One day, early in his recovery work around sex addiction, Mark and I were standing in line at the grocery store, when I commented on a headline on one of the news magazines.  "I can't look," Mark said.

"What?"

"It's not good for me.  Those magazine and tabloid covers are awful.  I hate the grocery store checkout.  There's no place I can safely look."

I hadn't thought about it before, at least not in terms of recovery.

Most of the magazines were insipid and pandered to the worst in people, but when I wasn't tuning them out, I was mocking them.  I never thought of them as particularly worrisome or hurtful, at least not to me, since I wasn't threatened by (or aspiring to be) anyone who might be on the cover.  But that changed as soon as the first sex scandal hit the shelves (which, of course, didn't take long).

There would be pictures on the tabloid covers of the injured spouse, shell shocked or shying away from cameras.  And it would remind me of that very first day after disclosure when Mark and I drove to a friend's house to drop our son Austen off while we went to meet with a therapist.  I stood next to the car, wearing sunglasses to hide eyes that were nearly swollen shut with crying, and waved to them while Mark walked Austen into the house because I knew I couldn't speak coherently to anyone right then.

There would be the insinuations that it was somehow partly her fault and the implication that she did something wrong: that she wasn't sexy enough or was too cold or too demanding.  (And of course, there would be Cosmo right on the next rack with sex and beauty tips to make sure you wouldn't make the same mistake.)  I'd stand in line wanting to scream, "I did EVERYTHING to make my husband happy, and he hurt me anyway.  It's not my fault that my husband lied rather than deal directly with his problems.  And it's not her fault that her husband lied either."  I suddenly became a huge fan and staunch defender of Jennifer Aniston, whom I'd never particularly cared for before.

There would be criticism for her anger or her lack of it.  And I'd think of how I'd hit Mark until the thought it was making him feel better made me stop.  And how I stumbled through the following days and weeks with no real thought, blindly and automatically following some formula that was set before me for what I needed to do, waiting for the hurt to stop.

Then there would also be the picture of the mistress, always looking sultry, scantily clad and completely unrepentant (in fact often stating that she was unrepentant).  And I'd think of the women who had contributed to my pain and the near destruction of my marriage with white hot rage and hatred in my heart.  I'd feel betrayed by them as much as by my husband, and I'd spin into fantasies about how to inflict the kind of pain upon them that they'd inflicted on me.  Sometimes I'd skim the news magazines looking hopefully for their names among the victims of terrorist attacks.

And of course, there would be the husbands, sometimes with wicked grins as they left their wives for the other woman and sometimes sorrowfully begging forgiveness in an attempt to save their images, their careers, their marriages.  And I'd feel the same mix of anger and confusion and pity that my own husband inspired in me at the time.

And even when there were no sex scandals, it was still all about how I ought to do my makeup or wear my clothes or eat or cook or weigh or act in bed to ensure that what had happened to me wouldn't happen to me.  And I could only stand there knowing I'd done it all and it hadn't protected me from the same pain that periodically splashed across the tabloid covers.

The supermarket checkout line became a gamut I had to run rather than a fun distraction from the boredom of waiting in line.  I started averting my eyes just the way Mark did.  I ordered more food deliveries and spent more time shopping at specialty stores that didn't stock the usual mix of gossip rags and "women's" magazines.

Six years in to recovery, the magazines aren't the same trigger for me that they used to be and I see the players in the drama a little differently, with less (but not always no) anger and more sympathy all around.  I don't avoid the grocery store and I don't generally avert my eyes from the news magazines just because Cosmo or the Enquirer are up there being all awful.  But I still don't seek them out when there is a sex scandal, because, especially if I'm tired or hungry or stressed, I know I'm prone to fall back into old thought patterns and I may not be above the temptation to take up a Sharpie and ink out some of the teeth on Tiger Woods' mistresses.

"The level of sexual imagery in modern life is astounding. I knew intuitively this was true, but when you tune into it, you just can't believe it. I click on the Yahoo! finance page, and there's this blond model in a low-cut dress looking at a computer screen and nibbling alluringly on the temple of her glasses, apparently very aroused by the latest S&P 500 report."
~ A.J. Jacobs, The Year of Living Biblically

Years ago, when my husband Mark and I were first married, we went away for the weekend, leaving the little city (or big town) we called home to drive to a bed and breakfast on a ranch in the middle of big rolling fields of nowhere.  At night, we could look up and see a sky, not just dotted with a few twinkling stars against a vast blackness, but absolutely littered with more light than darkness.  But even more than the presence of stars, I remember the silence.

