Sexual appetite or sex addiction?

At the start of our relationship, Luke and I faced a difficult issue: he believed in monogamy and I didn’t. We liked each other too much to give up, so to be proactive Luke and I decided to go to therapy as a brand new couple rather than end up in a bitter long-term relationship. It would be an experiment lasting much longer than either of us could predict.

Even after several months, we still struggled to understand each other and defend our positions. At one of our sessions, Luke laid out a new concern — that perhaps I suffered from sexual addiction. I wanted to be offended, but knew Luke came from a place of genuine worry.

His thoughts, unfortunately, made sense. I had a history of cheating on ex-boyfriends. And now I was willing to put our new, amazing relationship on the line for sex as well. The scariest aspect was that I now lived with HIV — clearly sex had some devastating consequences in my life — yet still looked for multiple partners. Could this mean that I was addicted?

After we left the therapy couch that day, I needed time to think. I studied up on addiction and learned telltale signs — such as interference with work or family life. I had to admit that many times when I worked from home, I found myself wandering onto Craigslist ads or chat rooms. As for family life, my views on sexuality did seem to disrupt my ability to nail down a nice relationship.

Of course HIV is not an indicator of sexual promiscuity — you can contract the disease with even just one partner. But in my case, I perhaps could have avoided HIV if I’d been more conservative about sex. The fact that my HIV didn’t bridle my sexual desire felt unnerving. If I was an addict, I realized, this could be the moment where I hit rock bottom.

I searched for a local sexual addicts anonymous group so I could attend a meeting. I found one for gay men — then started wondering if there would be any cute guys there. Uh oh, maybe I really did have a problem.

But I still didn’t feel like an addict. Addiction consists of behaviors that are disrupting and compulsive. I certainly didn’t feel compelled, and my interest was, at worst, just very distracting.

While out hanging with friends one night, we started sharing stories of dumb accidents we’ve had. Luke brought up how he once flipped an ATV while riding around in a field. The vehicle landed on him, breaking his collarbone, and if it had landed any differently it could have killed him. When a friend asked if he would ever ride again, Luke answered, “Absolutely.”

Yet Luke wasn’t an addict for off-road vehicles. He enjoyed them immensely, yet the unfortunate accident wouldn’t stop him from riding again. This didn’t feel all that different from my HIV journey, the impact it had on me and my return to sexuality afterwards.

At our next therapy session, I brought up this analogy. It seemed like a stretch, but the more I explained it, the more it made sense. Sometimes life knocks us down while we’re doing things we enjoy most. This doesn’t mean that the only healthy response is to run away. It’s OK to dust ourselves off and try again — If anything, it teaches us how to “ride” differently, perhaps more safely.

By the end of the session, we all agreed that a non-traditional view of sexual relationships, even post-HIV, didn’t mean that I was a sex addict. And while it didn’t solve our disagreements over monogamy, Luke’s concern did teach me a lot about myself — that I had a strong sexual appetite I needed to recognize in order to manage better for the future.