THE ORGASM THAT CHANGED MY LIFE

I never imagined that a routine, if somewhat melancholy, day would end in one of the most beautiful and powerful lovemaking experiences of my life — the kind that leaves one elated, intoxicated, and swimming in grateful tears. My husband was away, after all. Nor had I imagined that one sexual experience could change my life as I knew it, leaving me in an enigmatic ocean of what ifs.

But that is exactly what happened.

I'd recently transitioned from my longtime modeling and acting career to writing full-time, and my husband of one year was away, working long hours on a commercial — a scenario to which I'd grown accustomed. I'd spent much of the day working on a story, an hour or two walking my deaf American bulldog, and a short while tidying our home (okay ten minutes, let's be real) and cooking the simplest curry I could conjure. All evening I'd been trying to lure myself away from a hefty case of the blahs. I wasn't clinically depressed; I know, because I've been there. I just wasn't feeling particularly happy, as though my normally high-voltage light bulb had fizzled to dim. Making matters worse, the lonely gap longed not only to be filled, but coddled and cured by another. While I adored my husband and having someone to miss, that needy, pining feeling had to go. You should feel strong and fulfilled, I told myself, whole on your own.

Only I wasn't — not that night.

I didn't have a good reason to feel low, other than being someone prone to such lapses. I also lacked the strength and fortitude to pull myself from it. I should write more and stronger, I told myself. Getting lost in story was the best medicine I'd found. If writing didn't remove my sadness, it usually lessened or distracted me somewhat from it. But that night, my thoughts were fixated elsewhere.

Was I merely insecure? I wondered. I was definitely insecure, I concluded. But was that all?

As though on cue my cell phone buzzed, alerting me to a text message. I leaped for it, hoping it was my husband — a serendipitous I'm done and coming home early! message.

Nope.

Hey, babe. You around tonight?

Chad ... My heart swelled at the thought of him as I stared longingly at the phone. The sexy, successful actor and I had met on one of my first nights out in the Hollywood scene and had shared explosive chemistry. Had I still been single I would have responded, met up with him, and drowned my emptiness in cocktails and conversation until pheromones took over and we ended up naked and entangled in his Hollywood Hills home. But I was married — happily so — and honestly didn't feel the need or desire for anyone else. The distraction, escape, and release such an interlude would bring, however, I could've used by the truckload.

I entertained the notion for a few moments, more daydream/fantasy style than intention-filled, which only made me feel worse. So. Flipping. Alone. I'm pathetic, I reminded myself — Bridget Jones and her diary had nothing on me. It's too bad I barely ever drink.

Get over yourself! I thought, hitting 'delete' on Chad's message. You have so much to be grateful for. Count your damn blessings. You'll feel better tomorrow. Just ... breathe.

Hoping for distraction, I flipped the TV on, and scrolled through programs that failed to tantalize, then perused Netflix. The automated service suggested — I'm not kidding — Diary of a Nymphomaniac. (If there's a God, she has a serious sense of humor.) Heck, I figured. Why not?

Minutes into the Spanish film about a young woman with an intense sex drive, I wondered if there had ever been anyone as masochistic as me. The very raw and real sensual scenes only highlighted my desperation, adding thoughts of I wish I were sleeping to the mix, if only to escape the day.

Why didn't my husband struggle with such yearning when I was away? At least, he never seemed to — and being the [begin strikethrough]nosy[end strikethrough] inquisitive type, I'd certainly asked. He missed me, sure, but seemed less ... that word again: needy.

Perhaps my couple of years of sexually free, explorative singlehood between relationships hadn't been enough. His sexual history was far more diverse than mine, after all, having been an established musician and numerous years older than me. His confidence and experience were evident in his every move between the sheets, and I gratefully benefited. While some of that could have derived from natural forte and, I liked to think, our mutual chemistry, I imagined that he'd learned a heck of a lot along the way. So many experiences. So many ... women.

Ugh. No, no, no! AAAACK. Was I jealous!?! As if needy hadn't been enough!

I began picturing previous women he'd dated, then imagined many more — groupies throwing themselves at him after concerts, erotic film-worthy one-night stands, threesomes in hipster hotels I had no idea if he'd ever partaken in. He must have had countless seductive fans and encounters in his musician days. The guy is hot, after all, and always has been. Oddly, I didn't care who the women were — whether they were cool or gawky, erotic or timid, lovely or plain. I wasn't jealous of his partners, I realized, but of his comparably vast experience I would never have.

The more I pondered my husband's sexual escapades, the more I craved him and his body, to relish every escapade he'd ever had. I wanted him to show me, to describe every sensual detail, turn me on (even more), and carry me into erotic ecstasy. In my mind, I played make-believe clips of him with lovers like a rock star porn film, wishing I could edit myself into it.

Damn it! Why couldn't he be here?

My hand moved involuntarily between my legs, a place I had never explored solo. (Yes, you read that right. In my thirty years of life, I had never masturbated, and had no idea how uncommon that was.) Through the crotch of my thin cotton pants I felt the heated swell of my pussy, its seemingly unquenchable want. I rubbed it for a frustrated moment, wishing like hell doing so would make me come. But rubbing had never...