There were no cars rumbling past outside, no neighbors talking or banging doors shut, no fire sirens or televisions, no computer network humming and no cell phone coverage.  It was so quiet, I actually had trouble sleeping; the absence of sound rang audibly in my ears.  I didn't realize I was surrounded by a constant whir of background noise until it wasn't there, but when I went back home I was suddenly both very much aware of it and increasingly bothered by it.  Was it good for me to have so much noise in my life that I heard actual ringing in my ears when it was quiet, the same way I have on leaving a rock concert?  At the same time, that level of background noise was clearly normal in the place and culture in which I was living; could I get away from it?

In a way, moving from addiction to recovery felt the same way, as I began to tune in to the ambient noise of our culture.  Suddenly, that billboard or that song or that TV ad wasn't just part of a constant, and largely ignored, backdrop; it was the trigger that could bring the trauma of addiction rushing to engulf me again.  Being married to a recovering sex addict meant suddenly being faced with the need to avoid gratuitous sexual content in order to protect my own sanity.  And that meant becoming acutely aware of just how soaked in sexuality American culture is: everything from hamburgers to web hosting are sold on overtones of porn.  (And seriously, I can think of few things less inherently erotic than ground beef and Internet domain name registration.)

Recovery has also meant looking at patterns of alcoholism and addiction among our extended friends and family, and becoming similarly aware of the pervasiveness of alcohol, which is an integral, accepted, even expected part of everything from weddings to sporting events to birthday parties.

And once I did begin to tune in, I wondered, much as I did when I came home from those nights on that secluded ranch: had all that cultural noise (unnoticed, but loud enough to leave my ears ringing in its absence) been good for me?  I didn't think so.  So, from ad blocking software to a DVR to changes in my own routines, I've worked to beat back the noise our culture throws off and journey toward the quiet that I now crave.

I rashly went out Halloween costume shopping a few days ago. I'm not sure what I was thinking. Well, I know I needed to pick up a costume for my daughter — Yes, a few days shy of Halloween. I'm totally on top of it as a mom. — but for some reason I thought maybe I could find something cute for myself. You know, something suitable for a 40-year-old mother of two married to a recovering sex addict. There must be tons of costumes to fit the bill, right? At the very least there had to be a nice Hillary Clinton, complete with businesslike pants suit.

Instead, I prowled through the store grimacing, rolling my eyes and blowing exasperated puffs of breath like some kind of crazy person. I wasn't fussing, like most of the other customers, at the cost of the costumes (although, yeah, ouch! Shouldn't those things be marked down with just moments left to go?) but at the sexuality of nearly all the costumes for women and girls, with the exception of those for infants and toddlers. (Boys and men, I noticed, had a variety of different costumes available. Most of these were neutral in terms of sexual content, while even those with a sexual element (I'm thinking the orange "Department of Erections" jumpsuit with penis prosthetic) comfortably covered their bodies.)

The womens' and girls' costumes were a veritable Fredrick's of Halloween catalog.  There were tens of different variations on the same micro-mini barely covering the buttocks matched with the same plunging, cleavage baring neckline; I could choose to be any number of porn star characters: the cop porn star, the nurse porn star, the super-heroine porn star, this hippie porn star, the movie star porn star... It was like looking at Carvel ice cream cakes back in the day; Fudgie the Whale would look like a whale, while Santa would come out sporting a red cap topped by a suspiciously untraditional two tassels. (Apparently, Tom Carvel didn't get to the top of the ice cream game through extravagant purchases like molds that would be used only once a year.)

Needless to say, all those droopy eyes, pouting lips, fishnet clad legs and ample bosoms can be triggering for sex addicts and their partners alike. I can't dress up like that: not after the way it's been mixed up with feelings of trauma and degradation.  My husband can't look at anything like that: not after the way he's used it as a drug, an escape into fantasy.  I found myself wondering if there was a special Halloween store for Mormons and if they'd let me shop there. (You make the costumes yourselves, don't you? Sigh!)

