Silk is a sexy fabric. It's smooth and soft and falls in glistening ripples like waves. Years ago, shortly before I moved to another state to be with Mark, I sent him a pair of silk boxers as a gift, and he wrote me an erotic letter about them in return. When I arrived in my new home, he had lined our bed in silk. At my bridal shower, a friend gave me a silk nightie for my wedding night and I was married in a dress of silk. I told my husband Mark I want to be wrapped in silk when I die: a long ream of white silk as my last cocoon.

But silk wasn't just for me, of course. Silk was for the Victoria's Secret models and fantasies and other women.

Silk for our bodies, silk for our bed, silk as a symbol of sex and of marriage, of death, fantasy and infidelity. In recovery from sex addiction, silk can be beautiful or like other symbols of romance, silk can be a trigger.

Every year, Mark and I have celebrated our wedding anniversary by following the traditional gift giving guidelines: paper for the first anniversary, wood for the fifth, and so on. We always got a kick out of coming up with creative ways to give each other things made of leather or steel or aluminum. Shortly before our anniversary this year, Mark said, "I'd like to give a traditional gift this year, but it's silk. I wanted to get you something to wear, but I associate that so much with silk lingerie out there that I just don't think I can safely shop for you without being triggered."

"Yes," I agreed, "that kind of thing might be triggering for me too."

"Are you going to be comfortable with do silk at all?"

"Yes, still love silk. It just has to be in a way that's safe for both of us.

We both paused, pondering, before I said, "I have an idea! You can shop for something silk for yourself — a tie or a shirt or pajamas — and I can shop for something silk for myself. That way we can each buy what we're comfortable with, and then we can share it."

"Perfect!" Mark said, relieved.

Addiction may have prevented us from handing each other wrapped boxes, but recovery allowed us to keep ourselves safe and have a date luxuriating both in each others' presence, as well as the the silk of our choosing. And that's a pretty wonderful gift.

Image credit: Photo by kchbrown on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons

A few weeks ago, I got an e-mail from a woman named Paula Saardchit. She told me she'd found my blog while doing research for an article she was writing on sex addiction for her website, and she wanted to write and tell me how moved she was by my story. Of course, I was curious to know more about her site, so I googled her. And I found out that she helps women plan lingerie and sex toy parties. (And I know what kind of party some of you have in mind. No, not that kind! You know, this is like a Tupperware party, only with vibrators.)

When I found out about my husband's sex addiction, one of the first things I did was get out my big, black garbage bags and start dumping in porn, lingerie and sex toys. The sight of them, of anything that made me think of sex or by extension of my husband's sexual acting out, made me want to vomit. So off in a landfill somewhere are all the artifacts of my subconscious attempts to control my husband and keep his sexual attention firmly fixed on constantly exciting, porn star me: the dildos and the vibrators, the bustiers and fishnet stockings and the crotchless panties and the wigs and the costumes, the X-rated board games and the porn DVDs. Yeah, I tried it all. Well, except a stripper pole. That hadn't occurred to me yet. And thank goodness because how would I have carted that out to the trash?

I had been as conventionally sexy and exciting and adventurous and engaged as can be, and my husband loved it. But it wasn't enough. That endless, aching need of his wanted more than I could give. More than all the women in all the lingerie with all the sex toys in the world could give. And still I wanted to give it. Which is how I ended up there, with the black Hefty bag in my hand, sick to my stomach with shame and disgust and rage.

And now, six years later, I was on a lingerie party website, full of pictures of that conventional sexy I dumped in the trash, wondering what kind of sex addiction article Paula intended to write. As I glanced at the site, I saw that there was plenty of the usual "hot" and "titillating" sex selling, but Paula also genuinely seemed to see these parties as a way of empowering women to learn about and appreciate their own bodies. Black and white thinking is common in the lives of addicts and those who live with them, and I've been slowly working toward a place where, after fully indulging in our culture's idea of "sexy" and then fully rejecting it (from lingerie to makeup to shaving my legs), I am exploring more shades of grey. So, just because I can't incorporate lingerie and sex toys into my relationship in a healthy way right now, doesn't mean they are evil in themselves. There are definitely aspects of lingerie and sex toys that I'm deeply uncomfortable with, and even perceive as dangerous to women, but there was enough that was positive about Paula's site that when she asked if she could interview me, I said, "Well, send me your questions and I'll see."

When I saw the questions, I found that not only was I comfortable with answering them all, this would be a good opportunity to reach out to women who may not realize (yet) that their partners are sex addicts. (I mean, what better place to find a sex addict's partner in denial than out buying lingerie?) So, while many women may be using Paula's parties as a healthy expression of their sexuality, I (taking to heart that 12 Step message of reaching out to those still suffering) couldn't pass up the opportunity to plant some seeds among those who might be indulging in sexy, not as an act of empowerment, but as one of desperation and degradation.

