should say any day of the month, since we have, unfortunately, been on a monthly rather than weekly schedule for the past year or so). I came. Wow, did I come. He held off until I was done, which is a rather nice thing about doing the dirty with the husband. There's a reciprocity at work one doesn't always find in more passing liaisons.

And he has this trick, this glorious trick, whereby, following the main attraction, he goes back to the previews, finishing me off with a little tongue action. I like it because it's kind of dirty, the way he puts his tongue down there after we've already gone to town. I came again. Then he kissed me on the mouth, in the mouth, all around the mouth, which some guys just don't do after the show is over.

Then he went to work. Yes, it's a holiday, and thus I get holiday treatment in the bedroom, but H. is not the type to stay home for the entire Memorial Day. Christmas, maybe. New Year's Day, sometimes. But Memorial Day, never. Does he know--I mean, has he any idea--how dangerous it is to leave me to my own devices after he's gotten me worked up like that?

May 26: Food is Good

Yesterday I mentioned the cholcolate milk at Bittersweet. I had some time to think about it, and came up with a few other things that are as good as sex--not as good as good sex, mind you, but as good as mediocre sex. For me, most of these things involve food. Have I mentioned the Monte Cristo sandwich at Luna Park?

Anyway, I was too busy for anything sexual today. Too busy even for the chocolate milk or the Monte Christo. The closest I came to a romantic rendezvous was paying the toll for the guy behind me on the bridge. Curly brown hair, late-twenties, Mazda pickup with a large Ikea chair in the back--hey, dude, if you're reading this, the next one is on you.

May 24: Bittersweet

When I first named this blog Diary of a Sex Addict, I wasn't entirely sure that the shoe fit. I mean, sure, I have a lot of sex. And yes, I sometimes feel that I can't get enough. And of course, having sex with complete strangers doesn't always make me feel good about myself, yet I do it again and again. Still, addiction is such a harsh term, isn't it? (See the addict or adventurer post for more semantic sidestepping.)

Then a comment from a reader last week caught me off guard. The phrase he used was "out of control." It really made me start thinking--you know, Jung's examined life and all that. Out of control? Me? Of course not--I can stop anytime I want. Right? Really? So I put myself to the test: 100 hours, no sex, not even with my husband. And no cheating, no vibrating, no masturbating, no blow jobs, nothing.

I'm sorry if it made for a slow weekend on the blog; it was a tad more boring in person. Nonetheless, I passed. In fact, I did just fine. I probably could've gone another 24 hours, maybe even 48, if not for an ill-fated trip to the Sloat Garden Center today. But that's a story for another day. Today, it's about my moral victory and quite unexpected self-control.

I proved something important to myself: I can go a predetermined amount of time without sex if I really make the mental committment. Besides, there are substitutes. There are many things equal in general deliciousness and wonderment and spine-tingling excitement to sex. Okay, not many, but one or two at least. Case in point, the chocolate milk at Bittersweet.

May 20: Breaking the Rules at Bay to Breakers

All of us have our own personal boundaries, lines we won't cross, rules we swear we'll never break. Having a definite set of parameters gives a sense of order to one's life, a sliver of self-respect. I'm no exception. Here are mine:

Never have sex with anyone I meet online.

Never have sex with a friend of my husband.

Never have sex with anyone I meet at my favorite burrito place, where I go for lunch at least once a week.

Never have sex with someone other than my husband on a) our wedding anniversary, b) his birthday, c)my birthday, or d) any major holiday.

Never have sex with someone who is hygienically questionable (put this in the Kevin Federline column).

Never give out my phone number to a stranger with whom I have sex.

I've been pretty good, over the years, at playing by these rules. Since blogging, I've added a seventh rule, which is to avoid face-to-face contact with anyone I meet through blogging--because I can see how doing otherwise would get very messy indeed. Although the blog has only been up for a couple of weeks, I've already had a couple of offers on this front. I'm sure they're nice guys, but hey (you know who you are), this is one rule I'm sticking with.