Hanging out with my kids all day, going to their Halloween parties at school, watching them dress up with their friends, I sometimes forget (even having had experience with it in recovery) what a sexual (sexually objectifying?) holiday Halloween can be for adults. I think that I, married to a sex addict, with all of my complicated issues around sexuality, can just pop into a store and pick up a fun little costume for myself, not have it trigger the shit out of me. And I'd be wrong. Halloween is just too scary. Next year, I'll stick to eating cupcakes and shopping for modest pantsuits on the Internet.

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.

Eight years ago, in spite of the fact that we were both exhausted by caring for our infant son, I found that my husband Mark was staying up later and later at night. He had to be up at 5 a.m. to get ready for work, yet I would wake some nights at 2 or 3 or 4 a.m. to my son, wailing for a feeding or a diaper change, and find Mark's side of the bed empty, cold, untouched. Then I'd glance to the bedroom door and see the eerie blue glow of the computer screen in the next room creeping in. And I knew he was looking at porn. Sometimes I'd ask him to come to bed, sometimes I'd just stew and wait. And in the morning, I'd wonder, "Should I be worried about this? If he is, is it a big deal? Is this ok? Is it normal?"

Those seemed like legitimate questions at the time. He wouldn't stay up every night. And sometimes he was actually doing some work, or starting off doing some work. (Hey, I'm codependent. I spied, so I know.) I knew he was looking at some porn, but I didn't have a problem with porn. It was one of those things guys did, right? And I even viewed it myself. But this seemed like a lot. Did he have a problem? Or was I crazy and overreacting? (I knew he fell on the side of crazy and overreacting. But if he was crazy then his evaluation of the situation couldn't be trusted.) I simply didn't trust myself or my own feelings. I wanted some neutral third party to say where the line should be drawn, to define exactly what was normal, what was ok, what was worrisome, what was a problem.

I was thinking about all this as I read an article about how his porn use is the equivalent of her pedicures, a way to relax and blow off steam. The author of the piece asked questions like "should you be worried?" and tried to reassure partners that, even if porn use bothers them, it may not be a "big deal." They may be overreacting. All of which made me want to punch the author in the nose and then send him to a therapist who could teach him not to invalidate people's feelings. (What? Are you saying I still have control issues? No worries, I'll lovingly detach and let him crash and burn and learn on his own.)

The reason I got fussy when I read that, is because it took me some time in recovery to realize that there is no "should" when it comes to feelings. And that lesson is still raw. It's something that I am apt to forget as I fall back into fretting over whether or not I "should" be upset or angry or worried. I'll wonder who is right and who is wrong and who is crazy and who is sane and what's normal and grind myself to bits hoping that the world will arbitrate in my favor.

But here's the thing: a problem is a problem. If something worries me, it's worrisome to me. If my husband was staying up at night looking at porn, and it was bothering me, it didn't matter if he was an addict or not; it was bothering me! And it was ok for me to be bothered by it even if it wasn't a problem for him. If my feelings about his porn use were interfering with our relationship, then there was a problem with porn use in our relationship. Likewise, if I'm spending money on spa vacations and my husband is getting anxious and irritable about that, if he's feeling threatened because I'm spending time having my pedicurist massage my feet rather than him, then my spa time is an issue in our relationship, even if pedicures are perfectly healthy and relaxing for me and he "shouldn't" be upset. It doesn't matter how he or I "should" feel, it only matters how we do feel.

Thankfully, we've found recovery programs and therapists that have helped us deal with our problems in a way that has acknowledged and respected each of our feelings, rather than telling us that the way to solve the problem was to convince us that we should stop having those feelings.

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.

With the story of South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford's week-long disappearance to visit his mistress in Argentina buzzing about, we're faced yet again with a barrage of images of a public figure tearfully apologizing for his infidelity, while his job hangs in jeopardy.* And in the wake of this story, the same discussions will repeat themselves that have echoed down from all the scandals past. Why did he do it? What does it say about our society? Should he keep his job? And, my perennial favorite, was he justified in cheating?

Yes, rest assured, people will whisper about the cause being his bitchy wife (she must be or he wouldn't have done it, right?) and someone, somewhere out there, will use this as an opportunity to bemoan our culture's moralistic attitude toward sex. It's a charge that is sometimes leveled at partners of sex addicts (at times by the addict or even by ourselves): that the problem with infidelity lies in our own uptight attitudes about sex and if we'd just lighten up and not get so upset about sex outside of marriage, everything would be fine. Which completely misses what every partner of a sex addict knows: the pain of infidelity doesn't have nearly as much to do with the sex as it does with being lied to.

