A few weeks ago, while we were watching TV one evening, my girlfriend snuggled up to me on the sofa and we had a cuddle. Just a cuddle.
I didn’t automatically seize on this show of affection as an opportunity to initiate sex. We had a simple, chaste and rather lovely cuddle. And that was it.
Anyone in a long-standing relationship will not see this incident as being worthy of any note. Indeed, some may well be uttering a cautionary ‘uh-oh’, recognising it as a familiar first step on the path to a passionless relationship.
But for me it was a colossal achievement.
I am a sex addict. A recovering one. I have a chronic, destructive disorder, exactly the same as those addicted to alcohol, drugs, food, gambling or stealing.
Like my fellow sufferers, I’m aware that many people reading this will cynically assume I am simply medicalising my appalling behaviour in an attempt to rationalise it. And just like other sufferers, my addiction has wreaked havoc on my relationships, my self-worth and mental well-being.
Yet it’s one I am finally – as demonstrated by the events on the sofa the other evening – learning to master.
When I read a heartbreaking account of a woman who had endured 30 years of marriage to a sex addict, I recognised myself all too painfully. Like that poor woman’s husband, I had no idea how severely my addiction had me in its grip, nor the harm it was inflicting on others.
Not until I sat in couples therapy with my now ex-wife, Julia, seven years ago did I have any understanding of the toll that my behaviour had taken on her.
That’s the trouble with addiction; it consumes your mind, life and actions, rendering you utterly selfish and incapable of contemplating its impact on others.
During our first counselling session, one summer’s day in 2017, Julia sobbed as she spoke candidly about how our four-year marriage had left her feeling worthless, how she’d struggled to keep up with my exhausting demands for sex up to five times a day and how she was left doubting herself as a wife when I still felt compelled to sneak off to watch porn.
The truth is, she knew barely half of it. All those late-night walks when I couldn’t sleep? I was out visiting prostitutes or picking up strangers in bars.
By the time we said our marriage vows at a country hotel in 2013 – five years after our first date – I estimate I had slept with over 300 other women behind Julia’s back.
I used a home test for STDs every Friday because I was usually unfaithful during the week when I was out at work or on business trips. I also knew that Julia and I had more sex at weekends.
Though I don’t recall her exact words during that counselling session, the sentiment was this: ‘All I wished for is that you could see how much I tried to be good enough for you as a wife, but you never seemed to notice and I don’t know why.’
Ultimately, therapy couldn’t fix what I’d done and the more sessions we had, the more of the truth Julia had to hear – although I never confessed to more than she already knew. Completely broken by my lies, and my continued sexual demands, she filed for divorce that same year.
The easiest way to describe what it’s like to be a sex addict is that you think about sex all the time, even subconsciously. It totally consumes your life. That cuddle on the sofa? Previously, it would automatically make me crave sex. As would holding hands – or walking past an attractive woman in the street.
Nothing else matters other than satisfying that sexual desire, which might sometimes mean ten minutes watching porn on my own and masturbating. Countless times I’ve said to colleagues or friends: ‘Excuse me, I’m just nipping to the bathroom.’ It’s a way of resetting, the same as a smoker might go outside for a cigarette.
When I scrutinise my past, I’ve probably been addicted to sex since my early twenties. I’m 41 now.
Sex had begun ordinarily enough for me. I lost my virginity aged 15 to my childhood sweetheart.
We were together for another three years and our sexual relationship was the most normal one I’ve ever had. We were just two lovestruck, lusty teenagers having sex as often as we could.
Sex wasn’t a subject I spoke about with my parents, who both worked in banking, and I remember an awkwardness descending on our living room whenever there was a sex scene on TV.
Regardless, I decided to tell them when I was going to have sex for the first time. They were deeply uncomfortable and I sat on the stairs to eavesdrop on their conversation afterwards. That’s when I heard my father joke: ‘I hope he’s well endowed.’ That comment sent a message to me that, as far as my father was concerned, sex was all about a man’s performance – and I set out to perform well.
My girlfriend and I broke up when we left school, and I decided it was time to experience sex with lots of different women at university.
Days later I slept with someone after a night out. Surprised by how easy it was to get her into bed, I started a contest with my best friend to see who could sleep with the most women.
There was no deadline and I’m pretty sure now that that’s where my addiction is rooted.
From that moment, wherever I went I was focused on picking up a woman. Being attracted to her was irrelevant, sex was all that counted, and I’d think nothing of having three women on one Saturday night out. Never did I view my behaviour as a problem. I thought of it as a rite of passage of a single young man.
I found it easy to get women into bed – not because of my looks, which I’d describe as pretty average, but because I’d honed my craft and learned how to be charming, offer subtle compliments and feign interest in them, when actually I didn’t give a damn. Within seconds of ejaculating, I could walk away without a thought. Sex and love were two totally separate entities.
That was until I met Julia at a New Year’s Eve party in a local bar when I was 25 and she was 24, and I found myself genuinely attracted to her. For the first time in seven years, I was completely monogamous.
We’d have sex up to ten times a week, though Julia didn’t comment on it at this point – it’s normal for couples to have a lot of sex at the start of their relationship.
But as we approached a year together, boredom crept in, and I bedded an old flame.
After that, my work as a management consultant meant business trips away and as many women as I could talk into bed.
Julia, a marketing manager, had no idea of my double life. When we married, I promised myself that I’d be faithful from now on. However, I quickly discovered that I was incapable of it.