Even the most resolute among us occasionally falter, however--as I did last Sunday at Bay to Breakers. I'd started on Stanyan and walked through the park with the Bay to Breakers crowd. By the time I got there the serious runners had already finished the race, and the park was a mob scene of dilettantes like myself--walkers and watchers, stragglers and strollers, many of them outrageously clad in wigs and togas and 80s-style Jane Fonda workout wear. My favorite spectacle was the man in the danger cart, which was just a cart with DANGER painted across the side who'd stop with no warning and start doing crazy 360s.

I was rather subtly attired in a pinstriped minidress and hat (which I will not describe here, lest I give away my identity) with a comfortable pair of Pumas at the bottom end.

Late afternoon I ended up outside Cajun Pacific, one of my favorite restaurants in the city (CP is no longer open for regular business hours but does do weekend menus, should you be interested in some spicy crawdads and shrimp creole). There was quite a party going on outside CP, with music and beer and good bites, so I stopped to have a drink and struck up a conversation with *Dave*. Unlike me, Dave was no dilettante. He was dressed for a race, in little nylon shorts. He was wearing one of those breathable runners' jacekts over a tank top. He was wiry, medium height, with the kind of angular face one gets from a little too much exercise and not quite enough food. But good-looking in his way--and very funny--which may not be the number one characteristic I look for in a sexual partner, but it's definitely at the top of the list for true companionship. (My husband, for example, is one of the funniest guys I've ever met. Our marriage may be running through a rough spot, but he still makes me laugh, and I still make him laugh--which is a big part of why we're still together.)

So we talked for a few minutes, and then Dave said he was meeting friends later for drinks on Haight. "Wanna join us?" I wasn't wearing my wedding ring and hadn't told him about the husband. I could tell right off he was one of those guys who invites a woman to a minimum of five group activities before getting up the nerve to ask her on a date.

"Count me in," I said.

He drained off the last of his Gatorade. "I have to stop by my house for a shower first," he said. "It's just a couple of blocks away. Want to meet up right here in half an hour?"

"Why don't I just come with you?"

"Sure," he said, a bit reluctantly. So we walked to his place. Once there, he gave me the brief tour. I don't know what happened, exactly, but for some reason I didn't wait for him to take his shower before I made my move. I pounced in the kitchen, while he was showing me the sub-zero fridge, of which he was very proud. It was packed with more Gatorade.

Before I knew it I was breaking rule number 5: Never have sex with someone who is hygienically questionable.

We were in the living room, both of us unclothed from the waist down, by the time I realized my error. Not only was I breaking a rule, but I wasn't having a particularly good time doing it. I mean, there were reasons I'd imposed those rules on myself, good reasons. I'm sure that Dave, under normal circumstances, was just as sweet-smelling as the next guy, but he'd just finished running a marathon. Unfortunately, our respective heights were such that my nose ended up very close to his armpits. And as we were doing what I'd gone there for in the first place I thought, This is bad. This is very, very bad. I've broken a rule, which means I'm completely out of control.

I mean, I've known for some time that I'm a little out of control, but breaking a rule meant I'd crossed some invisible line, I'd gone just a little too far. Maybe a lot too far. To make a short story even shorter, I got out of there as fast as I could. "Aren't you going out for drinks with us?" he said. "It'll only take me a minute to shower."

I avoided the urge to tell him he really out to be showering for longer than a minute. I came up with the lamest excuse known to humankind, which is, "I just remembered something I have to do.

He asked for my phone number. I declined. I'd already broken one rule, I wasn't about to mess with number 6.

May 16: Addict or Adventurer?

READER COMMENT: Since you use the term addict, I can't help wondering what your posture is (no pun intended) towards
all these behaviors.Do you want to stop or not? Is it like Augustine ("Lord make me chaste, but not yet")?
or something else? I mean, you're not calling it "diary of a sexual adventurer" or "diary of a libertine" and you
seem to be able to describe the mindset in a fairly dispassionate way."

