Nympho

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Table of Contents

With you, all things are truly possible.

To my guardian angel
:

I miss you. One day, we will meet again. Thanks for keeping me strong, in the midst of it all. You live in me. It's you who helps to keep me going, no matter what people say or do to discourage me.

Thanks for everything, including more friendship.

You know who you are. Thank you for wishing me the best and proving that you are on my side. I won't forget. To those who work with me on my projects, I appreciate your dedication and quality work, too.

You know who you are. I hope each and every one of you blow up! I have such talented friends and family. Just like you tell me, don't give up until you get to where you want to be.

Thank you for giving me an opportunity to take you different places in my twisted mind! Those who like my work should know that it's all done in good fun.
I thank each and every one of you who have emailed me, written letters, or spoken to me in person to provide feedback. I am honored to have met so many supportive and positive spirits. Special thanks to my test readers.

Thank you for giving me an opportunity to make this happen. I treasure and value the opportunity more than either of you will ever know.

August 23
^rd
, 2005

Diary Entry #1:

 

Dear Diary,

 

I just want to ask myself one question: How in the hell did I end up in a position like this? I just finished taking a trip to the post office box I was smart enough to invest in so my fiancé wouldn't question why my cell phone bill had climbed to four hundred dollars in one month, and why eighty percent of the calls were from, well,
our best man
. Opening the thick packet of call records caused my mind to drift back to all of the pillow and kinky talk with that one man in particular. Looking at the amount of incoming calls from the same three numbers—his cell phone, his home phone, and the direct line from his desk at work, has resurrected the memory of my infidelity. At first I thought that creeping was cute—the attention I was getting was swelling my ego, right! But since a whole lot of shit has been hitting the fan that I'll get into a little later, I decided to take a crucial step in attempting to break out of my darkness:
private admission
. I'm the type who would sing
What a Friend We Have in Jesus
in one breath, and tempt the choir director to see what's under my robe in the next. I know that's a pretty scandalous statement, but I'm just keeping it real. I'm the kind of woman who has closet freak cravings. If a leopard can change its spots, maybe there is hope for me to bury my alter ego, Innocence. You know what they say: it's always the quiet ones! It sure is.
Damn
—it sure is. They say it's always the quiet ones or church girls who are the real closet freaks. Even if you're a believer, can you really change who you are? Let me be honest about something up front; I don't like that I appear to be a woman with little or no sexual experience and a low libido. It's all a front and I'm tired of pretending that I'm something I'm not. To put it bluntly—I like sex. Correction, I love sex.

 

I wished I could've felt good without cheating, but my needs took on a life of their own and I felt trapped—as if there was no other way. Men are always talking about what they want, but what about what women want? It's a terrible thing to be bored, in more ways than one, but not be interested in changing your current situation is even worse. It's a more common problem than most people are willing to admit though. Those with testosterone think they're getting over on stupid people from Venus, and those with estrogen claim to possess superior intellect above those who hail from Mars. What it all comes down to is one big game we play behind each other's backs. Men cheat, but so do women, all because the average person is afraid to tell the truth regarding what they really desire. In fact, some women are worse than the average dog. I venture to guess that there are more cheat-a-holics in this world than those who truly cherish a sacred bond. Marriage has become a business agreement, or a death sentence to those who can't be honest about what it takes to really make it work the way it should. Take half of the credit card bills that have been hanging over someone else's head for years, half of their life's stressors, then take away SEX, add a whole lot of morning halitosis, last minute cheap gifts, walking the dog, changing dirty diapers, forgiving a husband for forgotten birthdays and anniversaries, tossing beer cans, and fussing over the need to wipe pee off the seat because men rarely raise it, and of course, nosey in laws, and see if ten years from now you'll appreciate that shit! Wake up and smell the Folgers—you won't! With that said, who can blame me for taking matters into my own hands by looking for someone else to ring my bell, before I signed up to be Mrs. So and So? Men do it all of the time—they started it! Flip the script and they have the nerve to get an attitude . . . whatever. Why should women be ashamed to admit that we want to have the big “O” and someone to make our toes curl?

