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?
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
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.
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.
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