Perhaps we should define our terms. What is an addict? In my mind, an essential condition of addiction
is the inability to stop one's behavior--whether it be consuming alcohol, binge eating, smoking, or  engaging
in  extremely promiscuous sex.  Am I capable of stopping? I can't legitimately answer that question, as I've
never really tried. There have been times when I made a half-hearted effort, but I've never
sat down and made a plan for cessation and committed myself to following through.

The website About Sex Addiction has a list of characteristics of sexual addiction. (My linkage to this site
 in the sidebar is somewhat tongue-in-cheek, by the way. The site is geared not so much toward information
as it is toward persuading said addicts to turn their lost lives around.) Most of the characteristics are downright
depressing, such as:
-Lack of nurturing and attention when young

*Feeling isolated, detached from parents and family

*Compartmentalization of relationships from other areas of life

*Outer facade of "having it all together" to hide internal disintegration

Pretty bleak stuff, eh? I can't say I identify. I don't see myself as a victim of poor parenting, nor do I feel particularly
isolated. Sure, my marriage can get a bit lonely at times, but I do have close friends and family. Although there have
 definitely been times when I felt a sense of "internal disintegration," this is something that changes month-to-month,
 week-to-week, sometimes even day-to-day. Since I started this blog, I've been in a refreshingly non-disentegrative
mood.

The "compartmentalization of relationships" fits, however. Compartmentalization is a necessity if one wants
to keep any semblance of a normal life. It simply would not do for me to be introducing my husband to the likes
of Jeremy and Ron and  Boris and the waiter at the Mojito place.

There are two other bullet  points from "About Sex Addiction's" melancholy list  that fit:

*Perceive attraction, attachment, and sex as basic human needs, on a par with food and water

*Feelings that a relationship/sex makes one whole, or more of a man or woman

I don't see sex as a take-it-or-leave-it kind of thing. I do feel that I need sex. And while I can go three days
without sex if necessary, it makes me feel a bit panicky to do so.

But that's not why you're here, are you? You came back for the story of Ron, the fetching lad in the
company-issued electrical engineering jacket and the tasteful watch whom I bumped into during the
Great Computer Crash at the DMV. I promised in my first post that this wasn't going to be a self-help blog,
that I wouldn't engage in cyber-therapy, but here I go quoting phrases like "internal disintegration.

I'll get back to Ron tomorrow. I will, I
will. I just felt compelled, within today's limited time frame for
writing, to answer that question from a reader.

BTW: I'm having a lot of formatting problems, as I'm new to blogging.
I apologize for the jumbled text today.. I hope to have it back in good order soon.

May 14: Tag Heuer & the DMV Patrol

These days, frequency of sex in my life is determined not so much by desire as by opportunity. Some days, sex simply isn't possible. Today, for example, there will be lunch in San Jose with the *Novotnoys*, followed by a trip to the Wooden Duck in Berkeley to buy a new dresser. We'll cap off the day with The Interpreter, which I hear is worth seeing.

Yesterday, however, was a different story. Having completed a big project on Thursday afternoon, I decided to take some down time on Friday to make a trip to Target for essential miscellany and go to the DMV to renew our very out-of-date registration. DMV isn't the first place I think of when I consider where to meet someone; but when sex is dependent on opportunity rather than desire, the bar for sexual partners is set considerably lower.

There I was, standing in the registration line at 1:00 on Friday afternoon. I'd been waiting for half an hour when the computers went down. Stupidly, all I'd brought in terms of reading material was a half-read copy of 7x7, so by the time the computers crashed I was fresh out of amusing distractions. With nothing else to do, I began scanning the room for potential subjects. I glanced over to Licensing, but the pickings were predictably slim. Oddly, the DMV is a bit like a methadone clinic: on any given day it provides a dreary cross-section of the angry, the weary, the miserably down-and-out.

