In 1990 I encountered sex addiction, a niche neurosis for a handful of ambivalent call girls. One who sought to convert me to her belief system (“recovery”) was also attending twelve-step meetings for an eating disorder.
Another saw the light after working a prolonged shift: when she tried to stay on call without a break, the escort agency questioned her mental fitness. The query may have been justified, since her mother, a successful shrink, paid a large portion of her rent. Financial pressure was minimized, but my friend was not interested in rehab. Industry was her path to self-knowledge.
Sex addiction was decorative and voluntary, a marginal concern.
As the idea of sex addiction went mainstream, I watched it becoming less quirky, losing its mystery—more of an imposition, this public malady—and becoming less feminine. Dick Morris (who was Bill Clinton’s chief strategist) and the celebrity golfer Tiger Woods became archetypes...
