I am the problemPosted: April 26, 2014
A woman in recovery recently told me that most sex addicts are co-dependent. I didn’t really take in her meaning at the time, but I guess it is a fairly obvious truth. How can we be addicted to something that requires the intimate participation of someone else, and NOT be co-dependent?
My husband and I did not have sex last night. I don’t remember anything after my fourth glass of wine, but apparently my attempts at seduction were in vain. Either that, or I got drunk and passed out before I even had a chance to make a move.
We flew across the country and unpacked in our new apartment yesterday. We have been going non-stop for days. We are both tired and sore, jet-lagged and disoriented, excited about new possibilities and sad to have left our home. You would think that all of this would be enough to keep my mind off my all-consuming need to screw, but not so.
I bought a mop today and the shape of the handle turned me on. The vibration of the plane triggered a totally unique (for me) fantasy about what it would be like to have a cock. Rhianna’s song Skin on the radio was so provocative I had to switch stations. My only saving grace is that I do not know the area, and I am too tired to find someone to hook up with. Of course, we could just agree to meet at a specific hotel. I could just tell the cab driver where I want to go. I could be having sex with a random stranger in a matter of hours. Why does such a terrible idea make me so hot?
Back to being co-dependent. I use my husband to manage my addiction. I want to have sex with him but when I get like this I really don’t give a fuck WHO I’m having sex with. He is a safe, available male and he is right there. He will do. Except for when he won’t. I am using him and he is a band-aid. He temporarily relieves the pain of unmet need. He does so in a way that does not give me exactly what I want, but gives me something close enough.
That sounds awful but I do love him. The reason why his touch does not completely satisfy, is because I love him. My addiction is about something else entirely–freedom, escape, using and being used, exhibitionism, danger, thrill. I can’t get that in my very own bed, in my very own apartment, with my very own husband. It’s not him, it’s me–I am the addict; I am the problem. Kukukachoo.
I am not even trying to control my fantasies. Joining the Mile High club, fucking a shemale, being fisted while being fucked in the ass, are all in my current repertoire of imagination porn.
Dirty. Little. Slut.
Fighting a losing battle.
We are who we are.