My concentration returned to my own section, Registration. I should have remembered that the best stuff is often much closer to home than one suspects. That's when I met Ron, wearing jeans and one of those company-issued jackets with the name of his employer on the breast. Nothing about the outfit was impressive except the watch, which was tastefully expensive. Because options were limited and Ron was friendly and I had nothing to do yesterday after my appointment at the DMV, I lowered the bar a little farther, keeping my eye, for self-respect purposes, on the watch, which really did show superb taste. It was a Tag Heuer, blue on the face, maybe a gift for graduating from somewhere. That was enough for me.

to be continued...

BTW: I love reading your feedback, but I had to turn off COMMENTS because it was causing the page to load too slowly. You can still comment by clicking on the mail icon at the bottom of the page. If you're a frequent reader of this site, please drop me a note. I'd love to hear from you. I plan to occasionally feature comments and my responses to them in my daily posts.

May 13: The Mojitos Made Me Do It

Earlier this week, to celebrate an unexpected cash flow to my business, my husband and I had dinner at a dark, crowded restaurant in the Mission. It was one of those places that appears in the restaurant review section of the paper with one star for service and three bells for noise. I had three mojitos in me when I excused myself to go to the ladies' room. It was serendipitous that our waiter, who'd been flirting with me since he took our first drink orders two hours before, happened to be passing through the narrow hallway where the restrooms were located as I was going in. He was holding a water pitcher in one hand, a half-consumed tray of calamari in the other.

"Got a minute?" I asked. This was bold even for me, given that my husband was only a couple dozen yards away.

There was that initial look of surprise that frequently crosses the face of a guy who's just realized he's about to have a sexual encounter with a total stranger--the "is this really happening to me, and will my friends believe it when I tell them?" look.

I opened the door to the single-seater ladies' room, pulled him inside, and locked the door. He quickly placed the pitcher and tray on the washbasin stand, shoved me against the door, and hiked up my skirt. I could hear dishes clattering outside as he pushed into me. He tried to kiss me but I turned my face away. "Lipstick," I explained. I'd left my purse at the table, and I didn't want to go back to my husband with all my lipstick suddenly gone. He pressed his fingers into my thighs so hard I was certain he'd leave bruises, which I would have to hide for several days. I had one foot propped up on the sink, the other standing firm on the floor. I came fast, he followed. "You better get out of here," I said.

"You just made my night," he replied. I got the feeling it wasn't the first time this had happened to him.

After he left I quickly cleaned myself up and returned to the table. My husband, pretty gone himself on his fourth martini, made a toast to the continued success of my business--he's always been supportive that way. A couple of minutes later the waiter arrived with a couple of complimentary desserts: flowerless chocolate cake and flan with cinammon. I thought of something William H. Macy said in Wag the Dog: "Two things I know to be true: One, there is no difference between a good flan and a bad flan."

I forget what the second thing was.

As we were leaving, the waiter smiled broadly and implored us to come again.

May 11: How Madonna Kick-Started My Sex Life

was not particularly sexual as an adolescent. I came to addiction late, which makes me wonder if addiction is not so much a disease, as many experts postulate, as it is the result of a volatile mix of environment and personal inclination. I held on to my virginity until the end of my senior year of high school--partially out of religious conviction, partially because the perfect opportunity took a long time to present itself. Like many young girls, I wanted the first time to be perfect, having invested it with mythic qualities. I believed that the event of my deflowering would mark my transition from girlhood to womanhood, that it would usher me from my dependent, lacklustre youth into the sophisticated life I felt destined for.