Then had to take that last leap of faith that Paula would put it up as I expressed it before I clicked send. (Not that I have trust issues or anything!) And she did. The interview is up, and after having thought long and hard about linking out to such a potentially triggering site, I thought I would share it with you all, especially since many of you don't have sex addiction as part of your lives at all and may find it interesting. There is nothing in the content of my interview that I wouldn't post here, but images and links in the header and sidebar are related to lingerie and sex toys. So, one last time before the link...

Warning: Sex addicts and their partners may find images and language in the linked site triggering!

(If the thought of clicking through raises any concerns about your sobriety or serenity, please feel free to e-mail me for a copy of the information contained in the interview instead.)

And here's the link (isn't it cute that I'm an expert?): Interview with Mary P Jones at Lingerie Party and Adult Toys.

While reading a recent New York Times article on increasingly form fitting and revealing wedding dresses, I came across one statement in particular that has been rubbing on me for days now, like sandpaper. A designer said his dresses are designed to appeal to a woman who is “confident in her sexuality.”

Confident in her sexuality. Just breathe for a moment and think about those words. They're rich with meaning, those four little words designed to sell dresses. Shakespeare couldn't have written four words with a deeper subtext.

I'm going to take those four words on, on one by one, out of order, because I'm both crazily academic and insanely disorganized.

Let's start with the gender of that third-person pronoun "her." It makes sense, so much sense that we don't even think about it, to talk about sexy formal attire for women. But what if we change the gender? A man may look sexy in a tux or a suit, but overt sexuality isn't the overriding purpose of a man's formal attire. It's hard to imagine different types of men's formal wear, with one set designed specifically for a bridegroom concentrating on appearing sexy at his wedding (or any other formal event). What would that even look like? A skin baring set of suits? Something along the lines of a bare chested, bow tie sporting Chippendales dancer?

In fact, when I asked my husband what a man confident in his sexuality would wear, he answered "pink." I did a Flickr image search for "confident in his sexuality" and found one man sporting a purse, another in a skirt with a coconut husk bikini top and (my favorite) Weird Al Yankovic in (go see if for yourself) heart bedecked boxers, a pink tutu and fishnet stockings. I googled "confident in his sexuality" and found that about a third of the references on the first page were to homosexuality. Yep, we call a man "confident in his sexuality" (albeit in jest) when he is brave enough to appear to be the most fearful thing a man can be: feminine.

If the reverse were true, a woman confident in her sexuality shouldn't be wearing makeup, adorning her flowing ringlets with flowers and wearing something akin to lingerie; she ought to be forgoing the makeup, cropping her hair short and wearing work boots. Yet women express their "confidence" by hyper-sexualizing within gender boundaries. Hmm... That seems (dare I say it?) insecure. A man's confidence in his sexuality is a given, but not a woman's.

Which brings us to the noun "sexuality." We can define a woman by so many characteristics, even if we are focusing solely (as talking about attire demands we must) on appearance: her beauty, her grace of carriage, her flair, her unique style, her peacefulness, her radiance, her physical fitness... The defining characteristic could be any of those, but it's not; it's sexuality. It's more important to be sexy, in particular, than anything else. The idea that women in these dresses will be perceived as sexy is what's powerful, what sells.

Bringing us at last (since, let's face it, I'm not really going to take on the preposition "in") to the adjective "confident." While it describes the women wearing the revealing dresses, it also implies something about the women who do not. These are dresses that not everyone can wear: only "confident" women can wear them. In fact, these are dresses some women will be too scared to wear. These dresses show that the women wearing them are powerful and the women not wearing them are weak and insecure.

The coup de grace, of course, is that women, when they choose their attire, are not simply displaying confidence or insecurity; they are displaying confidence or insecurity in their sexuality. Women who wear revealing dresses exert that powerful sexuality over men and women alike. They don't just draw attention, they "turn heads," they control. By extension, women who are too scared to wear revealing dresses are (so we are to believe) ashamed of their own bodies. They're frigid: unable to enjoy or use the power of sex. That's the subtext.

In those four words, we are being sold on sexuality. We are being sold on being sexy starlets. We are being sold on the idea that sex is the most important thing about a woman. We are being sold on the idea that sex brings power. We are being sold on female hyper-sexuality as the ultimate power. And ultimately, we are being sold a disturbed fantasy. And we are buying it.

But believe me, you'll be even more disturbed when you tune in tomorrow and find out what kind of sexuality I think we're really aspiring to when we buy all that.

Mantra wants you to wear what you believe. And I have to say, after telling you what my God is not, and reading what Mantra's god is, I'm eying "god is a state of being" t-shirt myself. There are three designs now, with more to come (and you can even vote on the next mantra on Mantra's blog). Come on, you know you want to click...