Ask nearly anyone in a relationship with a sex addict what the worst thing about active addiction is and they will almost universally tell you that it's not the sex, but the lying and the horrible breach of trust that comes with it.  Sure, the sex part of it matters; it's not like I would have fallen down on the bathroom floor sobbing and hugging the toilet in sickness if my husband had lied to me about his secret life helping poverty stricken orphans.  The lies hurt because they were about something as intimate and personal and hurtful as a breech of sexual trust. And yes, I wanted the sexual acting out gone, but I know wanted the lies gone still more.

When my husband disclosed his activities to me, I laid into him, "If you wanted to have sex with other people, why didn't you tell me? If you want an open marriage, I need to know that. Hiding your actions and covering things up and lying shows a total lack of respect for me. I didn't have what I needed to make an informed decision about this relationship. You didn't give me the option to decide for myself, like an adult, you decided for me based on what you wanted. If multiple partners is what you want, let's talk about it. If that's what you're going to do, then tell me. I can deal with the sex, but I can't deal with the lying and the hiding and the deception." (See, it was early in recovery, I still "youed" at him a lot then. Also I bargained and tried to control him. Please do not try this at home.)

And in my husband's most major relapse since starting recovery for sex addiction, it wasn't the details of his acting out that hurt me (I wasn't even interested in them), but the fact that he would lie about going to a 12 Step meeting (a sacred meeting) and then cover it up for a year before coming clean.  I know he's an addict, I knew chances were slim that he would enter recovery and go the rest of his life without another slip ever, but I didn't care what he had done with this other woman so much as I cared that he had deceived me about it.  Even knowing that lying goes with the territory in addiction, the lying undid me.

What are my attitudes toward and beliefs about sex and relationships? To be honest, I'm still working that out; they're ever changing as I grow. But I do know that I didn't (and couldn't) begin to explore them until my husband and I both started talking honestly and openly about our wants and needs, our hopes and fears, our goals and values.

A version of this post was originally published at The Second Road. Additional comments can be found there.

It was raining the night I first kissed my husband. The wind was hissing and howling through the bare branches of the trees, rattling the last of the dead leaves still clinging to their posts. Before we kissed, we twined our hands together and watched our arms weave against each other like snakes, mahogany and golden. And when at last, softly, lip met lip, I wanted to rush out into the wind and rain and throw my arms out and laugh wildly or scream at the sky, like Ophelia drowning or Lear going mad in the storm. I couldn't resist him, nor he me, and the intensity of the pleasure in that kiss rode the edge of being blinding pain. It was the kind of high that addicts seek to return to and sustain forever, that I, in my own issues around love and romance and sex, have always wanted to return to again and again with Mark.

Last night, the kids were asleep and after a long busy week, Mark and I finally had a moment alone together. We were lying in bed and he twined his hand into mine, a sweet prelude, just like that night we first kissed. Only this time the contrast -- between what magic I thought we had back then and all the craziness of addiction and fantasy and delusion and denial that overlaid it and everything else since -- was too much for me. I burst into tears and Mark said, "Whoa, you're sad. What's the matter?"

I fumbled to explain where that gesture, so reminiscent of an earlier time, had taken me and said, "You know, people who are just starting recovery sometimes ask me if it ever stops hurting. And I tell them it does, mostly. But I say that sometimes it comes back, just not as strong. This is one of those times. It's better, but the pain's still there. Sometimes I just miss that fantasy, that irresistible passion. I miss the person I used to be, when sex didn't seem so complicated."

I put my head on Mark's chest and he stroked my hair and shoulder while I lay there feeling angry and disgusted at myself for being so caught up in the past and in the unknown that I couldn't enjoy an intimate moment right here in the present. I worried that Mark would be angry at me and level the charges at me that I'd heard others had leveled at them (and that I'd even leveled at others myself): that I was "freaking out," being "neurotic" and "overly emotional," being a stereotypical woman "too uptight" to have sex. I mean, geez, why didn't I just say I had a headache while I was at it? I imagined he wanted me to "get over it" so that he could get his needs met without having to deal with my troublesome and annoying emotions. And I thought about a conversation I had with a friend who said healing from the violation and trauma of being in a relationship with a sex addict has similarities to healing from the violation and trauma of rape, and I tried (without much success) to be forgiving of myself for still struggling sometimes, even six years after disclosure.