So it came as some disappointment when I lost my virginity to Jimmy at 17. Jimmy was no mythic figure--just an awkward Midwestern transplant with a Madonna fixation who had shared my homeroom for the past four years. It happened behind his parents' cabin at the Russian River. A group of us had gone there for spring break, equipped with twelve-packs of Keystone Light, a sizeable stash of pot, and our bathing suits. I was very studious in those days, and had also packed a copy of Madam Bovary, along with the notes from my AP English class.

On our second day at the cabin, Jimmy asked if I wanted to see Jenner, the town at the end of the river. Sure, I wanted to see it. Nursing monster hangovers, we drove north along the coast until we came to Jenner, where we purchased Cokes from a little service station and drank them in the car while we talked about our options for college. In those days, miniature Jenner was a quaint, tumble-down town perched atop the cliffs where the Russian River feeds into the Pacific. I'd never thought much of Jimmy before, and I didn't think much of him on that day, either. He said, in all seriousness, that his dream academic pursuit would be to go to some school where he could design his own major and obtain an advanced degree in Madonna studies.

"You kind of look like her," he said, reaching forward to move a strand of hair out of my face. I was confused and flattered. There'd never been any sparks between me and Jimmy, and here he was, clearly making a pass. On the long drive back to the river, he subjected me to Material Girl.

Jimmy was nervous for the rest of the day, downing beers at a marathon pace and glancing over at me through the marijuana fog. Late that afternoon, I went out behind the house to take a look at my lit notes. I had a big exam coming up the day I returned from Spring Break, and I was determined to ace it--not least of all because I had a crush on my English teacher, who wore chunky western boots and allowed us to call him by his first name. I had just delved into my Dubliner notes--which looked a bit fuzzy through my serious buzz--when Jimmy appeared, stumbling toward me through the wet grass. He sat down beside me and, without provocation, began kissing me.

At that moment, as his cool tongue explored my mouth, I decided I would go through with it. I was about to graduate, and I knew no better opportunity would present itself in the next couple of months. Jimmy was no Tom Cruise, but at least he was sweet, eager, and available. More importantly, I knew he wouldn't go blabbing about this to his friends. I decided that if I was going to lose my virginity in a less-than-epic manner, I might as well lose it on the grass to someone I could trust.

We were sitting down by the river, out of sight of the cabin. Above us, the branches of a redwood spread their limbs in a rather grand fashion. Very deliberately, I took off my clothes and laid them beside me. When Jimmy realized what was happening, it took him about five seconds to get out of his. "I'll be on top," I said, and was immediately shocked by the words coming out of my mouth. So was Jimmy. He lay down with his arms by his sides, his legs flat on the ground, rather stiff and corpse-like in his nervousness. I mounted him. We had some difficulty getting it in. Once we did, I thought of Kim Bassinger in 9 1/2 weeks and tried to to it her way, with lots of moaning and head-shaking.

In hindsight I can see the experience was more comical than outright sexual. Of course Jimmy came too quickly, and of course I pretended not to notice, and for the rest of the week neither one of us mentioned what had happened, as if we were back in homeroom together. At one point Jimmy asked to see my Madam Bovary notes, but I knew it was only a way of trying to revisit our pivotal moment out on the grass. I snapped open the rings of my Trapper Keeper, shoved the notes in his direction, and said, "Keep them as long as you need them."

"Thanks," Jimmy said, and got up to walk away. Then he turned to me. "Do you think me might--?" he asked. "I mean, again?"

"Probably not," I said. "Not that it's anything against you."

"Sure," he said, trying not to look too crestfallen.

My point here being that even the most voracious sex addicts, those of us who get it on in cars and planes, public bathrooms and private saunas, elevators and offices and picnic tables and such--those of us who do it with more partners than we can remember--even we sometimes have the most humble sexual beginnings. For everyone, there is a faltering first.

May 10: Time & Boris

For the married sex addict, time is always the enemy. No lazy weekends at the beach, no cozy cabins in the woods. Sex always happens on the fly, somehwere between morning coffee and late-night TV with the husband. One always has the sense that the clock is about to strike the midnight hour and the coachman is going to turn into a mouse. Maybe this works out fine for the male sex addict, but for a woman, whose best orgasms generally take more than three minutes to achieve, the speed that covert sex addiction requires is a definite downer.

