Not so funny

*warning - potential triggers for sex addicts*

The other day I picked up Chelsea Handler's autobiography, "My Horizontal Life, A Collection of One Night Stands." As I skimmed through a few of the colorful stories, I thought of how much money she was making writing about the men she had bedded over the years. This queen of late night talk -- who has written about her love for vodka as well as sex -- is not wallowing in self pity or despair. She's just laughing and causing others to laugh with her.

As I flipped through her book, I thought of the funny facts I could share with others about my own set of one-time encounters, and even what others might write about their escapades with me. Sex addicts do gain a lot of insight about the underbrush of people's lives. We share fantasies, and discover kinks. Sometimes we tell one another secrets that we've never told to others. A lot of times we lie -- for stupid reasons and legitimate ones. There is no bar to our age, race, size, socioeconomic, religious, political or marital status.

In my active addiction I've learned that certain professions attract a higher percentage of sex addicts, and that certain body types yield smaller penises. I've learned that true addicts rarely think of their spouses while engaged in addictive behaviors, but as soon as the passionate shudders end, there is a sense of loss, and a desire to move on.

Today as I was driving I saw a quote from Edward Abbey and it made me think of R. He was obsessed with Abbey and his writing, and was a political pacifist of his own sort. I've slept with others who were activists, others who were trusted public servants with buildings named after them. I've had sex with men who've been to prison and men who have put them there, with dominants and submissives, with immigrants and natives, impotents and long lasters. They each have their own story -- some they've shared with me, others I've found out on my own.

So, is there a book in my escapades?

Not a funny one I'm afraid.

Mine are stories that weren't meant to be told. They are dirty secrets that silently bond two people together. Chelsea can drink and fuck all night, and laugh about it in the morning. I won't try to judge whether she laughs to keep from crying. I won't even judge whether I should laugh more and cry less. All I will say is that my liasons have been mid-day steal aways with other women's husbands, who were stealing a few moments or hours with someone else's wife. I have used them like Chelsea uses vodka. And they have used me like cocaine. In addition to their stories ... they have been fathers, brothers, sons, and even human, but that rarely mattered. In fact, many times our names didn't even matter.

An act held so sacred within the covenants of a marriage, is nothing more than a drink of whiskey to a sex addict.

There's nothing funny about that. Nothing at all.