Then Mark interrupted my thoughts as he ran his hand over my shoulder, sighed happily and said, "I love you, and I'm so glad to be here with you!" I looked up at his face, and he was beaming. "God is good!" he said, almost laughing with happiness. What? No sex and he, the sex addict, was still happy? To be here with me? Wow. I snuggled in close and kissed him, and then I started laughing. "You know," I said, "just a minute ago, I was missing that irresistible passion and addictive inability to say no. I was thinking it was the sexiest thing in the world and I was never going to be able to get moments like that back. Now, a minute later, I'm seeing the ability to say no as such a gift, and I don't have to get back there, because recovery is looking pretty darn sexy on you..."

While the marketing material (always a reliable source of information) implied that this book was different, what really led me to not judge a book by its title and give it a go was the fact that I had heard of the author, Shannon Ethridge, through the Every Woman's Battle series, which some other women in my S-Anon group found helpful.

The Sexually Confident Wife has the broad purpose of helping women (regardless of their issues) gain (or regain) sexual confidence within their marriage. Because the scope is broad, I believe this book will be more helpful to some than others, particularly women who come from more repressive backgrounds or women who have had issues with their own sexual acting out. However, I am coming at this review solely from the perspective of whether or not the book was helpful me, as a generally sex loving, body confident woman who is in a continuous process of healing in my marriage to a recovering sex addict.

The book starts with a variety of questions designed to help pinpoint the areas that may have caused women to lose their sexual confidence. Not surprisingly, my areas of concern centered around trusting my husband, believing that I was entirely safe with him and carrying memories of past hurt into the bedroom with me. Unfortunately, the book didn't deal a lot with these specific issues. Shannon Ethridge infuses the book with much of her own personal experience, which is in many ways the opposite of mine: she was the one acting out in her marriage, so it took some mental gymnastics to make some of her experiences apply to me.

In addition, she addresses the stereotypical imbalance in the bedroom quite a bit: men want lots of sex, women don't. She gives a number of suggestions on how women can deal with this imbalance of desire. However, the problem for me, and for partners of sexual anorexics is quite the opposite. The women will often have a stronger desire than the men and will experience hurt and rejection that that their advances are not accepted. The book doesn't deal with this reverse scenario much at all. What do we women do to maintain our confidence when our husband's are withdrawing due to their own issues and traumas?

Some of the best chapters in the book focus on getting to the root of our sexual insecurities by healing the scars of childhood sexual abuse, looking at the messages we received about sex in childhood, improving our body images and cutting painful ties to the past. The most interesting to me was Chapter 5, "Cutting Soul Ties That Bind," which contains an exercise on looking for the common thread between your favorite movies, books and songs and seeing how that reflects upon the (potentially hurtful) ways you view relationships and the ghosts you carry into your sexual present.

If you all care to psychoanalyze me: my favorite movie is It's a Wonderful Life, my favorite books include Wuthering Heights, A Tale of Two Cities and Peter Pan, and my favorite songs... Well, you've probably got the idea already, but to take a line from one of my favorites by James Taylor, "they were true love, written in stone..." If it's got true love in it, especially with an edge of tragedy or bittersweetness or loss or sacrifice, I'm all over it. And I'm still chewing on that knowledge, which has been quite enjoyable (ok, yes, I enjoy those kinds of things) and helpful.

What I found most disappointing was that, while the book tried to go about things differently (for example, showing drawings of real, imperfect, women's bodies) and did discuss boundaries, there was still plenty of material that tended toward the Cosmo pop culture perspective that I feared: that pleasing men (through anything from shaving and vaginal deodorants to pole dancing) is something that creates sexual confidence. What I found most problematic from the perspective of sexual codependency was the emphasis on the woman's power to keep the man faithful. For example, from Chapter 10 (Tantalizing Sexual Techniques):

"while it is never a wife's fault that her husband turns to pornography rather than to her for sexual gratification, we do possess the power to lessen his desire for it."

And from Chapter 17 (Whipped Cream and a Cherry), which talks about a woman who created a personal Playboy magazine for her husband while he was away in the military:

"When a man knows he has a woman like that at home, why would he wast his time looking at or even thinking about any other woman? A well-fed man doesn't feel the need to go looking elsewhere for scraps. he knows where his satisfaction can be found -- in you!"