Take *Boris*, whom I met two weeks ago at a Saturday afternoon cocktail party. The party was hosted by mutual friends and my husband was at work, so I was representing the family. The party began at 4:00, and at 7:00 I had to meet said husband downtown for dinner with one of his colleages and the colleague's wife (she's a stay-at-home mom, although "stay at home" seems like a misnomer, since she's usually shopping or doing Bikram yoga while the nanny watches the tots).

I got to the party at 4:30, and what with all the people I had to greet it took half an hour to make my way over to Boris, my pick of the evening, a tall fellow with enormous hands and a wide face that looked vaguely Russian. Indeed, when I got around to introducing myself beside the cheese tray, it turned out Boris had an accent and a one-semester research fellowship at a local university. Upside: a preconceived notion about the general sluttiness of American women, which would make it easy to get down to business. Downside: no wife or girlfriend in the country, which meant he could afford to be indiscreet.

It was 6:15 by the time Boris and I got to his apartment, a cramped studio with a gorgeous view of the Golden Gate bridge and not a single item of decoration on the walls. Which gave us approximately twelve minutes to do our thing before I had to rush off to meet the husband--five minutes of which would need to be spent showering Boris off of me, brushing my hair, and dressing. Fortunately, Boris was not one for gentle seductions. He whipped his pants off with such alacrity I suspected there must be velcro somewhere, whipped my dress off with equal dexterity, ordered me onto my hands and knees on the bed, and entered me without so much as a "Is this direction all right with you?"

This fellow was no Jeremy. I didn't come. But there was some satisfaction in feeling him bucking behind me, whispering indecipherable Russian obsenities (or perhaps he was pledging his everlasting love--how could I know?), his voice getting louder and deeper as his dick swelled inside me and he exploded. When he was done, he collapsed on top of me rather than pulling out, and there I lay, suffocating on his scratchy sheets, covered in his sweat and trying unsuccessfully to get a glimpse of his watch. I thought of my husband gathering up his things at work, stepping into a cab with the clients, making their leisurely way across town to the hip French restaurant. I knew my husband was unlikely to notice a thing--but what of his client and the wife? Might they, in their observant objectivity, pick up some lingering scent of Boris that my quick shower could not dispel?

May 5 - About This Blog

Thursday, May 05, 2005

Let's get one thing straight. I will not be naming names. I'm not interested in ruining anyone's life, least of all my own. This blog is about one woman's unlikely journey into the abyss of sex addiction. Perhaps abyss is too strong a word. There are days when addiction feels like an overwhelming darkness from which I will never emerge, and days when sex is the only thing that keeps me going. Addiction is both friend and enemy, both comfort and pain.

My initial title for this blog was SHAME. Then I realized that JOY might be a more appropriate title. The truth is, sex brings me great pleasure, a kind of mind-blowing bliss I can find nowhere else. But it also brings me, on rare occasions, to the brink of suicide (I've peered over the edge, but have no desire to actually go there). As with any addiction, mine is self-destructive. But it is also, in many ways, restorative. More on that later.

For the moment let me just say that I am 34 years old, married, self-employed, the resident of a smallish city. If you were to see me on the street, you would not think anything was amiss. I do not have the gaunt, hollow-eyed look one might associate with addiction. My clothes are modest and clean, my hair is always combed, my shoes are, for the most part, sensible. I read books and go to movies and take public transportation. I eat well and do not overindulge in drink. I rarely do drugs.

In short, I am an average woman with an above-average desire, a desire which sometimes plays out in dangerous ways. I don't expect this blog to cure me. I don't expect it to cure anyone else. This is neither an exercise in self-help nor an experiment in public service. This is simply my story.