After I decided to break up with my older lover, Patrick, over the phone, he immediately called one of my best girlfriends for sympathy. “Not a big deal,” you say? It wouldn’t have been such a big deal, except he then told her in very vivid terms how much he liked my body and why. And I’m not talking just breasts either—he went into intricate detail about exactly which parts of my body he adored when we had sex.
Needless to say, my dear friend Carolyn was, of course, horrified, disgusted even. She told him that she wasn’t interested in hearing that kind of information. She called me the next day to tell me about the conversation and suggested that perhaps Patrick was a sex addict.
The thought of that frightened me. I had never been the type of woman to be attracted to any addictive behaviors. My reaction would always be to run away from that.
When I returned to Chicago, Patrick was waiting for me near the baggage claim. He had a very apologetic look on his face and big bouquet of flowers in his hands. He told me that he would like to take me out for dinner and then give me a lift home. I accepted. To be honest, outside of the sex issue, I had missed him quite a bit.
At dinner, I explained to him that I was a working woman with a serious career. I could not, at least during the week, consistently bow to all his appetites—meaning the dinner and drinks every night, clubbing, meeting his high-flying friends, and then falling into bed ready to be passionate and experimental at a moment’s notice. I told him that this was my condition for continuing our relationship. He agreed. He told me that he was head over heels in love with me and would do anything to keep me around.
For a period of time, he seemed much more considerate, but a part of me always felt like there was a third person in our relationship—and her name was “sex.”