 

I've learned about all these things through struggling to love the man in my life. Trey, I wanted everything with you. I swear I wasn't playing games when I accepted the engagement ring . . . at least not intentionally. You can't imagine what it's like to be a thirty-something woman who wants to be married and have a family in an age where straight, available, commitment-minded, sane acting black men who don't want to date white, Asian, or Spanish sisters are rumored to be an endangered species. I just couldn't stomach throwing myself back to the few wolves in the pack, although there were many issues I was dissatisfied with, including your lack of desire to get your wee wee up enough. When you did bother to give me some affection, you'd watch TV while I was getting it. So what if you're fascinated by sharks—if you're making love to me, Flipper shouldn't come first. When you turned your head to look over your shoulder . . . that was the final clue that our sex life was
finito
, even before we got married. I say don't do it partially, do it all the way, all night long, or at least until my hair is sweated out! After all, I threw no marriage hints your way. I figured that if I turned it down, I may have been forfeiting my one and only shot to walk down the aisle before my biological clock stopped ticking. My heart longed to experience solidarity with a brother who was all fucking mine: no more man sharing, and no more dating disasters. I had the power to get off the train, and pulling into the station gave me joy. To me, the thought of all of these things was a much needed relief. I had a career, my own home, and a set routine that made sense, but my heart was thirsty, and I needed a tall glass of water. Never did I realize that I was assigning you to be my ticket out of being caught up in a stinking mix. In reality, being a savior in my hour of darkness wasn't your responsibility. I never should've submitted to the fantasy by settling for someone I knew wasn't my cup of tea. That's what you were Trey, a fantasy that looked attractive. While you were appearing to become more conservative, I started taking my engagement ring off, wearing tight booty shorts, and flirting with men. Your golden lady was hitting her sexual peak, becoming more daring and adventurous, running the streets to get banged while getting my hair pulled, until the early morning. You were the one who backed me up against the wall by not letting me be a freak with you and only you. I knew you wanted a conservative woman, so that's what I tried to be to fit into your life, but I just couldn't keep up the act. After the first time I got comfortable fondling a strange dick and swallowing nut, I found out that I preferred being a freak who stayed on her hands and knees.

 

Before I write some three-page letter about someone else, I suppose I should address my individual issues with the person I've never really liked—me. I admit that the struggle is somehow related to baggage I drag around. I don't know who is to blame—my parents, my sister, the culture, pressure of trying to be successful, fate. Maybe if I vent on paper, living with myself will be a little bit easier. After all, I have to take it here because I'm tired of playing the role of what I appear to be—a quiet, mannerly, reserved, and high-browed conservative woman who rarely even smiles. I have the game of owning two opposite personalities down pat. In fact, few would ever guess what kind of woman was hidden behind the trips to church, neatly done tight bun, make-up free face, skirts down to my knees, blouses that covered everything, including my collar bone, and school teacher-like glasses. I wasn't that conservative woman who volunteered for a non-profit organization every third weekend in the summer. The real me was a nasty slut with little moral grounding, although I was the one who rolled my eyes, and gave a lingering cough of disgust if a provocatively dressed woman walked by, or if I heard anyone mention they had sex before marriage.

 

This isn't simple, safe, or easy. This diary is the only one who will ever know the secrets of the real me. Secrets that . . . if they ever got out . . . would complicate an already messy situation. So, even here, I'll leave out some locations and real names. I know who is who and no one needs to use me to understand what's wrong with them while I absorb the brunt of judgment and public persecution. The golden question is: How do I shake off a severe case of nymphomania? I have no idea what the answer is, but the emancipation of me begins right here, right now.
Fact
: Leslie Thompson wasn't ready to be anyone's wife, but she was willing to pretend that she was ready to march down the aisle with a bouquet of flowers in her hand, so long as the dirt that she did didn't come to light and bite her in the ass. The thing is, it did in the craziest way.
Fiction
: I apologize for participating in an affair that never should've been.
Fact:
The bottom line is that it happened and cheating like a heathen was the thrill of a lifetime. If I had it to do all over again, I probably would.
Fiction:
Help wanted. SOS. Save my soul. 911. Attention: Red Alert. I wish something would rise up within this empty vessel and resurrect the good girl that can make me keep my panties up and keep my legs crossed.
Fact:
If I were forced to confess, my biggest secret in life would be that I enjoyed exploring my sexual fantasies with the best man, strangers, and even paying customers. Now that I'm sitting here holding the pieces of a broken marital dream because of it, all I can really say is oops—I fucked up really bad!