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He doesn’t care how many partners you’ve had; it’s all in the past. To find out the answer, fall back to the fundamentals: identifying the addict is the first step. One-night stands, extra-marital affairs, GPS hook-ups, obsessive online dating.

And when it comes to sex addiction, that first step is a doozy. The list is long and gets darker the further down you go: compulsive masturbation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, prostitutes.

Weiss adds that it’s like any addiction, and the addict increasingly “needs to have this intensity-based experience."However, the idea that sex is clinically addictive remains controversial.

As we've reported in the the Fix, sex addiction is not recognized by the American Psychiatric Association as a diagnosable disorder.

No longer would I be crushed out on Eddie Vedder or Chris Cornell. There are 34 chapters in that book and, having made that deal, I breezed through them over the course of a few blissed out days.

Robert Louis Stevenson will forever be an erotic novelist in my mind.

My hormones were a freight train, and I tried to keep up. This girl probably wanted to be an actress, but couldn’t make it. The more pitiful the story, the more I was turned on. What did it mean that my escape method was someone else’s supposed misfortune?

I wonder now if I would have lost the thrill of masturbation eventually, once the novelty wore off, but I found new thrills. I masturbated every day, multiple times a day, until I was exhausted and sore. I became interested in S&M, casting call couches, bang buses. It didn’t matter if the stories I invented in my head were true.

Nothing in my hush-hush Catholic upbringing and innocent friend circle had prepared me for this earthshaking experience, equal parts pleasure and shame.

I didn’t know what I stumbled upon, only that it felt scary and wrong, but I tried not to care. Dredging through the book “Treasure Island” in seventh grade, I told myself I was allowed to masturbate to orgasm at the end of each chapter so I could finish by the due date.

I started staying up late, when Mom and Dad were snoring away in oblivion, to watch softcore porn on Cinemax. I didn’t know whether to hate her or love her, but I knew I needed her. My brother was three years older, and I’d wait for him to leave the house and then raid his stash, hidden in his bedside drawer under men’s fitness magazines and school notebooks. Later, when classmates at my all-girls Catholic high school were talking about MTV, YM magazine and PMS, I was educating myself on all sorts of other acronyms: DP, POV, ATM and more. Some of the videos had horrible acting bits that made me giggle. I hadn’t a clue what compelled these actresses to pursue this line of work.

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