This is the very lesson that has to be unlearned by those of us who are married to sex addicts (and have, in many cases, including mine, tried a variety of sexually uninhibited and adventurous techniques in a misguided attempt to control our husbands' addictions and get his interest to stay on us). We sexual codependents have had to learn that no matter what we do -- no matter what techniques we use or how exhibitionist we become or how comfortable we are with our bodies or how much we show our husbands love and respect or how sexually confident we become -- our husbands will continue to act out until they love and are confident in themselves. Maybe The Sexually Confident Husband is next?

Just one last quick funny story about the book. In Chapter 7 (Befriending the Body Image Bear), Shannon Ethridge discusses how men have "their own body image hang-ups," among other things that "they fear they are too short and too pale." My husband, whose skin is a beautiful dark chocolate color, giggled when I read that part to him!

* In the interest of full disclosure, I was not paid for this review, but did receive a free copy of the book. And that's no small incentive to someone like me. I'd be happy to stand on a street corner with a sign that reads, "Will work for books." (Back to top)

Image credit: Photo by kk+ on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons

I was reading The Huffington Post (my source for all things sex related), when I came across a piece called "Am I a Slut or Do I Have a Sex Addiction?" which contained this quote by Annie Sprinkle, a former sex worker turned sex educator:

"I fit all the criteria for having a bona fide sex addiction to a T, except for one crucial element: shame. It is this one little horrific emotion that drives millions of so-called sex addicts to spend exponential amounts of money in therapy every year, and just as many to seek support in groups and addiction programs. This shame stems from the fact that many so-called sexual deviants are slapped with the label "sex addict" when there is, in fact, absolutely nothing wrong with liking porn, or anal sex, or spending an evening with a call girl."

As you know, it doesn't matter to me what label you slap on, as long as you all know there's recovery. And this quote reminded me that we recovery bloggers often do our readers a disservice by pushing a spiritual or therapy based recovery model, when there is another way: embrace your inner bad boy (or girl).

That's right. Shame, imposed upon us by society, is generally the sole element preventing us from enjoying our so-called addictions. After all, Ms. Sprinkle has admitted to fitting all the criteria for addiction, which would include: escalating behaviors in order to achieve the same high and compulsivity (that is, the inability to stop when she wants to, in spite of negative consequences to her health, job and relationships). But without shame, she's able to enjoy all that.*

So, come on so-called addicts! (And I think it's fair to say this goes for all of you, regardless of substance or behavior.) Forget meetings and therapy, just stop feeling bad about that compulsive behavior. It's not ruining your life; society's inability to accept it is ruining your life. And there's nothing wrong with you that changing the entire world and all the people in it won't fix.

Keep on masturbating until you bleed, and don't feel guilty about that healthy sex drive.

Start drinking that bottle of vodka when you wake up in the morning and keep going until you black out. Don't let shame stop you!

Drive your car into a telephone pole while you're high. Shoot up heroin in the bathroom while your toddler runs in the street. Smoke crack on the job. It's all in good fun, people. To hell with the intolerant society that judges you for it!

Banish those negative emotions you're feeling around spending hours downloading porn at work. Sure, you could be fired for it, but that's just because society hasn't taken an appropriately liberal view on your desire to check out naked teenagers on company time.

Tell your partner and kids to get over it. Society has just brainwashed them into feeling hurt by your behavior. Once they can accept that everything is ok without shame, they'll join right in the fun.

It's true. There's a good chance you may lose your house, your job, your friends, your family, your health and even your life, but I'm pretty sure all that stuff is for uptight losers anyway. This recovery method is ultimately a lot easier and a lot more fun than all that boring ass therapy. So, go for it, bad boys and bad girls! If it doesn't work, well, there's always 12 Step.

Sex addiction is not an inability to enjoy sexual behaviors due to societally imposed shame. A person who grew up during Prohibition and simply feels guilty for enjoying alcoholic drinks outside of societally set boundaries is not an alcoholic. But a person whose compulsive need for alcohol prevents them from defining and holding to their own boundaries around harmful drinking is an alcoholic. Similarly, a person who simply feels shame around sex acts due to upbringing and societal constraints is not a sex addict. A person whose compulsive need for sex prevents them from defining and holding to their own boundaries around harmful sexual behavior is a sex addict. Good?