I made a promise to my husband and to myself, long before we were even wed, to be austerely honest.
Other great Christian love songs include “I Will Never Go” by Twila Paris, “When I Say I Do,” by Matthew West, “I Promise” by Ce Ce Winnans, “Unfailing Love” by Chris Tomlin, “Love Will Be Our Home” by Sandi Patty, “Household of Faith” by Steve Green and “God Bless the Broken Road” by Rascal Flatts.
and my husband’s breathing has become long and even. I slip my right hand down my pajama pants and move slowly, careful not to bump my elbow into his side rib, or bring my hips into it. I’ve been called “insatiable” and “demanding” one too many times. Yes, I have an incredibly high sex drive, but even in relationships where I have great sex multiple times a week my nighttime stealth for self-pleasure has persisted.
Too much movement or sound will wake him, and to be found out for something like this is not just embarrassing but potentially destructive. Even worse, maybe he’ll finally say the words I’ve been waiting for him to say since I first told him that I am a sex addict. My college boyfriend, burgundy haired and tattooed, had the high sex drive typical of most nineteen-year-old males.
One afternoon, after he’d fallen into a deep post-sex slumber, I serviced myself with my second, third, and fourth orgasm beside him.
That was the first time I’d experienced such a level of both secrecy and shame.