Nobody knew about my sex addiction. Not Julia, not my closest male friends and not even my older brother in whom I confided most things. For all my swagger, I felt a deep sense of shame.
Here I was, a grown man in my thirties with a gorgeous wife, a great career and yet I was a total loser when it came to sex.
Rather than seek professional help – that came later – I thought that if I didn’t admit my addiction to anyone, then it wasn’t true and it would disappear. Inevitably, it didn’t.
Despite my extra-marital promiscuity, I’d still have sex with my wife most days – more if she was willing. It was often quite rough and I became very demanding, as standard sex or positions didn’t satisfy me. Increasingly she became less inclined to say yes.
I had great respect for her and didn’t push it if she wasn’t willing. Instead, I consumed vast amounts of porn while she slept.
Then there was my collection of sex toys, including expensive sex dolls. When that got boring, I’d arrange online to have sex with other women. Travelling regularly within the UK and abroad on business made it easy. I didn’t need a plush hotel room – my car or any old public toilet would do.
After we’d been married for around two years, Julia confronted me about my obsession with porn and rough sex, but I brushed it off, telling her all my friends did the same. No wonder her self-esteem was in bits. She didn’t bring it up again.
Instead, she did what so many people married to someone with an addiction do: she pushed aside her own feelings, fearing it would break up our marriage if she complained or probed too much. Shame consumed me almost as much as sex. I struggled to look Julia in the eyes and sometimes attempted to assuage my guilt with huge romantic gestures such as flowers and meals.
Other times I drank and took drugs to numb my guilt.
But as soon as I watched another porn movie or got another conquest into bed, those feelings would vanish.
We’d been married for three years when Julia discovered I’d had sex with a friend of a friend. I’d been sloppy and word had got back to her. She was hurt and furious, but we decided to have couples therapy to see if we could salvage the marriage.
You know the rest and when Julia filed for divorce, I hit the self-destruct button, sleeping with more than ten women a week. By now it was becoming clearer to me that I needed help.
This was highlighted when I met my current girlfriend Natasha, a now 35-year-old data analyst, in a bar in 2021 and really liked her.
Although we had sex that evening I spent the entire night with her – unusual for me – and when we woke the next morning, I cooked brunch for us.
As we ate, I decided to tell her everything because I wanted to see her again, not just discard her like all the others. Prostitutes, hardcore porn, infidelity – she heard the lot.
Her reaction completely shocked me. Her mother had been an alcoholic, so she has a deep understanding of addiction and was able to separate the real, loving, caring me from the man with an unhealthy need for sex.
Because of this, she said she was willing to give me a chance but with some strict rules: no more sex with other women, she would only have sex with me when it was an act of love and not to fulfil an addictive need, and she insisted that I had to go to therapy.
After copious research, several months later I saw a specialist doctor who diagnosed me with compulsive sexual behaviour, saying I was a textbook example. The relief was like a rock leaving my chest. For the first time I realised that I wasn’t an awful human being. I was ill with an addiction I couldn’t control.
Since then, I’ve spent almost $20,000 with a wonderful sex therapist called Sofie Roos.
With Sofie’s professional guidance these past few years it’s become a full-time job to manage my desire. The most valuable thing she’s taught me is that I’m not a bad person – I’m suffering from an addiction that makes me do terrible things. Mentally, I can now separate the two.
Sofie has helped me realise that my addiction is not actually about sex, but about wanting to feel accepted and gaining attention.
Part of my treatment has been contacting some of the women I’ve bedded to apologise for how I treated them.
Obviously, many were strangers so I wouldn’t know how to get in touch with them, but most of those whom I did contact were thankful, relieved to know why I treated them so badly.
Sofie has taught me that it’s never too late to do something about sex addiction, but that I’ll also never be free from it. Rather like an alcoholic who can be sober, there will be many moments when I feel weak.
She’s also taught me a lot about self-control, discipline and how important routines are to keep the sexual desire in place, skills I use every day.
Natasha and I have now been together for two and a half years. We have sex almost every day, sometimes two or three times, but equally there are days we don’t have sex at all.
We place great emphasis on being tactile – holding hands, cuddling, placing a reassuring hand on the other’s back, that sort of thing.
Another lesson from Sofie has been learning to get physical attention in ways other than sex.
In a year or two, another part of my treatment will be telling my loved ones about my addiction. My older brother already knows and says he wasn’t surprised. It will be a different matter when I reach the point of telling my mum – I’ve no idea how that will go.
I’d say my addiction is under control at the moment but it’s a work in progress. Once an addict, always an addict.
I’ve learned that parties and nightclubs are triggers so I avoid them now. Likewise, if Natasha is away for too long visiting family or on a work trip, old thoughts creep back in, so we carefully manage any time apart to keep it to a minimum. The biggest trigger would be if she ever leaves me and I end up alone. I know I could easily return to my sick path of sexual behaviour.
One day, I would love to be settled with a family of my own but at the same time, my greatest fear is cheating on the mother of my children and then not being in their lives. I fear this may prevent me from ever becoming a father.
For now, I’m incredibly grateful to have a loving girlfriend and a wonderful therapist who continue to stand by me through my addiction, but at the same time I’m deeply sorry for all the hundreds of women I’ve used along the way, not least my ex-wife.
- Daniel Whitehaven is a pseudonym. Names have been changed.
As told to SADIE NICHOLAS
